by Morgan Black
“We don’t know,” he says.
I look at the EMT, who’s still smiling at me. “Don’t worry about a thing. You’re going to be fine, Mr. Cage. And, off the record, I’d like to say that I love “Drifting in the Sky”. It’s my daughter’s favorite song. I’ve heard it a million times.”
“Thanks.” I flex my right hand. Seems to be in working order. “Do you have something I can write on?”
She pulls out a notepad and a pen. Then holds it clumsily so I can write.
“What’s your daughter’s name?”
“Emily,” she says.
I look at her nametag. I write:
To my #1 fan Emily, and her awesome mom Kelly. Love, Damien Cage.
“Oh my God,” she says, “Emily is going to love this. I might actually become cool to her again.”
“How old is she?”
“Fourteen.”
“Probably not,” I say with a smirk. “Give it ten years.”
“Yeah.” Laughing, she blushes. Jason rolls his eyes.
Once we arrive at the hospital, we’re taken into a private area. An annoyed doctor gives me a clean bill of health. Afterward, Jason gets us out a side door to a waiting limo. At the hotel, he whisks me inside while hotel security holds back a stream of screaming girls in the lobby.
With their help, we’re soon in the suite. Anna Price sits on the couch, an array of papers surrounding her laptop. She’s in her usual icy white. Or is that her skin? Hard to tell. Her red lipstick makes her mouth look like a gash. It’s accentuated by her bright orange hair and light blue eyes with tiny tiny pupils. I don’t think I could get it up for her, I seriously don’t. She’s fucking scary.
“You’re late,” she says without looking up.
“I was fucking assaulted!” I say. “And I don’t even know by whom.”
She taps some keys on her laptop, turning it toward me. The girl who punched me stares up from the screen.
Yep, those are the eyes. God, what eyes! And what a body! She’s in a bathing suit, posing for what looks like a publicity photo.
“Marcellina Montero,” says Anna Price. “Porn star.”
She taps another key. The screen changes. There’s my girl again, on the cover of Round Wet Butt Orgy #3, along with five other girls. Looks like they’re all covered in oil. My dick throbs.
What the fuck?
“I was assaulted by a porn star?” I say.
“Seems so,” she says. “According to her AVN bio, she does mostly anal orgies.”
“Oh, great! Wait till the fucking paparazzi gets ahold of this.”
“They don’t know and they’re not going to,” Anna says. “Nobody saw the assault on the lower level. Airport security was right there and took her away fast. She was booked for assault, then bailed out by the guy who was with her. Cousin. Arely Gutierrez-Machado. Lives in Brimford, Massachusetts. She’s from there but now lives in L.A.”
“Why would she punch me?” I say.
Anna turns and glares at me. Shit, you could sell that glare to the U.S. Army. Deadly.
“Good question,” she says. “What did you do to her, Damien?”
“I never fucking saw her before in my life!” I say. “I don’t fucking go near porn stars! They’re diseased. Don’t need that shit.”
“Well, she punched you for a reason.”
“Whatever. Look, Anna, get this the fuck fixed.” I go over to the bar and pour a hefty shot of Jack Daniels into a highball glass.
“Don’t talk to me like that!” she says.
“I’ll talk to you however I want.” I toss the drink back and put the glass on the bar. “I don’t work for you. You work for me. Let’s not have this same fucking argument again.”
I glance over at Jason. “Did you take care of Pierced-Tit and Diamond Butt Plug?”
“Who?” he says.
“The two girls I was with.”
“Alisha and Britney?”
“Whatever. Where are they?”
“With Trent and Ace.”
“Good. Keep them there. I want to rest before tonight’s show. You got the key to my room?”
“Eight-two-two,” he says as he hands it to me. “Five doors down.”
“Not far enough away, but it’ll do.”
Anna’s pinpoint pupils throw invisible daggers at me as I storm out.
