Phoenix Rising Rock Band: The Series

by Kathryn C. Kelly

  She’s…breathtaking and looks like a doll, all made up, her eyes inescapable with the expert makeup she’s wearing. She’s wearing a two piece, sparkling skirt set. It’s bubblegum pink and shows a good portion of her midriff. Her hair is a gorgeous, ebony mass, streaming around her. She stares at my chest, then studies my biceps and tats.

  Kiln guides her to me and she beams a smile at me. My dick believes my piece of ass for the evening has arrived. It’s hard as a fucking rock. I have to get rid of this boner. Being onstage with a hard-on isn’t something I like.

  “What are you doing here?”

  Surprise enters her eyes and I see what I didn’t before. Her huge pupils. She’s high again. Frustrated, I shove her into my dressing room and slam the door shut, glaring at Kiln. He is hovering for a fucking reason.

  “What?” I snap.

  He laughs bitterly. “The press spotted her, that’s what. You know? Parnell McCall’s spoiled little princess? She’s rarely fucking seen anywhere, so, of course when she is spotted, it’s going to make the news.”

  Fuck.

  Kiln points in every direction. “They’re staking all the exits out. This is going to be a long fucking night, I swear. The story backstage is bigger than the one onstage.”

  “What’s the big deal?”

  Kiln’s eyes almost bulge out of his head.

  “You’re my bodyguard. Handle it however you need to.”

  Kiln stalks out. I turn to find Georgie staring straight ahead at the blank wall. She still doesn’t offer me an answer. I’m fucking pissed and decide to send her away. Who the fuck invited her? I don’t know why her problems have to be mine. I’ll bet if I can figure that out, I’ll be fine.

  It goes back to her words the night she met me, and the following night when she dumped the bag of coke down her throat.

  Now that I’ve settled the reason behind my actions in my head, I’m no closer to turning away from her.

  She sees me staring at her. She’s dazed as hell. I snatch her small handbag from her and rip it open, glancing inside. Her baggie is tiny, but almost empty. I growl at her and she stands up.

  “Georgiana,” I bite out.

  She drops to her knees. Even before her little fingers open my fly, I know her intentions. I keep quiet and let her suck my dick into her mouth, groaning as she glides her tongue along my cock, pulling back to lick the head. My dick’s big, thick, long. It’s stretching her mouth, but she doesn’t seem to care.

  She sucks me harder, looks up at me, her eyes dark. Her fingers fondle my balls and she bobs her head up and down, hollowing her cheeks, sucking me good.

  She licks the tip. “Come in my mouth,” she orders, blowing me again.

  I want to stop this shit, but I can’t. Her mouth is too fucking warm and soft. She’s a fucking expert. The name Crowell rises in my head. Something else he’s taught her.

  I thrust as far as my dick will go, in a futile attempt to convince myself that she’s a drug addict and a whore. I have no time for her, except to use her like she wants me to. Cum jets from me and down her throat. I hold her head in place and fuck her mouth, letting her milk my dick.

  Finally, I’m done. I cover my dick and move away from her. She’s raising her skirt and showing me her black thong. Pushing the material aside, she massages her clit and rocks her hips up and down.

  “Lick me, Sloane,” she says, moaning.

  I step between her legs and kneel. Her scent is driving me crazy. I lean over her and kiss her, moving her hand from her pussy and replacing it with my own hand. She’s sopping wet, ready to take my cock. I thumb her clit and put my fingers into her cunt hole, shocked at how tight she is. In the back of my mind, I thought her pussy had been fucked already. I now know with certainty that it hasn’t.

  I roll my jean-clad dick over her tender flesh. I’m losing this fucking battle. We’re kissing, devouring each other. Her mouth tastes like cum and cinnamon. She begins to writhe against my fingers. Her body is flushed and her nipples are outlined through the material of her top.

  “Sloane,” she whispers, shuddering and groaning, her pussy juice covering my fingers. I pull them away and step back. Her legs are spread wide and her pussy is red and swollen, begging for dick.

  She blinks, licks her lips. “Did I make you feel good?”

  “Better than I’ve felt in a long time,” I admit to her. Except the last time she wrapped her lips around my dick…and the time before that…

  “Will you keep me now?”

