by Alexis Angel
Ashley pats me on the shoulder, jostling me from my thoughts. “Okay, now you need to go to your desk and start writing questions out,” she finally says, when I don’t move.
“Right. Of course.”
I drag my eyes away from the frozen Stone on the screen, and hurry to my desk, whipping out a pad and pen. I do my best thinking with a pad of paper in front of me, as old school as that is. I start scribbling down questions as quickly as they come to me. Whatever this jackass thinks he has gotten away with, no matter what kind of a softball interview he thinks he’s going to get from a Blush reporter, he’s really going to regret this move when I’m done with him.
My shock over seeing his cock is gone. I’m no longer hot and bothered and wondering what it’d be like to wrap my lips around that monstrous cock—okay, whom am I kidding? I’ll go to my deathbed with that image in my head—but no! I'm now pissed.
I mean, my god, there were probably children in that audience. There are for sure children who have watched the video since it went viral. He may have enough money to buy his way out of legal trouble, but he doesn’t have enough money to buy his way into a softball interview. If he wants someone to play nice with him, he picked the wrong reporter to be interviewed by.
Whatever caused his severe lack in judgment—whether it was alcohol or drugs—he's going to regret it when I'm done with him.
123
Stone
I sit back on the couch of my hotel room at the W, and sip some morning coffee. Man, what a night. I hadn’t watched the tapes of the performance at Barclay’s yet, but just based on how my body feels, I'm pretty damn sure I must’ve knocked it out of the park.
I hear a knock on the door. “Come in!” I call out, hoping it’s room service with my vegetarian omelet. I'm starving.
I hear the key reader register in the door, and then the door opening.
“Hey Stone,” Frances says, peering around the corner of the door at me.
“Hi,” I say, cocking my head at her weird behavior. She’s normally bouncy and happy and cheerful. She’s certainly not normally hiding behind doors.
“Have you seen the morning news yet?” she asks nervously, sidestepping into the room and closing the door behind her, shoving her thick glasses up her nose.
“No. Why? What’s up?”
I reach for the remote and she hollers, “It’s okay!” I freeze, my hand over the remote, and just stare at her. To say that this is unusual is … the understatement of the century.
“I … uh … well, I have the video on my laptop. I don’t know why you did that, Stone, but we need to clean this up, and quick.” She pulls her laptop bag off her shoulder and begins riffling through it for her laptop.
Oh fuck.
Why I did what? I want to ask.
But I can’t.
So I just stare at her, waiting for her to produce the video, the evidence of whatever it was that I did this time, dread coiling in my stomach. For her to be acting like this, it can’t be good.
I was on stage, at a concert. Surely I couldn’t have done anything too horrible, right?
But if that were true, why is Frances acting like I murdered someone?
With shaking hands, she finally gets the laptop set up, and then swivels the screen toward me.
“Last night, Stone Slayer gave an … unusual concert performance,” the morning show host says with an awkward yet somehow gleeful smile. “I think our editing team has cleaned this up to the point that we can show a clip of it on our show. Let’s watch.”
Cleaned it up? What the—
There I am, dancing around on stage, doing all of the same moves I do every night and then …
I unzip my pants and start waving my cock in the air like I just don’t care. Except, because this is a video being shown on a morning show, there’s this giant gray blob over the top of my cock.
But I know what’s behind that gray blob. I know what I did, even if I can’t remember any of it.
Oh lord almighty, I'm fucked.
Thank god my assistant pauses the video when the bouncers start dragging me off stage, and I don’t have to watch myself make an ass out of myself any longer.
“Sir, I’m not sure what you drank or took beforehand to make you do that, but we’re in a world of shit now.” She’s biting her lower lip and I know she’s right, but the thought is making me ill.
I can’t let her know how much this is affecting me. I can’t let her know that it was news to me just as much as it was to the rest of the world that I did this.
I plaster a smile onto my face, forcing it on there even if I want to rage against the world.
“So what now?” I ask, flipping the laptop lid closed. I can’t stand looking at me anymore. The Gray Blob Cock being dragged off stage.
“Well, we’ve been getting a lot of interview requests this morning—” I bet we have “—but the one I actually accepted was Blush.” At my confused look, she says, “It’s a women’s fashion magazine and they do some celebrity interviews, but they’re mostly known for lipstick and hemline advice articles. I can’t imagine you’d have any real reason to have read their magazine before.” I just stare at her, not even deigning to respond to that comment, and she takes that as encouragement to continue. “I think that they’d be the nicest to you, since they don’t normally do a lot of celebrity interviews, so they probably don’t know how to ask the really hard questions. Plus, this is a huge scoop for them, so they’re going to be on their best behavior in hopes that you’ll continue to grant them interviews.”
If I still have a career a month from now…
“Frances, you haven’t mentioned police yet. What’s going on with that? I imagine I could be arrested for public indecency.” I try not to let the panic overwhelm me at the thought. I certainly am no stranger to being arrested for doing stupid shit, although I used to actually have fun doing that stupid shit. Now, I just get to watch it played out on national TV.
“Ted is on it,” she says with a shrug. “He thinks he’s going to be able to plead it down. I’ll keep you updated on that.”
