Phoenix Rising Rock Band: The Series

by Kathryn C. Kelly

  His tumble from his perch would be too fucking easy for me. No, my life has always led me down the path of most resistance.

  Were Kiln to meet with an unfortunate accident, I’d still have Jaeger to deal with. And my father.

  My jaw clenches, but I push my resentment and hostility aside. This isn’t the time to take issue with the chokehold the band has placed me in.

  I’m not blind to their position in this shit. Hell, I’d force one of them to the wall, too. But I’d fucking do it for more reasons than money. I’d do it because we’ve known each other since we were boys. I’d fucking do it to keep one of my friends from fucking OD’ing again. Mostly, I’d do it because too many lives have been already destroyed by the secrets and lies.

  “Want to party with me?” Ms. Selfie asks, encouraged because I’ve stood in silence as we’ve posed for countless snapshots.

  Hers isn’t the first offer I’ve had in the three hours since the party began. I’m just not certain yet who I’ll choose, too restless to settle on entertainment for the remainder of my evening.

  “Not now,” I tell her, close to her ear. “Maybe, later.”

  She bats her eyelashes and gives me a disappointed pout, but I ignore her and walk away, photo bombing girls who have their phones raised above their heads for pictures. They squeal at my antics and attempt to engage me. Acknowledging their offers, I continue moving, not interested at the moment.

  The shit’s all the same. Wherever I go, tall, buxom blondes are thrown at me. There’s an abundance of them tonight. Same game, new place. I just parted ways with more of the same who entertained us on the plane.

  We landed at Sugar Land Regional Airport a few hours ago, went to our hotel to clean up—porn stars on planes make for dirty travel—and headed to the mansion. For the party and for a tour of the state-of-the-art studio.

  My rebellion surfaced days ago, so I fucking declined to see the studio before absolutely necessary. Instead of satisfying me, my insolence leaves me emptier. Ghosts and demons chasing me, I grab two highball glasses from a passing waiter. Refusing to allow my left hand to envy the right, I fill both of them.

  Drinking and dancing my way across the patio—a careless act to the naked eye—I finally escape to the interior of the house. Cold air from the A/C blasts me and I grunt at the pleasurable discomfort. After carousing in the hellish temperatures, the coolness is welcomed but against the sweat clinging to me, it chills me.

  Not paying attention to the décor—really, who gives a fuck?—I roam the first floor of the house until I come across a room with the door ajar and muted light bouncing in the darkened hallway.

  Though I need a little solitude, I can’t resist pushing open the door and walking into the room. Curiosity fucks me up every time.

  Instead of witnessing a tryst, I discover something more intriguing. A beautiful, little creature, who’s high as the fucking moon.

  Reddened eyes surround her dilated pupils. Purple. Her irises are purple and framed with thick, long lashes. Blue-black hair falls carelessly around her, deepening the flush of her skin.

  Make-up doesn’t disguise how young she must be. No one under eighteen is allowed at our parties, but staring at this barely legal girl in a very small skirt and a midriff baring top makes me reconsider the rule. Does she realize the wolves she’s amongst by being at this fucking party? Me especially. I eat up little lambs like her and recycle them.

  A step toward me and she teeters over her heels that are strewn in her path. She giggles, ending with a huge smile that lights up her already gorgeous face, and trips towards me.

  I drink half of the contents of one glass, finish off the other, and set both down on a table. This is some type of sitting room. Or tea room. My mother had one of those and an assortment of other rooms utterly useless except to demonstrate how monstrously my father spoiled her.

  “It took you long enough,” the girl chirps.

  My brows lift as she reaches me, pressing her palms against my chest. She smells of alcohol, flowers, and spice.

  “What did you give me?” she continues before her eyes widen. “Holy fuck, you look just like Sloane Mason.”

  Her hands are roaming over my chest, discovering my skin through the holes in the mesh. Her slender fingers are cool against my clamminess and I jerk at the sensation of her exploration. A frown draws her dark brows together as she studies me, her unusually colored eyes taking in every angle of my face.

