TWO
Tennessee
I’m bored as fuck as I look around the balcony of our penthouse suite. Naked groupies squeal and splash around the infinity pool overlooking the bright lights of Sin City, but I couldn’t care less.
Girls, booze, partying—same shit, different city.
The lounge chair next to me squeaks as Sawyer sprawls his tall frame across it. “What’s up with you? You’ve been quiet ever since our show last night.”
Shrugging, I take another drag from the fifth of whiskey I’m nursing. “I dunno. Bored, I guess.”
He snickers and sets his shades atop his head. “Since when are you bored with pussy?” he asks, nodding to the two chicks making out in the pool.
Their surgically enhanced tits brush against each other, glistening from the gently lapping water. Pink tongues dance back and forth as their mouths move in a seductive game of give and take.
It’d be a hell of a lot sexier if the girls weren’t so obviously checking out our reactions. Their erotic display is nothing more than an invitation for us to join. Maybe it’s just my pissy mood, but to me, this only comes across as a desperate ploy for attention. They might as well be shouting, “Look at us! Look at us!”
Now don’t get me wrong, there are few hotter sights than two girls goin’ at it, but only if their hearts are truly in it. Bi chicks make the best threesome partners, because they’re happy regardless of whether they’ve got a bird in the hand or two in the bush.
But having a threesome with two straight chicks? It’s a recipe for disaster. Someone’s always left out, and it just throws the whole mood off.
I can tell just by looking at these two that they don’t love pussy as much as I do, and I’d be nothing but disappointed if I take them up on their offer.
Sighing, I glance at Sawyer. “I’m not ‘bored’ with pussy.” He makes it sound like I want to try dick or something. Shit.
“Then why are your panties in such a twist?” he asks, snatching the bottle of Jack away from me before taking a swig.
“Because they’re your mom’s. Her thong’s riding up my ass.” I wince, like I’m actually uncomfortable, and Sawyer damn near chokes on the whiskey he stole from me.
“Your mom” jokes are dumb enough as it is, but when we do one, it’s extra stupid since Sawyer’s mom is my mom.
He coughs, eyes watering, before laughing. “Thanks for the visual.”
I fiddle with the cap as he takes another drink.
Truth be told, I am getting bored with pussy. Well, easy pussy. Getting laid is like shooting fish in a barrel. There’s no challenge, no chase.
Being the lead singer of the hottest band in the world means there’s no shortage of beautiful, eager women willing to jump into my bed. And boy, have I had my fair share of them. The “bad boy of rock,” as the gossip rags have annoyingly dubbed me, has bedded everything from starlets to lingerie models to pop princesses to socialites.
Every single one of them were high maintenance, uppity bitches with egos bigger than my dick. And I’ve got a seriously big dick.
Now I stick to groupies. There are no expectations from them, no paps following their every move. They know they’ve got a night with me at most, and then it’s sayonara. It was working for a while, but now…
Now I’m being a whiny little bitch.
I try not to scowl as he hands the bottle back to me.
“You want to get out of here?” he asks. “We could go downstairs and hit the casino.”
I shake my head as I take a final draw from the bottle, then wipe my mouth and stand. “Nah, man, you stay here. It looks like they need some meat in that sandwich,” I say, jerking my head in the direction of the two groupies who are still swapping spit.
I set the booze on the little glass table between us and pull my beanie from the back pocket of my jeans. Slipping it over my messy hair, I snatch Sawyer’s shades off the top of his head and put them on.
I watch in amusement as he grabs the bottle of whiskey and struts over to the side of the pool. “Ladies,” he drawls, eating up their awestruck looks and little fits of giggles. Like Sawyer seriously needs his ego stroked any more. “Would you care to join me for a more…private party?”
Scrubbing my jaw to hide my grin, I duck inside the suite and pass by my other two bandmates, Ryan and JD, as I walk through the living area.
“Later,” they say in unison, their eyes glued to the giant flat screen and the game of Battlefield One they’re embroiled in.
I nod at the pair. “Later.”
“Don’t get arrested this time,” Ryan calls out. “I mean it, Ten!”
I roll my eyes as I hit the foyer, pressing the call button for the elevator.
That last arrest wasn’t my fault. Damn paparazzo was harassing me. Wouldn’t get out of my face, no matter how much warning I gave the guy. Who could really blame me for popping the douche? He totally had it coming.
The elevator dings as the doors slide open. Stepping inside, I press the button for the lobby, and then it’s just Ol’ Blue Eyes and me as he croons about flying away while the elevator descends.
My fingers tap to the beat coming through the gold speakers on the ceiling, and pretty soon I’m singing along with Frank. It’s a far departure from my usual sound, but c’mon—who doesn’t love Frank? The guy’s a legend.
I belt out the last verse and do a little spin right before the doors open and I spot the shop across the lobby. My tiny smile vanishes as I see the latest issue of Rolling Stone prominently displayed on the newsstand.
I’m on the cover, naked except for a lavish crown and ceremonial robe draped around my shoulders. My hands are threaded through the hair of the naked chick kneeling in front of me, as if she’s blowing me. The headline below us reads, “All Hail the King.”
I fucking hate that cover. We shot a bunch of different pictures that day, and the booze was flowing freely on set. By the time the photographer suggested the play on my last name, I was trashed. If I were in my right state of mind, I’d have flat-out nixed it. That picture makes me look like a pompous asshole. And yeah, I’m a lot of things—asshole usually being one of them—but pompous?
Hell no. I’m not all that great. I’m drunk half the time, and I’m a fucking mess all the time. My manager threatened to ship me off to rehab if I pull one more tabloid-worthy stunt.
I’m trying to keep my nose clean, I am, but why did he have to go and schedule a show in Vegas before our monthly weekend off? Downtime in Sin City has “bad idea” written all over it.
It’s almost like that asshole wants me to screw up.
Pulling my beanie lower, I step out of the elevator and look around anxiously, hoping like hell nobody recognizes me. Not that I don’t love my fans, because I do, but it’d be nice to go out every once in a while without every single eye focused on me, scrutinizing and dissecting my every move.
I’m heading in the direction of the casino when the sliding glass doors off to the side open. The movement catches my eye, but what holds my attention is the angel stepping in off the busy strip.
My gait slows until I just fucking stop in the middle of the lobby, and damn it if my mouth’s not hanging open with what surely has to be a dumbass look of awe. I probably look like a goddamn trout, but I can’t bring myself to fix it because holy fucking shit.
Girl’s built like something straight out of a wet dream—huge tits, narrow waist, and an ass that just won’t quit. The more I gape, the more I can’t understand how her dimensions are physically possible. She looks like a real-life Jessica Rabbit.
Her tits jiggle with each step, and I’m suddenly growing hard just picturing them bouncing as I fuck her. I wonder what color her nipples are? Are they big, or little?
Jesus Christ, man, get a fucking grip. You’re in the middle of a goddamn casino and you’re sportin’ wood?
Shielding my crotch, I glance around.
Normally it takes several strokes or sucks before I even start to get hard. So how can this dark-haired bombshell get my blood pumping from all the way across the fucking room?
She veers off toward the bar and before I can even think about it, my feet are following in her direction. Brows pinched, I bite my lip as I watch her ass sway.
Lord have mercy, I think I’m in love.