I nod my thanks. At $3,000 an hour, Ted damn well be able to get some sort of magic to happen. Maybe I can do community service. My eyes flick back down to Frances’ laptop, closed on the coffee table, like a coiled snake in the hot sun.
A lot of community service.
“But,” she checks the time on her phone, “you need to get ready to talk to Blush. The reporter should be here soon.” I set my coffee cup down on the table, about to push myself up to get ready when she stops me with a hand on my arm. “Stone, you have to fix this. Whatever you say, whatever you do, you need to make this better.”
I nod again.
Her advice is completely impossible, and completely true.
In other words, I'm fucked.
124
Gisele
I’m pacing in the lobby of the W, unable to sit and wait patiently in a chair like any normal reporter would. I’m jacked up on nerves; what will it be like to meet Stone in real life? What will it be like to actually interview him? What will my backbone say when it comes time to nail his ass to the wall? I mean, I know I should. I know he deserves it. But I have to admit that a small part of me is star struck.
Or, more appropriately, awestruck. I have never, in all my 26 years, seen a cock like the one he’s apparently carrying around. It's massive. It's giant. It's … impressive. I’m a girl, okay? I can’t help but pay attention when I find out that a rock star is packing something like that.
Is this how he gets dates on a Saturday night? I bet if he whipped that bad boy out and started waving it around in any Manhattan bar, he’d get three phone numbers shoved into his hand before he could get it all the way out of his pants. Girls have backstabbed their best friends for less.
But I can’t let that sidetrack me. I can’t let that soften what I’m going to say to him. I’m gonna grill him within an inch of his life. He’s going to feel like a charred steak by t
he time I’m done with him. I can’t let my guard down, not even for one sec—
“Hi, you must be the reporter from Blush,” I hear behind me.
I whirl around, my hand on my heart. He gave me a fucking heart attack! First whiplash, now a heart attack. If I live through today, it’s gonna be a goddamn miracle.
“I’m Gisele Taylor,” I say, putting my hand out to shake his.
Which, I’ll admit, the whole time, I’m staring into his intense blue eyes. God, they’re sexy. I feel like I could fall right into them. They’re deep and endless and they crinkle just a little in the corners when he smiles.
And then, we touch. Have you ever touched an electrical outlet when your finger was wet? That shock that runs through your whole body? That’s what we felt when we touched each other.
Or rather, that's what I felt when I touched him. I’m not sure if he felt the same way or not. I could be all alone in this feeling. Fuck, that’d be embarrassing if true. There's nothing like a little ol’ Blush reporter, drooling over an untouchable rock star.
That thought reminds me of why I’m there, and what he’s done, and I pull my hand back a little too quickly, a little too obviously. I can’t let him know what I’m thinking. C’mon Gisele, grow up. He’s just a human being, like everyone else.
But I can’t forget the feeling I felt at his touch …
“I’m Stone Slayer,” he says, way after I’ve said my name, and I have to wonder at the delayed reaction. Maybe I’m not alone in what I felt just now.
But I just nod, keeping my face cold, unsmiling. I have to keep my game face on. I can’t let him get into my head. This is a guy so jacked up on drugs and alcohol, he thought it was a good idea to take his cock out and show it to the world.
No matter how sexy his eyes and his abs and his long blonde hair are, I can’t let it affect me. I have a job to do.
125
Stone
I come down into the lobby of the hotel with my heart in my throat. I can’t show it, of course, but I’m fucking terrified here. I've screwed up big time, and if I can’t schmooze my way out of this, I’m screwed. My last two albums have gone double platinum, and I usually have people falling all over themselves to do whatever I need them to. I have people who’d be thrilled to pick up my dry cleaning, for God’s sake.
But this time? I may’ve screwed the pooch here, beyond the point where even my money can repair it. Already, people are saying that instead of calling it streaking, showing up naked in public should be renamed “pulling a Slayer.” And don’t even get me started on the hashtags trending on Twitter. Since I made my assistant leave me after her fuck-awful news this morning, I’ve spent all my time on Twitter and Facebook, and oh God, some of the memes …
So I plaster on my sexiest smile and I decide to turn the schmooze level on high. No woman can resist me if I lay it on thick enough. It doesn’t hurt that Gisele is the sexiest woman I think I’ve ever laid eyes on. Long, blonde hair, tiny waist, huge tits, long legs—I didn’t think women were actually built like this in real life. Her tight, red, pencil skirt and button-up shirt are just begging to be removed, one button at a time. I can see just a hint of cleavage and want nothing more in the world than to undo that top button and see what kind of lacy bra she has on. Because a woman like her? I’m sure it’s nothing but lace that she’s wearing.
Or maybe nothing at all …
“So Gisele,” I say, pitching my voice just right, hoping the deep timbre will cause shivers to run down her spine like it has on countless other women, “thanks for coming to talk to me today.” Talk, not interview. If I can just get her into the right frame of mind, she might take it easy on me. “I see Blush magazine everywhere—” liar, I’ve never even heard of it, “—and so talking to someone from that magazine is a real hono—”
“Interview,” she says, cutting me off.