  Seconds tick away and, for clueless reasons, I remain still, allowing her to absorb my features, so she’ll have no doubt as to my identity when I introduce myself. After gorging myself on my usual type on the trip from LA, boredom has chased me all evening.

  Boredom is dangerous to a former addict like me. Coupled with all the other sentiments slamming me and the shit is treacherous. This little beauty is different. We all need a change every once in a while, to keep our lives interesting. Otherwise, we end up lost in a fucking rabbit hole.

  “I am Sloane Mason.”

  She grabs my biceps and hangs onto me. Her fingers are small and white against my inked arms.

  Still, she protests. “No fucking way!”

  My teeth gnash together at her language. She needs her mouth cleaned out. She’s too fucking young and gorgeous to speak like a whore. Unless she’s pleasuring me in bed, of course.

  Clamping her face between my palms, I angle her head one way and then the other. She looks so…fresh, like a girl playing dress-up, a delicate little fairy. Not my type at all.

  My hands nearly cover each side of her face. I grimace. There’s a reason I choose tall women. I’m fucking tall and blondes offset my dark hair. Big tits and nice, round hips fill my large hands and keeps me occupied. Long legs easily wrap around my waist, my neck, my back…

  Fucking a girl not my usual type is better than finding other activities to cure my boredom. As long as she’s eighteen, the little thing in front of me will amuse me for the night. In the morning, I’ll focus on the album, the tour, and the press.

  I turn her face again. At this angle, her look changes into just another female out for a good time. Young, yes, but old enough to legally fuck.

  She chews on her lip. “You’re Sloane?”

  I nod and counter, “How old are you?”

  She doesn’t answer immediately, still too busy contemplating my face. Suddenly, her study of me changes and I decide I’ve passed muster.

  “You are him,” she whispers in awe. She staggers out of my grasp. I grab her to keep her on her feet. Her eyes narrow and she looks at her toes before meeting my gaze again. ”I’m eighteen. My birthday was two months ago,” she says gravely.

  Relief slamming into me, I nod with the same solemnity. My dick and me mentally high-five.

  “I’m in love with you.”

  Her eyes are so earnest and her voice so sweet when she utters those words, I don’t have the heart to shoot her down. Besides, her confession is important to her. Females have been my specialty since I was fifteen years old. That fact assists me in identifying what about her that’s really captured me. Vulnerability. Her disarming unguardedness has nothing to do with the drugs she’s used. It’s in her tone. Her look. Her body language.

  I want to plunder her mouth and pussy, so she knows that I’ve heard her, even if no one else bothers to listen or make her feel as if she matters. Identifying a kindred spirit takes as much skill as knowing what girls want to hear. The latter ability was earned after nightmares and dreams merged into an ugly parody and became my life.

  My career choice is fitting. What good is a celebrity without an angsty background? I could be an example and an inspiration. With full disclosure, of course.

  Not fucking happening and that’s so fucking sad. It’s as if I’ve escaped hell, but still don’t have a story to tell. The story of Moses parting the Red Sea would have done no one any good if it hadn’t been recorded. David slaying Goliath. Delilah fucking up Samson.

  Snickering, I pick up the h
alf-empty glass and down it while the girl thrusts her fingers through her hair, lowers her lashes and scoffs. “You hear girls proclaiming their love for you all the time, I’ll bet.”

  “From every fucking girl who gives me pussy.”

  She purses her lips and her face falls, then she smiles. It’s sadder, not as bright. “You must fuck really good.”

  “I’ve had no complaints.”

  We stand in silence, both of us waiting for a move from the other. I’ve had eighteen-year-olds before, therefore, her age doesn’t bother me. She stands still, though, awaiting me. The thought solidifies my half-hardened cock, so I clutch her elbow and lead her to a pink and green sofa.

  The moment she sits, she sniffs and rubs her nose and sniffs again, folding her arms and pressing them against her belly. “I’m sooo stoked for the band’s new album,” she gushes, her creamy skin flushing. “When’s it coming out? It’s months late and I’m just dying.”

  I offer her a noncommittal shrug. My reasons are my own. Nothing a little groupie has to know.

