by Ker Dukey
I drag my eyes down his front, wishing I had half the muscle mass he does. When he’s not getting fucked up, he works out hard. My lazy ass just watches. Thank fuck I was born with good genes. My workout is the stage when I play guitar with Owen and sing my fucking soul out.
“You and your girl come to party?” He throws his arm over my shoulders so he can check out Pink Leggings Girl.
She blushes and gazes at us with stars in her eyes.
Seth whistles at her. “Damn, sweetheart, you are lookin’ fine in those bubblegum pants. My boy here likes to share.” He looks up at me, smirking. We’ve fucked the same woman a time or two. Okay, so maybe more than two.
“Um, yeah?” she says, beaming. “I’m down for whatever. I love you guys. I’ve been obsessed with you both since I heard your first song.”
“And you haven’t even seen Zavee’s pretty dick yet, doll,” Seth says with a laugh as he boldly grabs it through my jeans. “Aw, he’s hard too. My boy’s always hard and ready to fuck.”
I shove his hand off my cock. “She’s mine tonight,” I snap, anger surging up inside me. “Go find your own piece of ass.”
The girl smiles shyly at me, like I just told her she’s the one and I’m going to fucking marry her. Truth is, I don’t trust myself right now. Not with Seth looking like a fucking snack and grabbing on my cock like he owns it.
Seth plays off my anger and grabs my arm to guide me over to a table. He nods at one of the guys chopping some blow with a razor. Needing the fire, I lean forward, snorting a line from the plate. Seth slaps my ass, laughing, and I fucking explode.
Swirling around, I clock him right in the fucking face. He may be bigger than me, but he’s stunned by my aggression. Blood spurts from his nose, and my first thought is how pissed Ronan will be that I fucked Seth’s face up before our photoshoot tomorrow.
Seth, raging like a bull, charges. He slams into me, knocking me hard to the ground. His fist hits my ribs, and pain slices through me. I manage to flip him over and glance up in time to see Pink Leggings Girl filming me again. I grin at the camera.
BAM!
My vision goes black as Seth punches me. I’m about to swing again when two guys rush us. Owen starts yelling at Seth while Riley steps between us. Seth and I are both hellbent on getting to the other, but Owen and Riley—the only two people who truly care about us—prevent that from happening.
“What the actual fuck?” Owen demands, his pants hanging open where he’s barely pulled them up over his still hard dick after his getting laid in my living room. One of his hands is on Seth’s chest, pushing him away from me.
I drag my eyes from the visible part of Owen’s cock and hate myself for wondering what he smells like there. Who the fuck wonders that shit?
Riley holds me back when I start forward, my eyes latching on Seth’s. Regret washes over his features. It’ll be all over social media in the morning and we both know it. When I hear sirens, Owen curses.
“Come on,” Riley growls. “Let’s get you out of here.”
I break from his hold. My body is buzzing from the drugs and my fists ache to pummel Seth some more. But my eyes keep sliding to Owen’s dick. Dark, trimmed hair. Tattoos all over his lower abdomen. Did Lex have the same cock?
Pain assaults me from the inside out, exploding like a bomb.
I charge for Owen, hellbent on making him pay too. I’ve barely raised my fist before Riley yanks me back. My foot swings out, and I clip Owen in the nuts with my boot. He howls, then charges, sending me and Riley splashing into the pool. The cold water is a wakeup call as we sputter and swim to the surface.
So many phones.
Everywhere.
How do I explain this to Mom and Dad?
And Ronan.
Holy shit…and Asshole Cop.
I wish I could fucking drown right now.
Pulling up to my condo after working fifteen hours straight, I debate ignoring the ringing of my cell phone. Ronan’s name flashes like a warning, and despite my need for sleep, I answer.
“What’s up, Hayes? Don’t you know what time it is? Shouldn’t you be curled around your little girl sleeping like a baby?”
His deep chuckle fades into a groggy growl, “Yeah, that’s exactly what I should be doing, but that punk-ass motherfucker is being live-streamed brawling with his bandmates.”