  My heart drops at the vulnerable question. She shifts, starting to cry. “You can take me. I-I promise I won’t scream. Abby said you’d keep me. She promised me.” Her lips tremble.

  Women have always been my downfall. Who the fuck thought my aunt would fucking contribute?

  “Crowell made me suck his dick earlier for my blow and he said I don’t know how to do it right,” Georgie continues. “That’s why he doesn’t want me anymore. He taught me, though.”

  I’m going to fucking kill Crowell. I decide it, then and there. Three raps on my door, signaling I have to get my ass onstage. I go to her and pull her up. Her skirt falls into place. She still smells like me, though. Sex and cum. I don’t have time to talk to her. My music is calling, but I’m going to get Kiln to watch her. My brother’s an asshole, but he’ll do it because I’m his fucking meal ticket.

  I open my door, relieved that the girls have been ushered out for now. I’m dragging Georgie along, my head filled with every fucking thought except music.

  Adam is already talking. They are out there and I’m not. The lead fucking singer, not a fucking babysitter. I halt her on the edge of the stage. “Stay right fucking here, Georgiana,” I order, then yell over my shoulder, “Kiln!”

  He doesn’t make me wait.

  “Watch her,” I bark, thrusting her to him and jogging onto stage.

  The crowd goes wild and the blood rushes through me, going right to my head. Women scream my name and throw panties at me. Maitland pounds out a rhythm and the drum beat vibrates through my body. I take my place and cradle the mike. We start out with a fast, pumping song, working the crowd up to a frenzy. I feed off that shit. Their excitement is my Manna. A girl rushes the u-shaped stage and throws her arms around me.

  I nod the security guys away, and go into another song not requiring I play my guitar. I don’t miss a note, a beat, a stride. I pull the girl’s body against me. She’s bouncing and moaning, so I pat her ass and slip my fingers into the back of her panties. She stills. No one can see what I’m doing up here. The stage is dark and smoky. I touch her cunt. She’s wet and hot. My fingers dip into her channel and she clings to me as I slow the song down, so I can do this to her.

  She sobs into my neck and jerks against me, coming on my hand. The moment she finishes I release her and she sags. Two men from my local security detail get her at my signal and escort her off the stage.

  I rock out, bringing the tempo back up. We’ve glided seamlessly through the fourth song. I’m in my element here. I get girls off onstage and, fuck them senseless, off.

  Try as I might, I can’t refrain from glancing at Georgie. I’ve made it to the sixth song without doing it, but now, I have to. She’s standing there, rapt with adoration, clueless to what went on with that fan. Though I don’t want her hurt, I wish she would’ve seen. She might’ve found the strength to do what I can’t manage and turn away from me.

  Then, again, maybe not. She sucked my dick because she wants me to like her. Keep her. I feel so fucking low. I’ve never touched an under aged girl in my fucking life, and yet I allowed her to suck me off. Again. I’m fighting whatever I feel for her as best I can. I combat the memories of the feel of her the only way I know how—with other women. Nothing I do expunges her from my thoughts.

  She’s going to fucking destroy my career. I can’t remind myself of that enough. Music is all I have. My family might hate me, but I’m needed because of my talent.

  If I fuck her, I’m fucked. I know it
.

  I look at her again and she’s staring at me like I own the world. In many respects, I do. During the second set, I’m switching to the mike on my headset. Until the last two songs to bring the crowd down, we will be going at full speed.

  Two songs later and we’re taking a five minute break. I head straight for Georgie. Before I reach her, I see that she’s green and sweating. She’s coming down from her high and into a hard fall. She’s done a lot of drugs these past few days.

  She clutches my arms. “I need a hit,” she says, desperate.

  I snatch the water from Quint, ignoring how the guys now ring us, staring at Georgie.

  “Get me some blow,” she cries, hugging me with all her might. “Now.”

  “Get her to my hotel room, Kiln. No matter what she says—or offers—don’t go anywhere else but to my suite.”

  I disentangle her arms from around my neck. It’s time for me to return to stage. I have to push her out of my head. She’s struggling against Kiln, begging for her purse.