  Pointing her index finger at me, she wiggles it. “Stay out of trouble. It cuts me in two when I read about your arrests and—“ She wrinkles her nose in distaste—“Your affairs.” Giggles erupt from her again. “One blow stands.”

  She smirks at her play on words and I laugh, amused. “I live to have my cock sucked.”

  Her gaze flickers to the body part in question and she licks her lips. Immediately interested at her wordless invitation, my dick jumps.

  “I love to suck cock,” she shoots back.

  Desire courses along my spine at her words, all the incentive I need to reach for her. God, I’m sure she gives her parents nightmares. She’s a fast, little bitch with a hot pussy. I haven’t felt it yet, but girls like her are a dime a dozen. It doesn’t mean I won’t fuck her. I should send a personal thank-you to every mother and father who are unable to control their daughters. More pussy for me.

  My mouth takes hers and we both groan. She tastes like alcohol and peppermint, and smells like vanilla, the combination arousing me as much as her soft warmth. Grunting in approval, I guide her back and cover her with my body. Panic flares in her eyes, but, before I question her, she sighs, opens her legs for me and cradles me between her thighs. Her tongue tangles with mine. She sinks further into the cushions, her completely pliant body ceding all control to me.

  My hand slides beneath her halter and I tweak her hardened nipples, little points that my mouth waters to taste.

  “You can fuck me,” she says as if this isn’t the direction we’re going already.

  Do girls have to fucking irritate me with inane bullshit?

  I glance into her still-dilated eyes. The defenseless tenderness in them clings to me like a caress.

  “I’m a virgin,” she says, destroying my soporific interest. I freeze, her announcement tingeing my world. Red. White. Black. Colors that mean something in my life. Pain. Purity. Passage.

  Her previous statement makes more sense now. If I take her, I’ll be her first, so I’ll always own a piece of her. Maybe, I’ll care again? About something. Anything. Anyone.

  She wiggles beneath me. Again, I try to pinpoint the exact shade of purple that her eyes are. It’s no use at the moment. Her hair pools around her, gleaming like black silk.

  The faces of the women who have passed through my life parade through my brain. I shy away from two in particular. One dead and one alive. Both gutted me.

  How many times did I awaken after I’d sobered up and regretted the shit I did to them?

  I don’t want the same for the girl beneath me. Tomorrow, when she lands back on earth, she’ll regret so carelessly giving me something she can never recapture.

  My gaze drops to her splayed legs. She’s bare beneath her skirt. Mimicking her earlier action, I lick my lips at the sight of her pink pussy. The scent of her arousal flares my nostrils, opens my nose wide, shooting straight to my head and my nuts.

  I finger her. Her eyes slip closed as she lifts her hips up to my touch.

  “Let’s stick to licking and sucking,” I tell her gruffly. “Your innocence means more to you than a quick fuck with me.”

  Her lids lift and she offers me a lazy look. “I wouldn’t have expected you to be a one-minute man, Sloane.”

  The taunt should piss me off, but I laugh at her cheek and sass. “Whether I fuck for a minute or an hour isn’t your business.”

  She snorts. “Virginity is just a condition of the body. It’s nothing fucking special.”

  Ignoring her words, I drop to my knees in front of the sofa, slide her to the edge of the cushion, and shoulder her thighs apart. She’s hot and wet, her aroma invading my senses. When I slide my tongue along her seam, she groans. Our gazes meet. She shoves her top up, squeezing her breasts and tugging her nipples.

  Hands clutching her ass, I eat at her pussy, while she moves against my tongue. Uninhibited, she’s loud when she comes, coating my mouth with her slippery juice.

  As her trembles subside, she lifts herself and kisses me as if she wants to replace my tongue with hers. She’s wild, trembling when I lick her ears and neck. I tangle my hands into her hair and hold her head back.

  “I want to suck you off.”

  Her virginity is intact so my good deed for the evening is done. She’s here. She’s high. And she wants to blow me. No complaints from me.