As I walk to my suite, I seriously consider firing Anna. I hate her. There, I said it. The only reason I keep her on is because she’s the best goddamned manager Eon Sphinx has ever had. Especially when it comes to Ace and Trent.
I spent twelve years trying to keep those guys in line as we grew the band. Anna Price comes along, and for once my life is easier because she’s like a drill sergeant.
Only harsher.
Just don’t do it with me, bitch. I built this band. I created it. I write the songs. I came up with the fucking name. I supervise the publicity.
It’s all me.
Ace and Trent can play for sure, but can’t do much else. In many ways, I made a deal with the devil. I’m saddled with band mates who don’t possess my work ethic.
Looking back now, I probably should have gone solo right from the start. A band just felt right at the time. Plus, Ace and Trent are amazing musicians. I mean, really fucking good. Better than me, actually. I’m man enough to admit it. I had to train myself to sing, and there are many who are better than me. Although I do hit high notes with a raspy tone that makes pussy wet all over the world. Not to mention I write some pretty fucking good songs.
I pour another drink and flop onto the bed, trying to forget those eyes as her fist goes flying into my face.
* * *
The Phoenix show goes off without a hitch. Ace and Trent are on fire. I don’t know how Trent plays while so high, but I’m afraid if I get him to stop he might start to suck.
We especially knock everyone’s socks off with “Darkest Day” our second biggest hit that closes the show. I’m not sure why, but I’m throwing myself into the words with an unusual passion.
Not to mention I keep getting flashes of those eyes. I swear I saw something behind them. Something real. Something human.
Whatever. It’s over, so I guess I’ll never know. And who gives a shit anyway? Fucking dumbass punches me in the face. Why would I want to find out one goddamned thing about the slut? Fucking porn star. I’m better than that.
After meeting a few fans with backstage passes and posing for some paparazzi shots, I head to my limo. Usually I snag a couple of the finest round asses with me.
But not tonight.
As I sit in my limo, separate from Trent and Ace’s, I pour a shot of Jack Daniels in a glass. I don’t do drugs. I usually like fruity vodka drinks, but when something is eating away at me there’s nothing like pure Jack.
Soon I find myself in my hotel suite.
Alone.
Quiet.
Unusual.
I walk into the bathroom and look in the mirror. The guy staring back at me looks like shit. The side of my face is swollen.
Thankfully, nobody got ahold of this story. When one of the paparazzi asked me why my face looks like a bloated turnip, I just acted all coy and nonchalant. Everyone will assume I got it from wild sex.
So why didn’t I bring a couple of girls up with me tonight? Not sure. God knows I’m horny enough.
No, tonight I just want to be alone.
Something is nagging at me. Drilling into me.
What the fuck is it?
I take another sip of Jack Daniels. Fucking smooth.
I put it aside, shower, get out my laptop, and do some business. Emails. Venue confirmations. Booking issues. Product endorsements. Marketing approvals.
This is what makes me different from other rock stars. Eon Sphinx isn’t just my passion, it’s my business. While other singers drown themselves in drugs, I drown myself in spreadsheets, budgets, and an obsessive dedication to our fans.
Once I’m done with today’s numbers, an image pops into my head.
> There they are.
Fuck!
Those fucking eyes again. I saw something behind them. Something different. Something ... I don’t know ... I just don’t know.
I open my web browser and Google “marcellina montero”.
When a series of free video links pop up, I click the one at the top of Most Popular.
And there she is.
Standing in front of a sink wearing a ... skirt? No, it’s too short to be a skirt. It’s ruffly, but extends way high over her ass. Her full crack is exposed.
Oh my God, what an ass!
I can’t believe I’m looking at a porn site. I click ‘play’ and she begins to move.
I’m a connoisseur of ass. I’m the ass master. The ass taster, baster, medicine-maker.
But this ... holy fucking shit! This is goddamned perfection.
On the video, a guy shows up behind her. He opens his shorts and starts to jerk off. She gets on her knees and begins to suck his cock.
