Blow

by McLaughlin, Heidi

  Contents

  Prologue

  1. Bodhi

  2. Bodhi

  3. Kimberly

  4. Bodhi

  5. Bodhi

  6. Kimberly

  7. Bodhi

  8. Kimberly

  9. Bodhi

  10. Bodhi

  11. Bodhi

  12. Kimberly

  13. Bodhi

  14. Bodhi

  15. Bodhi

  16. Kimberly

  17. Bodhi

  18. Kimberly

  19. Bodhi

  20. Bodhi

  21. Kimberly

  22. Bodhi

  23. Kimberly

  24. Bodhi

  25. Kimberly

  26. Bodhi

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Heidi McLaughlin

  About Heidi McLaughlin

  Copyright © 2016 by Heidi McLaughlin

  Blow is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  The right of Heidi McLaughlin to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her under the Copyright Amendment (Moral Rights) Act 2000. This work is copyright. Apart from any use as permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be reproduced, copied, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, recorded or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without prior written permission of the publisher. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  COVER DESIGN: Okay Creations

  Created with Vellum

  Prologue

  The crowd chants an abbreviation of our name, over and over again. VeeP . . . VeeP . . . VeeP . . . echoes throughout the venue as Brayden, Carson, and I stand side by side with our arms raised high in the air. We exit stage left with me bringing up the rear of the three-man train, and I stumble into Carson when he pulls up short.

  “Let’s go back out there,” he says with a shit-eating grin on his face. I shake my head and bypass him, heading right for my assistant, Aspen.

  “Come on, man. One last time,” Carson pleads. I roll my eyes, but Aspen is the only one who can see my face. “Listen to that audience. We sold the fuck out. Let’s give them one more song.”

  Aspen has what I need. I can see the little brown bottle filled with white powder resting in the palm of her hand. It beckons me. Calls my name, ready to invade my system. The nose candy that keeps me awake and able to perform is within arm’s reach, and I have to have it.

  I extend my arm to Aspen, who drops the vial into my waiting hand. Even holding it gives me a thrill, although the feeling is short-lived when I’m instructed to turn around and get in line.

  I turn, ready to give Carson a piece of my mind, but our manager, Rebel Van Zandt, is standing right there, eyeing me. Rebel’s the baddest bitch in show business and you’re risking your life if you dare to disobey her. Given the opportunity, she’d rip me from limb to limb and watch me bleed out slowly just to get her fucking kicks.

  Virtuous Paradox was an unlikely group at the beginning, but we’ve taken the world by storm. What started out as a test quickly turned into a phenomenon. Rebel chose me, along with Brayden and Carson, to form this band. One hurdle back then was I’d never performed in public aside from the yearly Christmas party my Hollywood director father and movie star mother threw. Rebel had seen me sing and apparently was sold. I thought it was a joke until she put the three of us up onstage, took our photo, and asked us all what we saw.

  To me, it looked like two dudes with amazing talent, plus me. Yeah, I have charisma, sex appeal, and striking blue bedroom eyes. But that’s not talent. When I saw myself standing next to them, I felt like I didn’t belong. Rebel vowed to prove me wrong.

  And she has.

  She made promises that I thought could never be reached: number one hits, music videos, the female population lining up to have their picture taken with us, fathers lining up to buy our concert tickets and posters of our ugly mugs soon to be plastered on every teenage girl’s bedroom wall.

  We’re household names. Everyone has heard of us. They may not like us, but when our songs come on the radio and they’re alone in their cars, they’re singing along. I know they are. They move their shoulders to the beat, hold their hands up in the air, and shake their ass like they’re the ones performing our songs. When it’s over, they go back to hating us, and that’s okay, because for every one person who doesn’t buy our music, there are ten others buying every copy.

  I owe it to the fans to go back out there one more time. There are thirty thousand screaming, horny women all begging for a piece of the action, and we’re going to give it to them.

  “What the fuck ever,” I say as I stand in formation. We’ve been touring for a year, nonstop, and this is our last show. I’m exhausted, sore, and ready for this to be all over. We’ll have a month off before we start recording our next album. We get thirty fucking days to rest and get back to work. What’s the point of being the best if you can’t take time off to enjoy it? How about a trip to Cancun, where I can entertain some co-eds? Anything?

  The lights dim and the band starts up, causing a level of screaming that I’ve never heard before. Carson looks back at me as if he’s telling me that he was right. He’s excited. I get that, but I’m also ready to be done. I’m fucking ready to go home and sleep in my own bed. As soon as he turns I bend down and pop the lid off the vial, insert it into my nostril, and breathe in deeply. I pinch my nose shut, letting the coke work its way into my system, while looking around to see if anyone noticed me. The last thing I want is for someone to see me snorting coke and get all righteous on my ass. I’m not addicted. I can quit anytime I want. I just don’t want to. Being high and performing under the lights is a fucking trip. Why would I give that up?