  Kiln sweeps her into his arms and carries her off, ignoring her wild blows. I hear myself digging a deeper hole for her. “Give her something to calm her down.’

  I turn back to the stage, determined to focus my energies on the remainder of the concert.

  Georgie

  I’m dying.

  My mouth is as dry as a chip. I’m cold, then hot, then cold again. My fingers shake as my stomach seizes up on me. I’m coming down and it isn’t a good one. Crowell gave me something bad and no one is listening to me. Kiln, the big, muscled beef head, is manhandling me to an elevator.

  I can’t scream around the material tied around my mouth. I’m pounding his back and he’s ignoring me. I’m under a blanket, just like I was when he carried me out of the stadium. I didn’t comprehend the chaos around me. People were flinging my name about and I didn’t understand why. I couldn’t follow the words. My head was spinning too much.

  I only know I’m being taken to an elevator because I asked him where we were going when he pulled me from…the backseat of the Escalade. I think that’s my transportation. That’s how I was picked up, anyway.

  The elevator dings. A key card clicks into place and beeps in good will. I’ve always wondered how that works. What genius managed to find a way to have a piece of plastic connect and work a lock’s tumbler?

  I bounce and squeak, then bounce again landing on a mattress. The cover is thrown off me. Kiln grabs at my gag untying it, shaking me when I struggle. When he picked me up, he was nice. Now, we’ve had a return of the basics—his being an asshole.

  He lifts me by my arms and settles me against the pillows, straddling me.

  “If you keep still, I’ll give you something to feel better,” he whispers, his voice soothing me and calming my racing heart.

  I’ll do anything if he makes me feel better. I’m scared and alone and hurting inside. Not knowing why I feel bad for all the pain I have. When all is said and done, my life is spectacular.

  I just have no connections with anyone. My mother. Sometimes. When she remembers I’m alive. I want a connection. I want someone to want me and worry about me.

  The only way I know how to make myself stop being a silly crybaby is escaping. I need it now more than ever. I don’t have Crowell anymore. I won’t even be able to take him into my mouth because I do it wrong. He says the next time I want a fix, he’s going to fuck me in the ass.

  I tremble inside and try not to be afraid, but I am. Crowell’s been horrible to me the past two days. He hit me, but the makeup is covering it. He was high, too, though.

  A cold towel presses against my head and the bed depresses as Kiln sits next to me. I lay my head on his thigh, wishing for Sloane. But he’s a world-famous rock star, who hung around me as a favor to Mom and Dad.

  Fog hazes my brain.

  I don’t know anything right now.

  Liquid sloshing into a glass grabs my attention. I lift my head and squint. “A drink?” I ask, pathetic but hopeful.

  Kiln folds his arms. He’s nice looking, but he isn’t Sloane. No one is. In my murky state, I still know the Sloane in my head, isn’t the real Sloane. I’ve built him up to be perfect, and he isn’t. I don’t know how he ended up in my pathway, but I’ll cherish the time I had with him forever.

  As Kiln stares at me, his look changes to desire. He pulls in a breath and sniffs. “Want a hit?”

  I nod vigorously.

  “You have to suck my dick for it.” He gives me a hard look. “Sloane won’t know.”

  My heart sinks. Sloane won’t know, but I’ll know. I don’t feel any attraction to Kiln, but I’ve brought this on myself. I turn away from him and curl up, trembling. I have no idea where my shoes are. “I c-can’t.”

  “Say that again.” He sounds is if he thinks he’s misheard.

  “I can’t,” I repeat. “I’ve only sucked Crowell’s dick. He taught me,” I stress, still stricken because he disparaged my technique. I frown, remembering earlier in Sloane’s dressing room.

  Kiln growls a curse. “How old are you?”

  I’ve already told him. I think the moment he saw me, he scowled and barked, “How fucking old are you?” That might just be my imagination, so I just answer him.

  “Seventeen in four months.” I snort, feeling prissy and irritated. “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-six.”

  “Sloane’s twenty-five. His birthday is in five months.” I always believed I was an expert on Sloane Mason if nothing else.

  My stomach hurts. I roll around on the bed, landing on the side of my face that Crowell hit. I moan and grab my jaw. “Oww,” I complain on a whine to myself.

