Doll Face

by C. M. Stunich

  “Yeah, just not at home, not in the one place in the world that's supposed to be sacred. Sorry, lady, but I smell your shit from over here. You want us to sign away our lives, let you market our pain, our love, our sex, our friendship, whatever. My music, I can sell because I know it's going to fucking touch people here.” I thump a fist against my chest. “But I won't sell my soul. That shit's just for rent, just up for a glimpse while we're onstage. Anything else would be a travesty.”

  “Mr. McGuire,” Milo begins from behind me, but I wave him off. I don't need to consult with the boys about this, talk to my parents, discuss the pros and cons with Lola. I already have my answer and it's resounding in my skull like a lonely echo in the Grand Canyon. No. No. No.

  “My daughters will be moving in here soon. The last thing they need is for their childhoods to be filmed, for their father's fuckups to be immortalized every second of every day. The answer is no.”

  “This could be the thing that separates you from today's news to tomorrow's Gods. The world won't be allowed to forget about Indecency. We'll have a website with live feeds, twenty-four hours a day, and pages filled with fact – straight from the horse's mouth. Your hopes, your dreams. You'll each have a blog to post every thought that flickers through your head to the world.” I feel my lip wrinkle and have to really wonder if this woman is mentally challenged. How is she not getting this?

  “I don't want my every whim broadcast to the world. And holy fucking fuck, the website thing? Is that meant to entice me? That's even worse. So not only are the cameras catching my every waking moment, but they're also playing them all. No cuts? No way to hide anything that happens here? You can really forget that shit.”

  Paulette seems unfazed. She's still smiling at me.

  “We could negotiate a little. Say, no cameras in the bathrooms or bedrooms?” Paulette lets her lips curl at the corners. Her version of a smile is fucking terrifying. She sweeps brunette hair over her shoulder and flutters her lashes at me, not in any coquettish sort of way, but more like she's hinting at something unspoken, something I'm not getting. Awesome. More shit to slog through. I pinch my mouth tight and turn away, refusing to participate in this discussion any further. If the words fuck no don't mean anything to this woman, I have nothing else to say.

  Milo calls after me, but I'm officially done here, starting up the stairs and heading for my bedroom. Paulette might stay and try to convince my manager, my bandmates, whatever. They will never convince me, so fuck 'em. If I stay firm and say no, my friends will stand by my side. That's just the way we are; we work as a unit. Always have, maybe always will.

  I open the door to my room and find Lola in a bright pink bra and panties, standing in front of a full length mirror, dancing to “Sex Metal Barbie” by In This Moment. The song gives me chills, especially when I see Lola's red lips mouthing the words, her fingers crawling down her side, teasing the waistband of her panties with her fingertips. Holy shit.

  I step inside and shut the door behind me, flipping the lock before Paulette Washington decides to come looking for me. Lola doesn't notice me, running her fingers through her hair and moving with the music. Her bandages are gone, and I watch as she teases the wounds, tracing them and cringing a bit when she gets too close. As the song winds towards its end, the lyrics repeat the word sex over and over again, turning my rigid cock into steel. I could probably hold up a skyscraper with this baby. Jesus. Blue balls? I'm way beyond that. This is fucking steel cock and it's ten times as deadly.

  “Hey,” I say as the song finally fades away and Lola jumps in surprise, spinning and flinging one tattooed arm over her breasts, slapping her other hand over her pantie covered crotch. When she sees me standing there, she sighs and drops her guard, breathing out a sigh of relief.

  “Holy-dooly,” Lola breathes as I close the distance between us and pause, the toes of my boots less than an inch from her bare feet. “You scared the fucking shit out of me.”

  “Sorry, babe,” I say, reaching down and placing my hands on her hips, feeling the warmth of her skin assaulting my senses and drawing even more blood into my painfully stiff cock. Lola looks down and then back up at me, a grin building on those red lips. Her eyes look even bigger, ringed in liner and shadowed with a shimmering gold color that emphasizes the brilliant blue of her irises. I keep trying to come up with something to accurately describe them, but nothing seems to fit. Cerulean simplicity. No, not quite right. A bite of brilliant sapphire, speckled with stars, ringed in Caribbean Sea.