  Everything about my performance is robotic. I’m going through the moves, singing the lyrics, and doing what I need to do so I can get the fuck out of here. If Carson, Brayden, or even Rebel wants yet another encore, they’re on their own. I’m ready to party and put this tour behind me. And with Aspen waiting in the wings, a night of getting fucked up is inevitable.

  Soon we’re once again standing in the center of the stage with our arms raised. We take a bow, wave, and take another bow. I’m waiting for Brayden to move toward the exit, but he’s not going. He’s standing there, waving like a fucking fool.

  “Yo, Bray,” I say, trying to get his attention, but he’s lost in the moment. I get it, I do. But this isn’t our first show. The high of performing has worn off; it’s time to drop the curtain and get fucked up.

  One

  Bodhi

  As I crack open my bedroom door and look around the room, I barely see the people standing there. They’re mingling, thinking they’re at a celebrity’s house to party. When Aspen has people over I tend to stay in my bedroom, away from prying eyes and cellphone cameras. The last thing I need is for people to see me doing a line, because they’d put that shit all over social media in a blink of an eye, and that’s a headache I don’t need.

  These past thirty days have been bliss. No cameras, no staged locations, no fucking smiling for grabby-ass people who are trying to cop a feel. All that shit changes when Virtuous Paradox goes back to work. A few days from now my mug will be plastered all over every fan site, blog, and Twitter account because Rebel can’t seem to keep our recording locations under wraps.

  When the noise dies down and the last guest leaves, Aspen yells that it’s all cle
ar. I open my bedroom door, only to find her standing there in her panties and bra with a bottle of tequila in her hand.

  “Where’re your clothes?”

  She shrugs and sashays into my bedroom. Of course I watch her; her ass is practically bare and I’m horny. Although sleeping with her would be a major mistake on my part. Thanks to Aspen and her endless supply of drugs, I’m on the tail end of a month-long bender. I haven’t eaten, showered, or slept in days. Tomorrow my life changes. It’s back to work, back to long hours in the recording studio and learning ridiculous dance moves that have been choreographed for the sole purpose of entertaining women. Considering the way they make us mimic sex, the record label ought to just give us a pole to dance around.

  Sex sells.

  That’s all we hear, over and over again. Sexier lyrics. Sexier moves. Make love to the camera. As far as I’m concerned, that camera gets around.

  Aspen lies on the bed next to me, and my eyes betray me as I take her all in. Like any red-blooded man, I’m aroused, but I know better. I wish I’d find her attractive, but I don’t. She’s too skinny and does way too many drugs. The pot calling the kettle black, I know, but I can stop anytime I want. She can’t. And when she comes down from her high, it’s a scary fucking scene around here. Curtains, dishes, and mirrors have been replaced in the past month because she turns into a deranged lunatic.

  Aspen sits up, grabs the bottle of tequila from my bedside table, and dribbles some down my chest. The shit is cold, and before I can protest, her mouth is covering my nipple.

  “Why don’t you like me?” she asks before she starts licking my torso.

  “I do. I let you live here, remember?” That’s the only answer I want to give her. Letting her move in was a mistake, but one I’ve dealt with. When I’m home and needing a fix, she always comes through for me.

  “But you never want to fuck.”

  My head starts to pound as I try to focus on her. I should be chilling right now, letting my high wear off so that I can focus tomorrow. If I show up like this, Rebel is going to fucking kill me.

  “We’re friends,” I remind her. It’s not the answer she wants.

  She straddles me and removes her bra. Aspen grabs her tits, pulling at her puckered nipples as she grinds into me.

  “Fuck, Aspen, why do you do this shit?”

  “I’m horny,” she whines.

  I’m horny too, but I don’t tell her that. I can easily call one of the chicks whose numbers are in my phone and ask them to come over, but I don’t. I don’t push her off me either. Instead my hand reaches out to stroke her bare leg, and she moves back slightly, allowing my fingers to roam until they’re grazing her pussy.

  “If you don’t want to fuck, you should stop,” she tells me, giving me a warning, but I can’t make my brain work now that my fingers are touching her.

  Aspen doesn’t care, though, and slides down my legs enough to fumble with the button on my shorts, and when I hear the zipper, I lift my hips for her. All against my better judgment. The cool air from the air conditioner bites a little until her hot mouth wraps around my cock, only to pull away so she can drag her teeth softly against my shaft until my dick is bobbing against her mouth.

  Aspen digs her nails into my legs, scraping along my skin, back and forth, each movement coming closer to my cock. I gasp when her cool hand wraps around my base and strokes slowly. With every other pass her tongue darts out to lick my tip, driving me mad.

  My fingers dig into the comforter as I focus on the ceiling. I need to tell her to stop, but I can’t form the words. As soon as her mouth envelops my cock, I hiss and tell myself that it’s only a blow job and I need to enjoy the pleasure she’s bringing me.

  “Your fucking mouth,” I say, encouraging her for more.