I fast-forward through the cock-sucking. Now the guy is spreading her cheeks, dipping his tongue in and out of her asshole.
She moans. My dick is instantly hard.
What the fuck?
I don’t do porn. I never look at this shit. I really don’t need to. I get the real thing whenever I want it. I could call downstairs right fucking now and have some ass sent up. On a tray.
That’s probably what I should do, but I don’t. What do I do instead?
Me, Damien Cage.
Rock star.
I whip out my ten-inch cock and jerk off to Marcellina Montero, just like all the other losers in porn-land.
What the fuck is happening to me?
Chapter 3
Houston, 8:01 a.m.
“Yep,” I say as I answer the hotel phone.
“Damien,” says Anna Price. “Get down to my room right now!”
I look at the clock. “It’s eight in the fucking morning, Anna. What the fuck?”
“Damien, we’re being sued!” she says.
I sit up in the bed. One of the two girls with me stirs a little.
“Sued?” I say. “By who?”
“I don’t want to say it over the phone,” she says. “Get down here now!”
“I need to shower first.”
“Forget your shower,” she says, and hangs up.
I roll off the two Texas cowgirls I selected from last night’s show, both still sleeping. The mess from last night’s adventures is everywhere.
Nope, shower absolutely necessary.
As the water flows over me, I try to piece things together. I know we had a trademark issue with another record company, but my New York attorney, Harry Decker, made that go away. Who the fuck could be suing us?
After quickly drying off, I throw some clothes on, and head toward the suite door. Right before I get there, there is a knock from the other side. Peering through the peephole, I see a hotel bellman and open the door.
“Mr. Cage,” he says with one of those permanent hotel employee smiles. “Sorry to disturb you, but I was told to hand deliver this urgent message to you and only you.”
He puts a piece of paper in my hand.
“Thank you,” I say, tipping him twenty bucks.
I look at the paper. On the hotel’s stationery is a girly handwritten number:
1504
What the fuck? Probably some groupie. I want my goddamned tip back. Hotel employees are supposed to keep this shit away from me, not knock on doors to hand it to me. I toss the note into the trash can in the kitchen.
“You’re an ass!” says Anna Price as soon as I walk into her suite.
She’s on her feet, pacing back and forth. Jason is sitting at the dining area table eating an apple. He’s absorbed in his laptop.
“Who the fuck is suing us?” I say.
“That trollop porn star who punched you in the face at the airport in Phoenix.”
“Marcellina Montero?” I say with a laugh. “That’s who is suing me? For what?”
“She claims you’re the father of her child. She says she had sex with you in L.A. after a show.”
“How old is her child?”
“He’s two.”
I try to think back. Did I fuck a porn actress? Hard to tell in L.A. Nope, no way. I would have remembered those eyes, and that ass ... no matter how drunk I was.
“She says she has DNA to prove it. Her attorney sent over a lengthy file to accompany the suit.” Anna gestures to a manila folder on the coffee table. It’s thick with papers.
I go to the liquor cabinet and pour some Jack Daniels into a glass. Becoming my thing, isn’t it?
I sit on the couch and open the manila folder.
Everything is there. Very thorough. Almost too thorough.
Pictures of the kid. Looks a little like me. Blue eyes. Light caramel skin like Marcellina.
“Tell her I want to meet her,” I say.
“You’ll meet her soon enough,” says Anna. “There’s a subpoena for a hearing.”
“Have you called Harry Decker?”
“Of course. He’s going to do his best to fix this before it starts, like usual.”
“Which means he’ll fix this. So no problem.”
“No problem? What do you mean, no problem? This is your son we’re talking about! Aren’t you interested in the fact that you might have a kid?”
I down the entire glass of Jack Daniels. Something doesn’t fit here. I look at the pictures of the kid again. Yep, could be mine, but I always try to come in an open mouth or a gaping asshole.