An internal snarl rumbles my chest. I pinch the top of my nose to ease the tired ache. “I’ll cool things over.” I exhale on a frustrated breath.
“I owe you.” He sighs.
“You always owe me. One day, I’ll collect,” I grunt, grinning. He knows I’m lying. Ronan Hayes is my best friend and would do anything for me. I’ll do him this favor—and the next when it arises.
The punk-ass motherfucker in question is Xavi Jacobs. A guy propelled into stardom at a real young age. The kid is fucking troubled, which is leading him into trouble. He’s acting out. It’s a fucking cry for help if I ever saw one. But it’s tough to get through to entitled fuckers like him. Ronan’s patience is wearing real thin. If Berlin Scandal didn’t make a fuck load of money for his record label, he’d drop them like hot coal.
I’ve had to babysit this kid before.
His eyes are full of pain.
A dark cloud of sorrow and regret follow him around, drenching him in misery.
I’ve seen it so many times before. He’s burdened and needs a way to release the hurt. Self-sabotage is his weapon of choice. It boils my blood watching someone so talented with the world at his feet act out so recklessly.
My palm twitches. I want to teach him how to release that pain in a way beneficial for him—pleasurable. Fuck! I need to get this kid out my head. There’s something about him that calls to the depravity inside me—the Dom—the daddy—the sadist.
Pulling onto his street, I flash my badge at the security guy standing at the gate leading up to Xavi’s mansion. He waves me in with a defeated shrug.
Red and blue lights flash across the dark night sky, and I groan. Someone called the cops, making this more of a ball ache than I anticipated.
Raised voices bark and screech over the blaring music as I get out of the truck. A crowd has gathered on the front lawn, flashes from cell phones flickering like fireflies as they capture clickbait images.
They call themselves friends or fans, but they’re scavengers feeding on the carcasses of the band members they claim to worship. And their favorite is Xavi Jacobs.
I push through the throngs of people, moving toward bickering voices. Three people, facedown, being detained in handcuffs, come into view. Three quarters of the band.
“Where’s Xavi?” I call out to O’Neil, a uniform I know from the precinct.
O’Neil’s face contorts in confusion. “This is just a disturbing the peace complaint. No need for you to be here, sir,” he assures me.
“I’ll tell you where I need to be. Let them up,” I tell him, nodding to the band eating dirt.
They’re pulled to their feet. All but one of them is shirtless and soaking wet. Blood drips from the nose of the big fella, who I think plays bass. His brow crashes and jaw ticks with frustration. What a fucking mess.
“Where’s Xavi?” I demand again.
Shaking his head, he growls, “He won’t get out of the pool.”
“He’s out back with Davis,” O’Neil grumbles, pointing to a side gate while un-cuffing the other guys.
“Clear these people out,” I bark out. “And someone turn that fucking music off.”
“Hey,” the big guy spits out, “that’s our music.”
Smirking, I walk over to him, all six-foot-three, two hundred and forty pounds of muscle. He’s big, but I’m bigger. Intimidation flickers in his eyes as I stand toe to toe with him.
“Keep this shit up, and the only music you’ll be making is from a prison shower while the inmates decide which one gets to make you their bitch.”
“It was Xavi.” He lifts his chin. “He swung at me.”
Xavi
comes barreling through the gate wearing only a soaked pair of jeans, the top button undone, and no shoes. A wet, snapped cigarette hangs from his lips and an unraveling bandage flies like a twirling ribbon from his hand.
He laughs through pinched lips, looking over his shoulder at Officer Daniels, who’s chasing him at a snail’s pace, huffing and puffing. The fucker is older than all these guys combined. Xavi’s eyes clash with mine, and his feet falter. He skids on the grass, almost falling face-first. Placing my hands on my hips, I glare at him. His shoulders deflate, realizing playtime is over.
“I’ve got this, Daniels,” I tell the officer who waves a defeated hand in the air, bending to drag air into his burning lungs before he limps back to his squad car mumbling curses under his breath.
“Go get the place cleaned up,” I tell the other band members. They groan, but do as their told. Good boys.