  “Something hurt you?”

  Or maybe not. “No, someone.” I lift my head, dizzy now. “Crowell,” I croak, too tired to offer the explanation I’d intended. Crowell’s angry over Sloane and furious that I spurned his marriage proposal.

  Kiln moves away and a faucet runs in the bathroom. A thought occurs to me and I giggle. “You’re named for a pottery oven.” I point at him and laugh a little more.

  “Girls usually like my name.” He doesn’t sound offended, more like amused. Real amusement. Wow! The sky must be falling. I relax as much as I can with my insides—my brain—looping and soaring, twisting and diving. I’m crashing a little more. I curl up again, moaning like an animal.

  “Please. I’ll give you my entire allowance if you just fix me.” I’m crying again. I’ve cried a lot today and yesterday.

  “Yeah? How much might that be?”

  “I get a thousand dollars for each birthday I have.” I frown and sniffle. The calculations should be easy, but I can’t really think. Why does this conversation sound so familiar? He already knows this, doesn’t he? Yes, I think he does. Maybe, he’s asking because I’m strung out and he thinks he’ll trip me up.

  “Sixteen thousand dollars then?”

  “That’s it,” I agree.

  He paces around the bed to face me. There he goes studying me again. “Told you what I want. Why worry about Sloane when I can make you feel better?”

  Something about his tone is off. He’s almost sneering the words, but then he sounds condescending and even more amused. As much as I want relief, I can’t do it. “Go away,” I order, closing my arms. I’ll find a way to get away from here and call Crowell. It doesn’t matter that we aren’t together and he complains about how I suck his dick nowadays. It doesn’t matter that he hit me. My own mother did it, right?

  He enjoys feeding me coke and making me beg for it, so he’ll come if I call. Maybe, I should just marry him. I could do worse.

  “Here.”

  Kiln’s gruff voice makes me open my eyes. He’s holding out a glass of water and a pill. “What is it?”

  “Triazolam. A barbiturate.”

  “A sleeping pill?” I scoop it into my hand and pop it into my mouth. He puts the glass to my lips and tips it, holding the back of my head.

  “You need to come down,” he exp
lains quietly. “Then we need to get you back to your house. All safe and sound and away from Sloane. He’s reckless and impulsive and doesn’t think about half the shit he does, until it’s too fucking late. You have to stay away from him.”

  “But I love him.”

  Kiln smiles softly. “No, you love who you think he is. In real life? No. You don’t know him.”

  My head lulls to the side. “I know everything about him,” I say, singsong.

  “If you were sixteen months older, I’d let you two figure it out.”

  His image blurs, although my brain continues to churn out thoughts. “Sometimes, I believe you hate him. Other times, it sounds as if you really want to protect him.”

  “It’s all in the perception. Seeing what you want to see.”

  I nod in agreement, my eyes slipping closed. Whatever he gave me is strong. It’s been about five minutes and I’m already being affected. I smile at Kiln and allow my lids to droop down as I sink into sleep.

  Cassandra

  When I was young, I felt as if I had all the time in the world. I was invincible. On top. Unstoppable. I loved me. Perhaps, that’s why I was able to marry a wealthy, older man like Parnell. Perhaps, self-loathing and low self-esteem would have hindered me.

  By the time I was twenty-one, I was married and pregnant with Josh.

  I took scant note of the rapid changes in my life, going with the flow and redirecting myself accordingly. I still didn’t count the minutes in a day. It never occurred to me that, with each passing year, time seems to shorten. Months zoom by at lightning speed. One moment I’m celebrating Christmas, and, with the blink of an eye, I’m thrown back into the holiday season that Halloween ushers in.

  Back then, in my twenties, the world saw me as I saw myself—young and vibrant. A living, breathing sexual being. I could wear what I wanted to wear. Party until the wee hours of the morning. Keep the attention of my husband.

  As the years pass, I notice the little things. I look at my Cartier watch and frown at the passage of time. It’s elusive, this time thing. Once it’s gone, we can never reclaim it. I wonder how I’ve spent the last minute. Five minutes. Ten minutes. One hour.