  Aspen’s head bobs up and down, my dick tickling the back of her throat. I flex my hips and start fucking her mouth. With one hand pumping my shaft, she uses the other to play with my balls, rolling my nuts between her fingers, tugging lightly.

  When she pulls away, I want to cry, because I’m not done. But she surprises me when she drenches my dick with saliva and starts fucking me into oblivion with her mouth. I’m getting my own special porn treatment, and I love every minute of it.

  I let her control the tempo for a minute or so before I start to help her out by pushing my hips into her. She fucking moans against my dick, causing my nuts to stir.

  “I’m going to fucking come,” I warn her, thinking she’ll move away, but she doesn’t. She grips my ass instead, digging her nails into my heated flesh and swallowing my throbbing cock.

  My release is quick and in spurts as I buck into her mouth. She takes it like a champ, swallowing everything I give her. Aspen sits back on her heels, wiping the corners of her mouth. She’s a fucking dirty girl and I love it.

  “My turn,” she says, lying down next to me. I should’ve known this was going to be an I’ll-do-you-and-you-do-me type of arrangement. I continue to stare at the ceiling, wondering how I’m going to get out of this and still have a tiny bit of dignity left. I have to give her something to appease her.

  Aspen tries to cuddle, resting her head on my chest with her leg hitched over mine. Her nails trail up and down my torso in an affectionate way, making me feel like a total piece of shit.

  “Can we try something?” I say at last.

  “Anything,” she says. She’s too perky when she responds, not knowing what I want to do. I push her over onto her back, reach for the drawer on my bedside table, and pull out a vial of coke. When I look back at her, she’s naked with her legs spread enough for me to take my position between them.

  Her body is there for the taking. It should interest me. The sight of tits and a pussy should have my cock hard and begging to be buried deep in her folds, except the vial between my fingers is more important. The contents excite me more, reminding me that when I’m high nothing else matters.

  I open the vial and use my finger to tap some of the contents onto one of her breasts. Her nipple puckers in anticipation. I give her one lick and we both hiss, but clearly for different reasons. Aspen is turned on, and I’m relishing the sensation of my favorite drug seeping into my system. She arches her back, needing more from me. I watch her as my tongue darts out to take her candy-coated tit into my mouth, letting my tongue swirl around her bud until I’ve licked it all up.

  “Fuck, that’s so good.” I don’t waste any time before tapping a line of coke along her skin. I dig through my drawer for something to use, and finally find a cut-in-half straw.

  “Are you going to fuck me after this?”

  “I’ll do anything you want if you hold still.” I regret the words the second they come out of my mouth.

  Aspen lies before me with a line of blow centered down her torso. She watches me while I admire . . . everything. I glide my hands up her sides until my hands are cupping her tits, with the straw in one hand scraping against her skin. It would be so easy to take her right now. To slide into her wet pussy and pound the shit out of her. But my mind wants something else and she has it. She doesn’t flinch when I drag the straw down her body and press it into her skin. My movements are jagged, not smooth like if I were using a mirror, but effective nonetheless. I push along her torso snorting the line of coke I laid out on her body. When I reach the end I lick the residue, wiping her clean until my mouth is on hers and my tongue is thrusting into her mouth, sharing what’s left. She spreads her legs and bucks her hips, showing me what she wants in return.

  “Fuck, Aspen.”

  “I know,” she says as she reaches between us, grabs for my dick, and starts stroking. “Have you ever put a little here?” she asks as she plays with the tip of my cock. “Have you ever fucked while you’re high?”

  Before I can answer, the sound of a new voice startles me. “What the fuck is going on?”

  I jump up from being on top of Aspen to find Rebel standing in my doorway. I push my hair out of my face and try to control my breathing, but the c
oke is working its way through my system right now and it’s moving fast.

  “What are you doing in my apartment?”

  “Pull your pants up and get your ass out here.”

  I do as she says because she holds the key to my future.

  When I walk out to the living room, she’s not alone. My father is there, looking none too pleased. And sitting on my couch is a man I’ve never met before.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Sit down, Bodhi,” my dad says.

  “I’ll stand, thanks.” I don’t know what’s going on, but something in the pit of my stomach tells me that I’m not going to like it.

  My dad pushes me toward the couch. At first I pause, but the look in his eyes tells me I need to move. I go reluctantly, taking an available chair instead of sitting next to the random stranger.

  “Does someone want to tell me what’s going on?” I ask again, even though I have a feeling I’m asking for confirmation of something I’ve feared in the back of my mind for a long time now.

  “I think you know what this is, Bodhi,” my dad states. His hands are clasped in front of him as he leans toward me. “We’re worried.”

  “What about?” I avoid looking at anyone in the room.

  “About your drug use,” Rebel says. Suddenly something catches her eye, and I quickly follow her gaze toward my bedroom door, where Aspen is trying to slip out unnoticed. By now I’m certain that everyone in the room heard what was going on in there.

  “Recreational drug use isn’t a crime.”