  Asuka pops into my mind, suddenly and without warning, but I don't flinch. I'm used to it.

  Ronnie, when we're old and gray, will you still look at me like that, like I'm the most beautiful women that ever walked the face of the earth?

  I swallow hard and watch as Lola catches on my pain, mirrors it back in her own eyes.

  I pull her against me, oh so gently. My body's aching with need, but my heart is pouring blood, and I just need a second. We both do.

  “I need to call my dad,” she mumbles, her lips moving against my T-shirt, her breath penetrating the cotton, warming my skin. I sigh and cup the back of her head with one hand, planting a kiss on her scalp before I pull away. Lola's staring at the rose on my T-shirt instead of my face, sliding her fingers down my bare arms and then adjusting her gaze with a raised eyebrow. “But maybe I should take care of that first?” she asks, flicking her eyes up to mine for a moment before reaching for my jeans. I smile softly and take her wrists in my hands, but I don't stop her. I just rub my thumbs in circles over her beating pulse as she unbuttons and then unzips my pants, the pain receding from her face like the tide, like I'm the Goddamn moon. The fact that I actually have the power to influence her mood doesn't escape me. This could work, I think. I mean, I know we're still missing those day to day interactions with one another, but I figure since we survived all the rough stuff, that shit should be easy.

  Besides, I've fallen in love before. I know what it feels like when the trap door of your life opens underneath you and drops you, lets you tumble endlessly through the everyday and right out the other side to the bottom of the world. Welcome to fucking Wonderland, Alice. Just don't expect that you'll ever be able to leave. That whole better to have loved than lost bullshit? It's true. But once I felt that sting, it was like the worst kind of drug, one that you can't live without. I need another hit and Lola's gotta be it.

  “Stop ruminating and let me touch your dick,” she says, flicking me in the chest and giving me that stubborn, pouty expression that I like so much. I feel my mouth pull back into a grin and raise my hands in surrender, groaning as she finally frees my cock from the confines of my jeans. I don't know how Turner does it to be honest with you; my new pants aren't even close to as tight as his and I feel like my fucking balls are suffocating. Lola shoves my boxers down my hips and takes me in her hand a split second before the guilt kicks in and I find my body freezing up, my fingers curling into fists. “No,” she says, wrapping her fingers around my shaft hard enough that she makes me grunt.

  Our eyes meet and I feel a whisper of a smile cross my lips.

  “Don't do that. Listen, buddy, I've let you play nursemaid for a whole week. It was great while it lasted, but I'm healed up enough that I can say this with complete and utter confidence: if you don't fuck the shit out of me, right here, right now, I will kick you right in the nuts and I won't apologize for it. What good does it do me to date a fertile rock God if he won't rock with his cock out every once in a while?”

  “Hey, I'm not arguing,” I whisper as she slides her hand down my shaft, gripping so tight that I have a hard time forcing the words out. “Especially if that's how you really see me. I was thinking deadbeat dad was a more accurate term for my iniquities.” Lola scoffs and tightens her grip enough that I drop my hand to her forearms and grunt, the breath suctioned from my lungs with a single touch. Holy crap. Not only do I think Lola is the most rockin' chick I've ever met, but the lack of sex has left my skin hypersensitive. H
er touch feels like molten fire as she works my body like we've known each other for ever, like she knows exactly where to touch. Either that or she's just that good.

  “Shut the fuck up, Ronnie,” Lola tells me, leaning forward and raising herself up to her toes, touching her lips to mine. That molten fire travels up my spine and into my limbs, into my mouth. I find the fingers of one hand curling in Lola's hair, the other sliding around her back and pulling her closer to me. Our tongues tangle together and I feel a frenzy wash over me, a desperate need to pick Lola up and slam her back into the wall of the sitting area, fuck her bareback and dirty, feel her wetness sliding over me. I moan and she growls back, pumping me harder, faster.

  My left hand squeezes her ass, the supple flesh bulging between my fingers as I tighten my grip enough that she whimpers into my mouth. But she doesn't stop fucking my cock with her hand, doesn't stop kissing me with enough force to bruise. Unconsciously, I scoot us forward, pull her back with my hand on her hair and her ass. When Lola's back hits the wall and she grunts, I snap back into my senses a little. Condom.