Flipping through some more of the papers. I stop on one.
“Why is this part of the package?” I say. Jason looks up.
“Which one?” says Anna.
“This,” I say. “It’s her most recent STD test. Porn actresses have to get one every thirty days.”
Jason frowns.
“Damien,” says Anna, “I have no idea why porn stars do what they do.”
“It just seems strange,” I say. “What does her most recent STD test dated last week have to do with suing me?”
“You know, Anna,” Jason says, “he has a point.”
I go to the cabinet and pour another Jack Daniels. I walk over to the window and look out. The air is so thick you can almost see it. The Astrodome is barely visible off in the distance.
“I want to see her,” I say as I turn around. “Alone.”
“You can’t do that!” says Anna. “This needs to be handled by the attorneys.”
I hold Anna’s stare. Her arms are folded.
“You think you can just talk her out of it, don’t you?” She laughs. “My God, is there no end to your ego?”
“I’m Damien Cage, remember?”
She just stands there, gawking. “This is a bad idea. I don’t like it.”
“For once, Damien,” Jason says, looking up from his laptop, “I agree with Anna. This is a bad idea.”
“Put me in a room alone with her.”
“Why?” says Anna. “So she can make even more accusations?”
I take a sip of my new drink. “Look, I fuck a lot of girls. But I didn’t fuck her.”
“Oh yeah right,” says Anna. “Don’t even try it with me, Damien. I’m not some naïve idiot.”
“I’m serious, Anna. If I had fucked that girl, I would have remembered her. Trust me.”
“Ha! How would you know? She could have been underneath another girl at one of your ass-fisting orgies. You were probably so drunk you didn’t even notice her.”
“Damien,” says Jason, “if you go anywhere near her, you’re opening yourself up to all kinds of new trouble.”
Something about the way Jason says near her lights a fire in my brain. Suddenly, I see the situation for what it really is. I laugh.
Oh my God.
It’s brilliant. Fucking brilliant.
Goddamn!
I take my drink and sit on the couch. “No,” I say, still laughing. “She’s not going to make any more acc
usations.”
“How could you possibly know that?” Anna shakes her head as she glares at me.
“How did we get this stack of files?”
“They were delivered here to my room an hour ago.”
“By whom?”
“By a representative of her firm.”
“What firm?”
“Mackenzie-Brackman.”
“Do they have offices here in Houston?”
“No, New York. He said he’s staying here at the hotel. This is his card.”
I look at the card. It says: Daniel Montmorency, Associate Attorney. 212 area code. I pick up the hotel phone and dial it.
“Mackenzie-Brackman, how may I help you?” says the switchboard operator high on 57th Street in midtown Manhattan.
“Daniel Montmorency, please,” I say.
“One moment please.” She transfers me. The phone rings twice before being picked up.
“Daniel Montmorency,” he says.
I hang up. “Last time I checked, it takes about four hours to fly from Houston to New York. He must have used a transporter beam.”
Anna and Jason are both staring at me with shocked expressions. I finish my drink and put the glass on the coffee table.
“I just figured out her game,” I say, walking toward the door.
“Where are you going?” says Anna.
“To see Marcellina Montero.”
“But we have a show tonight!” says Jason.
“Oh, I’m not going far. Not even leaving the hotel. Just going down two floors.”
I smile at their confused faces and walk out.
Chapter 4
I pause in the hotel hallway and look at the number in an oval gold plate next to the door.
1504.
I knock. After a few seconds, the door swings open.
I instinctively weave to the left, just in case, but no fist comes slamming into my face. Instead, there’s just the two most amazing eyes I’ve ever seen in my life. Big, bright brown-yellow ones. Lit from behind, I swear.
Goddamn.
Challenging smile. Hand on her hip. My dick twitches in my jeans.
“I know what you’re up to,” I say with a little less power and intensity than I had rehearsed in my head.
“You do?” says Marcellina Montero with a smile and a coy voice.