Ice cold. I’ve heard Antarctica in the middle of January is warmer than Gisele is right now. I’m a little afraid I’m going to get frostbite any moment.
“What?” I say stupidly, because I have nothing else to say. I'm, quite literally, stunned into silence. Not a normal state of being for a rock star, I assure you.
“I’m here to interview you, not just talk to you. I’m here to ask the hard questions, not play patty-cake with you, and I'm certainly not here to stroke your ego.”
For the first time in her life, Frances has completely failed me. This is her softball interview? God, I’d hate to see what would’ve happened if she’d thrown me to the wolves.
So I drop my schmoozing persona. I’ve never been good at doing it for long stretches of time anyway. I’m much more comfortable just being me. I gesture Gisele over to a pair of chairs, sitting at an angle from each other, and we settle in. She crosses her legs, her stilettos showing off her calf muscles to perfection, and I swallow hard. I tear my eyes away from her legs long enough to say, “You’re right. This is an interview and you’re here to ask me the hard questions. Can I ask you one first?” I don’t wait for an answer to my rhetorical question but instead plow forward. “You don’t seem to like me much. Can you tell me why?”
I’m not someone to beat around the bush, if you can’t tell. Tell me the truth and let me deal with that truth. That’s all that matters.
“Why don’t I like …” she sputters, just staring at me. “Because you went and pulled a Slayer,” I wince inwardly at that, “and flashed the whole world. On camera. Your grandkids are going to be able to watch that video someday. Speaking of, do you know how many children watched that video? I don’t know either—that’s the point! There isn’t a way to know! You are a disgrace to the rock star community, and believe me, that’s a hard title to win! I mean, God, one of your kind dangled a small child over a balcony, and yet, you’ve managed to out-asshole him. Congratulations.” She’s breathing hard by the time she’s done, and she’s just staring at me like a questionable brown stain on a carpet.
Okay, I’ll admit it, that hurt. It’s one thing to have a thousand people on the Internet tell me shit like that, but to have a sexy-as-hell reporter say it right to my face?
Fuuuccckkkkk …
I stare at her for a minute, trying to decide. She just stares right back at me, unblinking. No hesitation, no batting her eyelashes, no coyness. She is who she is.
I like that. I like that a lot.
I take a deep breath and say something I never expected to say, “This is going to sound weird, but I need you to do something with me right now. Will you come up to my hotel room?”
For the first time since I laid eyes on her, she cracks. Just a little.
“Up to your room?” she asks, staring at me questioningly. When I simply nod, she presses, “Why? What’s up there that you have to show me?”
“It'd be better if I showed you. I promise, I will not make any physical advances on you at any point, and if you want to leave, I won’t stop you. But I think you’ll want to see what I have.”
She just stares at me, thinking, weighing her options. I know the curiosity has to be killing her. Finally, she gives a single nod.
“Agreed.”
With a smile, I stand up. A part of me cannot believe that I'm doing this, but another part of me is … relieved. I’ve been carrying this around for a long time, and to finally show someone else is going to be a huge relief.
I can only hope that Gisele Taylor, Blush magazine reporter extraordinaire, will listen to me, and more importantly, believe me. It’s not like I have a lot of experience sharing this information with the world, so at this point? All I have is hope.
We head to the elevators, and I watch her ass sway in her pencil skirt as I follow behind her. If I’d known that all Blush reporters were this hot, I would’ve asked Frances to set up an interview a long time ago. This beats being interviewed by Matt Blauer any day of the week.
I smile blandly at her as we ride up in the elevator in silence, and then head to my room.
Show time!
126
Gisele
I'm finally getting out of the elevator and off of the most awkward ride of my life; there's nothing like telling a guy off and then getting into a confined space with him. I follow him to his suite. We walk inside and it’s gorgeous. Of course. I mean, it’s the W. What did I expect?
I still have a hard time not gawking a little bit though. Just a little bit. I hope I’m hiding it well, but this sure as hell isn’t your $79 room down at the local motel.
“Come in here,” he says, his voice drifting back toward me, and I realize that he’s moved on without me. Where is he? I scan the room and realize that he’s stepped into the bathroom.
Weird.
I hesitantly make my way over to it, but stand in the doorway when I get there. I don’t care how fuck-handsome he is, he was high enough on drugs or whatever to think that flashing the world was a good idea no more than 12 hours ago. He obviously isn’t to be trusted. I regret my choice in shoes this morning; if I need to sprint my way to the door, I won’t make it far in stilettos. I wonder how casually I can slip off my shoes so I can hold them in my hands when I run. But my thoughts are cut short when he holds out an orange pill bottle toward me.
“Look.”
I cock my head to the side as I take the pill bottle from his hand. Harmless. Boring. An orange bottle, a pharmacy company printed on the label, and some drug name I can’t pronounce.
“Here’s the truth,” he says, and I suddenly wish that I had a recorder going. Whatever he is about to say will be huge. I can feel it in my bones. “Everyone knows that I’ve struggled with drugs and alcohol—I have for a long time. That’s what the news said this morning—that I must’ve relapsed. But the opposite is true.