  “One sec, babe, one sec.” Lola growls at me as I pull back and refuses to let go of my cock, keeping me hostage with her breasts heaving and a bead of sweat trailing between them, soaking into the bright pink fabric of her lacy bra. Fuck me with a fat dildo. How the hell am I supposed to say no to that? “I have to get a condom,” I whisper as she drops to her knees, one hand still wrapped around my dick. My throat gets dry and I have a really hard time wetting my lips enough to speak. “One sec,” I repeat, but Lola holds me tight, pumps me hard and draws pre-ejac from the tip of my cock.

  “No. I'm tired of your whore jobs. Only prostitutes put condoms on to blow dick, Ronnie.”

  “I'm just trying to protect you,” I whisper back, wondering if there's anything in this world that's less sexy than freaking diseases. Shit. If I've stayed true to Asuka all these years, I'd have been ready for Lola, ready to start a life that didn't include tests and baggage and baby mamas and kids. But this is the hand I dealt myself, so I'm going to roll with it and play my best cards.

  Lola ignores me, tracing the shape of her lips with the head of my cock. Pre-cum shimmers on her mouth and breaks down my pattern of logical thought. Goddamn it. I let my head fall back and rest my hands on her scalp, curling my fingers in that dark, dark hair of hers. It's perfectly straight, soft, teasing the whorls of my fingertips as I increase the strength of my grip in conjunction with the pressure of her mouth against my dick. Lola pauses to press a series of wet kisses down my shaft, squeezing my balls with her left hand before finally taking me into her mouth. She grips the base as she envelops my cock into the ardent blaze of her mouth.

  Son of a bitch.

  I feel my eyelids droop as my body sags with the pleasure, forcing me to move one hand from Lola's hair to the wall. This is the first time I've had the privilege of feeling her bare against my dick and it's fucking intoxicating. How am I supposed to make good decisions when my brain feels like it's been scraped out and fried up, shoved back and scrambled? Motherfucker.

  Lola hums as she swirls her tongue around the head of my cock, paying special attention to the sensitive underside. With my thoughts virtually obliterated, the only image that runs through my addled brain is of throwing Lola over the bed and fucking her from behind, no condom, just my dick in her tight pussy. I mean, if her mouth feels this good …

  Lola keeps a tight grip on the base of my shaft, slamming her mouth against her fist and deep throating my cock. My fate is fucking sealed and I groan, leaning over, putting my weight against my outstretched arm and using the wall for support as I come hard and fast, shooting a load deep into Lola's throat. My muscles tighten and then release, leaving me a melted frigging mess as she pulls away and visibly swallows. My eyes get caught on her throat, working to swallow my seed. I swear, I'm hard again by the time she gets to her feet.

  “Not so bad, was it, mate?”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I whisper, wrapping my arms around her waist and shoving her into the wall. When we kiss, I taste the saltiness of my body on her lips and feel a possessive growl rip through my throat. It feels wrong that I've been with other women without a condom when Lola and I are stuck here in this limbo, waiting for stupid frigging test results. Lydia should be her daughter; Phoebe should be. For the first time in forever, I imagine what it'd be like to get Lola pregnant, to actually stick around and see what the whole process is like, to hold my kid as soon as they take their first breath in this weird, twisted ass world. “Not so bad at all. I think I could handle that on a daily basis. Or hell, even two, three times a day if that's what it takes to make you happy.”

  I move my mouth to Lola's jaw, her ear, breathing against her hair as I work my kisses down her throat, across her collarbone. I bite at her taut nipples through the pink fabric, grazing my teeth against the tender flesh as she groans and wraps her arms around my neck.

  “Depends on if you're a good boy or not,” she whispers, and I smile, reaching back to unhook her bra. “As in, you better not be. I don't like good boys, Ronnie. I want you to be naughty.” Lola shoves me back and wraps her arms over her chest to keep her suddenly loose bra in place. “Play a set for me,” she whispers and I raise an eyebrow, glancing over at the kit in the corner of the room. Even when shit gets bad, even when the world's in a drooping funk around me, I miss the music if we're separated for more than a few days. When our shit got delivered the night before last, I dragged my kit up here and sat down to play, only nothing would come out. It was a miserable feeling, like I was too bogged down in details to just let go and listen to the beat.