  Silent, I lift her as I stand and reseat myself. She wiggles to her knees and, together, we free my straining cock. She gobbles in my head and wraps both hands around the thick length, working me with expert fingers and mouth. My hand at the back of her head isn’t forceful or necessary. She needs no encouragement. It’s just a familiar position for me. I pump my hips to her rhythm and she quickens her pace.

  “Oh fuck, baby,” I croon to her. Still pumping me with her hands, she licks my balls. She perceives I’m close to coming and drops saliva on my cock, distributing it with her hands and feasting upon my dick again. She doesn’t stop until she’s swallowed every last drop of my cum.

  “You’re delicious.” Wide, confused eyes search our surroundings. She touches her swollen lips, then knees her way to a side table, pulling a tiny plastic bag from her tiny skirt pocket.

  Covering my dick, I get to my feet. Knowing she’s high and watching her get high are two different entities. I might bomb this acid test and failure just isn’t an option. “Don’t.”

  She hangs her head and her hair drapes around her. “I’m sorry,” she mumbles. “I didn’t think about how this would affect you with your history. I’d never do anything to jeopardize you or your music.”

  “You don’t care that you’re jeopardizing yourself?”

  Pushing her hair away, she lifts her face to me. A distressed, wistful look saddens her. “You’re so brilliant. The world would be lost without you.”

  I crouch next to her and knuckle her cheeks. Her lipstick is smeared but her eye makeup and her blush is still intact. No whore is she. She is on a road to doom, though. “And you?” I question hoarsely. “No one would feel your loss?”

  “No one remembers I’m alive.”

  Her statement echoes in my brain. It’s a play on my words from one of my most infamous interviews. Everyone knows I’m alive.

  One is as bad as the other. In a fishbowl, attention limits you. With one snapshot or word, you’re either loved, admired, scorned, or hated. Sometimes, it’s a combination. Solitary, though, isolation is the enemy.

  Something’s broken in us. Me. Her. My fragments feel irreparable. Is she so shattered, too?

  Sighing, I nod, which she mistakes as consent and reaches for the baggie again.

  “No,” I grit in warning.

  She blinks and her fingers freeze. My harsh tone appeals to her. I can see it in her eyes. Adrenaline surges through me at the thought of ordering her around and bending her to my will. I kiss her again. “You realize I don’t even know your name?”

  “Does it fucking matter? I doubt you’d r
emember it. I gave you what you wanted. A dick suck.”

  Her attitude fucks me off. I jerk her to her feet and tower over her. “A virgin whore is a new concept for me.”

  My words wilt her, but before she responds, the door opens. Another man strolls in, immediately recognizable as a certified asshole as indicated by his careless regard and negligent pose. Zeroing in on the lipstick smearing his mouth, I lift a brow. As he swipes a hand over his guilty lips, his gaze roams between me and the strung-out, misled little goddess.

  “Hey,” she mutters, glancing at her toes and curling them. A pale pink color adorns her nails, neat and well-cared for, unlike her chewed up fingernails.

  “Look who walked in.” She points to me, her eyes darker after her orgasm, her lips swollen after sucking my cock. “Our beloved superstar rocker. Sloane Mason.”

  He sweeps me with a sneer. I gladly return the favor. If I’d ever been his favorite rocker, I’m certainly not now.

  Though he doesn’t respond, his wild laughter hints at how fucking high he is, too. “I need to get you home.”

  As if I’m invisible, he reaches around me, snatches her from my hold, then takes the coke. He waves it in front of her eyes and she follows the movement. “A reward for your good behavior.”

  She shoves hair behind one ear while she allows the other side to curtain her face, partially shielding it from view. “I waited for you,” she says eagerly, not addressing his fucking “reward”.

  He doesn’t care because he shrugs her words away. “I got distracted.”

  I’ll bet he fucking did.

  After he stuffs the tiny bag into the front pocket of his slacks, he retrieves her shoes and crooks his finger to her. When she reaches him, he drops to his knees and grabs her leg so unexpectedly that she almost topples. She squeaks but grips his shoulders. One foot is guided into a pump with a high, thin heel. They must be six inches. Considering the length of the heel, I nearly miss the way asshole sniffs her by pressing his cheek on her thigh, turning his nose up and inhaling.