Chapter Thirteen
I always experience a sharp dip of mood about an hour after leaving stage. It’s why I prefer to cut out on the band and do my own thing on performance nights. But as I leave my dressing room it’s a crushing shift into something so powerfully unpleasant that I can’t describe it.
The thoughts in my head are racing, sending random blasts of jagged emotion through my veins. Anger at Eric. Worry over Eric. Hatred of Eric…and, fuck, there it is, even guilt over Eric.
Same shit, new day, unending.
Well, fuck that.
I drop-kick out of the hemisphere my usual mental gymnastics of would’ve, should’ve, could’ve, the list of what I might’ve changed to prevent Eric reaching whatever low point this is because there’s too much other junk, Ethan junk, in my head.
Suspicions I don’t want refuse to be silenced, and none of the rational arguments I attempt not to believe—that I’ve been somehow screwed over by my brother and another girl I care for—make a bit of difference in how I’m feeling. Not even the very cogent point that Avery isn’t officially my girl so I shouldn’t get so worked up about this has any power to alter how hurt and disgusted I am. Not with having the mocking voice of Hugh in my head letting me know that Avery coming on to me this afternoon was just another Eric bullshit manipulation to achieve one of his self-serving ends.
Eric with my girl always equals screwed-over Ethan.
That I’m not sure how Avery fits into the weird events of Eric’s epic crisis du jour doesn’t make me wrong to believe that she’s part of some strategy. In fact, not being able to figure it out strengthens my certainty that I’m right. That’s something else I’ve come to expect from Eric: moves so illogical I can’t see them in advance and won’t ever understand them until he tries to rationalize why the fuck he did them.
By the time I make it down the long, narrow corridor to the exit I’m feeling fed up and ready to get fucked up. A booze hangover is a must with the Eric hangover boot-kicking my temples and elsewhere.
Fucking someone hard tonight is a second must, and I certainly can’t think of a reason not to dive headfirst into the vat of tits and pussy shoved at me while on tour. Life’s too short to give a damn about my brother or a girl who’s only could’ve been, and there are plenty of girls always willing, so why not?
There’s a horde of groupies who travel with the tour, all hoping to get laid by a rock star tonight. I’ve had more than my usual dose of stray hands skimming my body, teasing my cock, and tits in my face because I’m Eric tonight.
Anger’s a funny thing. It doesn’t squelch a guy’s libido, it fuels it like an accelerant. And the only way to ever douse it is by getting lost in some great pussy until what’s ripping at you no longer matters.
That thought barely finishes when I lock eyes on Eric’s “travel accessories” lounging against the rail of the outer steps, smoking and ready to take off with him.
Skirts up to their asses, legs that go forever like Victoria’s Secret models, tits barely covered, and with sights set on me: The Wall Banger Duo. My brother’s nickname for them since that’s pretty much what you can do with them anywhere, anytime, any position. Bang them against the wall as needed.
They’re his blond double fuck he won in a card game from our opening act, Crank. I’m the only member of the band—probably half the crew as well—who hasn’t fucked them. And while shit like this, gambling for ownership of girls and giving them repulsive names before handling them like meat, isn’t something I’m ever on board with, my dick isn’t reserved for anyone, and unlike Avery, the Wall Bangers showed up for Eric this gig.
Trouble is a triple cocktail—bad attitude and horny man roughly stirred with being screwed over by the people you care about.
As soon as Gabby sees me, she sashays over with a fuck me to the moon gleam in her eyes, leans in with her tits as her hand moves to my cock, and whispers, “Just seeing you in the hall made my cunt pulse. I’m slick in my panties and ready to fly. How about you?”
The dirty talk doesn’t do much for me, but the other girl, Margo, roaming the outline of my cock with her mouth, pushing heat through my pants in less than a second, gets me sporting a semi.
“Let’s get out of here, dolls. There’s a party and you’re the buffet.” A sleazy Eric line I’d never say, but when in Rome and all, more than ready to get laid, it seems the right play.
“Fucking then eating, my favorite meal.” She smirks, slipping her hand behind my neck and pulling my face to hers. She slides her warm tongue deep into my mouth, and I’m hating her flavor of cigarettes and gin, even with how she teases with that tongue of hers, before I realize there’s something in her mouth that she’s shoved down my throat.
I jerk back and try to work it up and out.
Too fucking late.
Gone.
“What the fuck did you slip me?”
“What you asked me to bring tonight, baby,” Gabby purrs then pouts. “It’s good stuff. Don’t worry. I got it from the guy you told me to call. I do everything you ask exactly how you ask, remember?”
Margo’s glassy eyes hold excitement. “Relax. It doesn’t take long to kick in. Then we’ll all be flying tonight together.”
Laughing, the girls take my hands, bouncing as they drag me to the open limo door Dillon’s standing beside. They tumble into the back seat and then I climb in. Before the door is even shut, the world starts to shift and shimmer, their moans sound far away, and their groping and kisses I can’t feel somehow shoot heat across my flesh.
My head falls back against the seat, trapped between their bodies and mouths, and wrapped in their limbs. My last coherent thought is oh fuck, Dillon, have my back and don’t let me be stupid with them.