  “Right now?” I ask and she nods, leaning back against the wall and sliding her fingers down her belly, next to her gunshot wound, and into her panties. When Lola finds what she's looking for, her eyes get hooded and her breath softens.

  “Play for me, baby. I want to hear your beat.”

  I smile and start towards the kit, pausing to fix my pants.

  “If you're gonna do that, take your fucking shirt off. You already threatened to do it once today. Might as well go through with it.” I grin and rip the fabric over my head, tossing it onto the ugly cream colored sofa that came with the house. Can't wait to replace that ugly ass shit.

  I sit down at my throne and lick my lips, holding my sticks in tight fingers and closing my eyes. I can still taste Lola's mouth on mine, still feel her lips sliding down my shaft. I open my eyes back up and watch her touching herself, staring back at me, waiting for me to make something out of nothing, to spin notes into feeling, to turn boring black and white marks on a page to reality. I bite my lower lip and tap my foot on the wood floor beneath my feet, getting a feel for the song I want to play. I run through an Indecency set list and decide on a pre-Asuka, pre-Travis tune, something that connects my soul to theirs.

  I spin my sticks in my fingers and start to play.

  At first the beat sounds a little lonely, like my drums are crying out for guitar, bass, for a voice to soothe their dark souls. But then I catch Lola's hooded gaze, watch those blue eyes spin with storms as she bites her lower lip and pleasures herself to the sound of my aching heart. Because that's what my music is to me, a reflection of the noise inside my soul, the frantic hammering of my heart against my ribcage. My anxiety. My hope. My fear. My dreams. I spin my sticks again and close my eyes. Don't need to see to play. Never have. Not even for this song, which is in 7/8 time signature.

  Basically, the number and length of beats in each measure. If that doesn't make any sense, don't let it get to you. Who the fuck cares, right? The only thing that matters in music to me is how it makes me feel, how the pulse of the song matches the blood thrumming in my veins. And if I sound hippy-dippy to you, don't think it's because I wasn't taught right. My parents made sure I was brought up on the piano and then when I made the decision to switch to drums, they found me a teacher for that, too. I wonder if they ever look back on that decision and consider it a mistake? They s
houldn't though, not really. If anything, it's the music that's kept me alive all these years.

  I take a gasping breath and feel my arm muscles protesting, threatening mutiny for taking those two weeks off. It was the single largest break I've ever taken – barring Asuka's and Travis' deaths. I find myself getting lost in memories, seeing faces long gone and broken, so I force my eyes open, make myself count quarter notes to pull it all together.

  One, two, three, four, five, six, sev.

  There's no change in playing the hi-hat – that pair of cymbals off to the left, run by the foot pedal – but you can feel the difference on the bass drum and the snare. I keep counting, letting my lips move but refusing to speak a single word. Don't need to; my drums have voices. Each part of my kit is like a different entity, speaking to me in words and phrases, twisting its needs with my own, so we come out howling like a single demon instead of the chorus that we are.

  Ghost notes on my snare drum give way to rim shots and then back again as the instrument responds to my emotions, as it feels my pain for the past and my hope for the future. Back and forth, I let it sing because there's nobody else around to do it.

  Lola's hand moves quicker and she bites her lower lip so hard, I'm afraid she's going to make herself bleed. But I don't stop playing. I won't. Not until she wants me to.

  I finish up my song, kiss the tip of my sticks, and start in on another. I have no idea what time we're supposed to go clubbing, but I don't give a fuck. If the others have to wait, so be it. When the devil calls, I come running, letting his demons prick me with their horns until I'm pouring sweat, tasting it on my lips, feeling it slick up my fingers. Doesn't stop me. I keep playing, hitting my kit hard, hoping the sticks turn to splinters in my hands, shards that can cut at the same time they can sing. I want that.

  I use a heel-toe technique on my kick drum, a rocking movement that produces a double stroke. It's supposedly hard to do, but not for me. I'm not trying to brag, not trying to toot my own horn; this is just the way things are. If there's one place in my life that I've never struggled, that I've never screwed up, it's this.