The place has been cleared of adoring fans, and the music is finally shut off. The yard is fucking trashed and not one asshole sticks around to offer to clean this shit up. Who needs enemies when you have friends who destroy your place and air your discrepancies online?
“Why do you make me come over here when I should be in bed right now?” I growl, snatching the cigarette from Xavi’s mouth, dropping it to the ground, and crushing it under my boot.
He’s glares at me with balls of steel. Xavi’s a lot smaller than me, lean and natural. Where I lift and bulk up, his muscles are subtle and slender. Like a typical drugged-up rock star living his “best” life.
“I’m not stopping you from going to bed, Grandpa.” He crosses his arms over his chest and grins, showing off a perfect set of white teeth stained from a cut on his lip. This kid needs discipline, and I crave to dish it out. My eyes focus on the crimson spilt in his bottom lip. I ache to bite him there—to push the burn and see if he breaks.
“Get in the fucking house before I lose my shit and they have to take me away in the squad car,” I warn, pointing to the open door.
“We were fucking around,” he gripes. “Some prick called the cops. It’s a misunderstanding.”
“You were being live-streamed acting like a fucking idiot. You’re supposed to be a family, a band bonded through friendship. That’s not the way best friends act. Do you even like each other?”
His features darken with fury.
“We love each other. We’re brothers,” he snaps as soon as we're inside, picking up a bottle of beer from a table and throwing it against the wall beside me. It shatters with a crash, and the shards rebound on contact, littering the room. His deep brown eyes widen as my face hardens.
I march toward him, grabbing him around the throat and pushing his back against a wall. I close in, drowning him with my size. He doesn’t resist or attempt to release my grip. His Adam’s apple bobs beneath my palm. Color tints his cheeks. This turns him on. Heat roars through me, demanding attention. Pushing my thumb against the spilt on his lip, I smirk when he gasps and his pupils dilate. Blood blooms and coats the pad of my thumb. Delicious.
“I think you just want me to put you in my cuffs,” I taunt, pushing into him until we’re flush against the other.
“Fuck you,” he mumbles past the pressure I’m applying there with my thumb.
“I do the fucking, boy. Keep giving me this lip, and I’ll fuck that pretty mouth of yours just to shut you up.”
His body goes rigid—even his cock. A storm rages in his eyes, and then the spell is broken when a girl in pink tights with tits spilling from her top that’s too small for her build comes through the front door, distracting us both. “Oh, I’m sorry, officer.” She startles when she sees us. “I just wanted to give Xavi his cell phone. It got knocked from his pocket when the whole fight thing started.” She shrugs.
I take it from her, releasing Xavi. “Thanks, darling.” I wink, and a crimson blush blooms on her cheeks.
“I put my number in there, Xavi. Call me?” She bites her lip and waves before leaving.
Swiping the screen, I’m granted access. I shake my head in astonishment. “You don’t lock your phone?”
“Why would I?” he argues in a petulant way that’s going to earn him punishment one day—from me. “It’s usually only me who has it.”
“Until you do stupid shit like lose it while hitting your fucking bandmates because you have a chip on your shoulder and won’t admit you need help,” I growl, fury rippling through me.
How fucking stupid can he be?
These people just want to use and abuse him.
He’s entertainment to them. Not a person. A fucking show—a shitshow at that.
“I don’t need help. I’m twenty years old. Rich and famous. Being a fuck-up is exactly what I’m supposed to be doing.”
Laughing, I pin him with a narrowed stare. “You think getting everything you want in life entitles you to be a dick?”
“Who said this is everything I want?” he snaps, swiping the cell from my hands. “You shouldn’t assume shit, Detective.”
I take a calming breath, pinning him in place with my intense stare. Beneath the angry exterior is a very broken boy. He needs someone to put him back together.
“Go make peace with your band. Ronan’s going to have to make miracles happen to fix this mess.”
“Are you just going to show up every time I fuck up?” He smirks, folding his arms over his chest. Wet strands of curled hair hang down over his face. I want to fist it in my hands.
Licking my lips, I run my gaze up his body. He squirms. “Is that why you keep getting into trouble? In hopes I’ll come discipline you?” I mutter in a deep growl.
His jaw tenses and his arms drop, hands curling into fists. “What? No,” he huffs out in a defensive tone. “Why the fuck would I want that?”
Because it’s written all over your damn face.
“Calm down, boy. I’m just fucking with you.” I smirk. “Are you going to behave if I leave? I don’t want to be called back out here for this juvenile shit. When I make early hour house calls, I expect to be inflicting the carnage, not cleaning it up.” I raise a brow in challenge.
His features furrow, trying to figure out what I mean. He’ll find out one day—when he’s ready to admit to himself why he’s lashing out all the damn time.
He concedes with a nod, but doesn’t meet my penetrating stare anymore. “I’m going to sleep it off. I’ll talk to everyone in the morning.”
“Good plan. Sweet dreams.” With that, I leave him. I slipped my number in his phone when Pink Tights gave it to me. Next time he’s feeling weird and wants to act out, hopefully he’ll think twice and call me.
I climb into my truck and call Ronan. He picks up on the second ring. That poor bastard didn’t get to go back to sleep.
“Hey, what’s happening?” He exhales heavily.
“I’ve cleared the house out. They’re going to sleep it off. You’ll need to do some press control and get them out in the public eye together—a united front—as soon as possible.”
“Already on it. That fucker makes me lose too much sleep. He’s out of control,” he grinds out.
“He’s hurting, Ronan. He needs therapy.”
“He needs a firm hand.” Ronan snorts.
“Well, that too.” I grin, despite him not being able to see me.
“What do you suggest?”
“I’ll do what I can,” I assure him. “Just leave it with me.”
I end the call and wait for the lights inside to shut off before I drive my tired ass home.
“Ruined!” the stylist complains the moment all four of us heathens walk into the GQ studio. “Where’s Marcus? Someone get me Marcus!”
Seth smirks. “This is your fault, Zavee.”
We’re battered and bruised and hungover as fuck. Definitely my fault. At least my bandmates are used to my shit. Seth was quickest to forgive, followed by Riley. Owen is speaking to me, but he’s still pissed.
“We look edgy,” I argue, shrugging.
“Edgy, young, and
dumb,” a deep voice rumbles from behind us. “Still sellable, thank fuck.”
Ren Hayes strides over to us, clasping me on the shoulder. “You assholes are all over social media. I’ve been on a Twitter frenzy saving your asses.” He’s smiling—which is good. Smiling is definitely good.
“We’re brothers. We fight,” I state like it’s nothing. Brothers don’t get turned on by each other then get pissed over it. They may be brothers to me, but last night, fueled by alcohol, my stupid body reacted to Owen’s half naked state. He looks so damn much like his brother, it’s painful at times. I wasn’t thinking clearly because of the toxic shit running through my veins—nothing more.
I’m not gay.
So why the hell am I acting like it?
While Ren discusses his strategy to spin our fight into something he can use, I break off from the group and plop down in a chair. I check social media and inwardly cringe. It fucking sucks we’re always on display. There’s always some “groupie” waiting to capture all the moments. Good and bad. Mostly bad. I miss the days when we’d rock out in Lex and Owen’s garage. Riley would beat on the drums, annoying the shit out of every adult in a one-mile radius. Lex didn’t have a musical bone in his body, but he was our official mascot.
And official drug dealer.
Fuck, we spun out of control so fast. Especially him. Where we focused on the music and making demos to send to labels. He focused on getting high. My best friend went down while we went up. And then he stayed down. Six-feet under.
Pain numbs me. The urge to hunt down a bar is strong. Instead, I pull out my Zippo.
Flick.
Burn.
The orange flame dances under the vent of the air conditioner above me, threatening to blow out. Kind of like me. Just barely hanging on while everything works against me. I snap the lighter shut and rub the sticker down again.
God, I miss him.
Someone laughs from nearby, stealing me from my melancholy. Owen—as unofficial leader of our band—waves his hands in the air as he explains his newest idea to Ren. I stare at him for a long time, just taking a moment to drink how much he looks like Lex. Riley shoots me a sympathetic smile. Seth playfully flips me off.
