Arousing Her

by Tia Siren

  He shook the bag and held it out to Mohawk.

  “Okay, big mouth, let’s see what you get.”

  Mohawk stuck his skinny fingers into the bag and pulled out a folded slip of paper and handed it to Rusty.

  Rusty unfolded the paper, looked at the number, and smiled.

  “Proof that God doesn’t like assholes,” Rusty said, holding out the paper to Mohawk. “You’re number twelve.”

  CHAPTER FOUR: Cain

  I was sitting in the back of the limo checking my email when the reporter from Rolling Stone who had interviewed me the day before called Drew’s cell with a follow-up question. It was nearly nine and we were headed downtown to the Rusty Nail for the battle of the bands, or as Drew had dubbed it: the battle of the bads.

  I listened as Drew talked to the reporter. “No, I’m afraid Mr. Bohannon is indisposed at the moment,” he said, adding in a long sigh for effect. “If you’d like to give me the question, I’ll… Ah, okay… I’ll pass that question along. No, I can neither confirm nor deny the existence of a Cain Bohannon fuck list… That’s right… Okay, thanks for calling.”

  “Let me guess what that call was about,” I said, simultaneously shaking my head and rolling my eyes.

  “Your fucking fuck list, of course,” he said, picking up his glass of champagne from the minibar set into the back of the driver’s seat. He lifted the glass to his lips and sighed into it.

  “Honestly, I wish I’d never leaked that little goodie to that gorgeous reporter from TMZ. I swear, I was just trying to get into his pants. I had no idea he’d make such a big deal of it online. That’s a blow job that’s come back to haunt me.”

  “One of many, I would suppose,” I huffed. “And I’m the one who’s constantly haunted by your inability to keep your mouth shut.”

  “Oh. My. God. How many times must I apologize?” he asked dramatically.

  I held up my phone, where the list was stored, and wiggled it at him. “Do you know that every interview I do, the first question they ask is, ‘Cain, do you really have a fuck list?’ From Barbara Walters to Ryan Seacrest to Charlie Rose. It’s the first fucking question they ask.”

  “I know,” he said, exhaling the words.

  “Well, did you know that Donald Trump asked me about the list the last time we met? I’m writing the guy a hundred-thousand-dollar campaign contribution check and all he wants to know is, do I really have a fuck list.”

  “Did you show it to him?” Drew asked, making his “no way” face.

  “Of course I didn’t show it to him,” I said with a dismissive wave.

  Drew gave me a devilish grin with the glass at his lips. “He would shit if he knew his wife and daughter were on the list.”

  “Probably so.” I smiled and tucked my phone inside my jacket. “Then again, knowing Donald as I do, he’d probably be even more pissed off if they weren’t.

  Some days I wished I’d never started the fuck list, because I got so tired of being asked about its existence. The fuck list had started innocently enough; I mean, as innocently as a list of women I wanted to fuck could start.

  I was a young record exec busting my ass to make a name for myself in the cutthroat music world. I wanted to start my own label, and was willing to fight, fuck, and claw my way to the top.

  It helped that I was six foot two, muscular, and blessed with good looks and a long cock. Word got around pretty quickly among the female higher-ups in the business that I was willing to fuck for favors, and the bitches just started lining up.

  One night, as I had a Riza Records VP bent over her desk, banging her from behind, she told me I had been on her fuck list for months, ahead of Justin Bieber but behind John Mayer, for Pete’s sake. I didn’t even know what a fuck list was then. When she explained that her fuck list was the list of young guys in the business she wanted to fuck, I started a list of my own.

  Only my list had far more stringent rules.

  To get on my fuck list, the girl had to already be famous to some degree so she wasn’t just fucking me to get ahead.

  Or just fucking me because I was more famous than she was.

  Or because she was a gold digger looking for handouts.

  And she had to be a fucking fifteen on a scale of one to ten.

  I didn’t give a shit how famous a bitch was if she wasn’t smoking hot.

  I wasn’t gonna shove my cock into anything less than prime USDA, TMZ-level-famous, smoking-hot pussy.

  So, the Cain Bohannon fuck list was born.

  It started with the top ten girls I wanted to fuck most.

  Then quickly grew to twenty, thirty, forty…

  The list that was on my phone now held one hundred names.

  The list evolved as conquests were made or new women hit my radar, which happened pretty often these days.

  Famous bitches were always asking if they were on the fuck list. “If you are on the list, can I fuck you right now?” had become my standard answer. More often than not, we’d end up fucking like little rabbits in the back of a limo or in the bathroom at a red-carpet event.

  If I said sorry, they’re not on the list, they’d act all pouty and ask what they had to do to get on the list.

  It was like the old adage: If you have to ask the price, you can’t afford it. Only it’s: If you have to ask how to get on the list, you’re probably never going to be on it.

  “What about hot girls who are not famous enough to be on your list?” a reporter once asked, even though I’d refused to confirm the existence of the list. He was asking the question based on rumors that I was not going to confirm or deny.

  I didn’t answer the question.

  If I had, I would have told him that I only fucked smoking hot, famous bitches. I might take a blow job or a hand job from a hot chick like Faleen, who was one of the most beautiful women on the planet but sadly un-famous.

  Sometimes I thought about making her famous just so I could fuck her. Could she be famous for giving me morning wake-up head? I wondered. But there were no loopholes when it came to the fuck list. Cain Bohannon’s famous cock only went into equally famous pussy.

  End of story. Period.

  “We’re here,” Drew announced as the limo pulled up to the curb in front of the Rusty Nail. The sidewalk all up and down the block was packed with people waiting to get inside. They’d probably have a long wait, because I was sure the club had been packed full for hours. That was one thing about these battles of the bads—I mean, bands: They usually brought the millennials out in droves. And the millennials, as annoying as they could be, were my bread and butter.

  Drew looked at me and flexed his perfectly manicured eyebrows. “Ready to be entertained?”

  “Remind me to fire everyone in talent acquisition on Monday,” I said with a sigh. I waited for the driver to open the door. Then I took a deep breath and forced myself out of the car.

  CHAPTER FIVE: Olivia

  “There he is,” Mona said as we stood at the bar waiting for the bartender to fill our customers’ drink orders. Her usually apathetic tone suddenly had a panicky ring to it.

  I turned to find her pointing at a proverbial tall, dark, and handsome man who was following Rusty to the VIP table on the upper level. A tall blond man with an effeminate air followed close behind. I had seen Cain Bohannon’s pictures online, but they did not do the real thing justice.

  He looked like a Greek god striding through the crowd, which parted to let him pass. He was wearing a dark designer suit that fit him like a glove and crisp white shirt that contrasted with his dark skin and jet black hair. He exuded poise and confidence and sex appeal. He walked with his shoulders back and his chin up, like he was king of the world. I almost expected him to extend his hands to the crowd so they could kiss his rings as he passed them by.

  “You’re up,” Sherry said, bumping me with her elbow. Sherry had agreed to let me take BEG’s table in exchange for whatever tips they left. She reached for the tray of drinks the bartender had ready for my reg
ular table. “I’ll take this order to your table. You get up there and see what he’d like.” She grinned at Mona and then back at me. “Stick out those big boobs and shake that bubble butt, honey. I hear he likes that.”

  “Hey, speaking of big boobs,” Mona said, reaching behind the bar to pull out a pair of scissors. “Hold still.” Before I even knew what she was doing, she tugged the collar of my T-shirt away from my neck and used the scissors to cut a slit down the center of the shirt, from the collar to just below my breasts, exposing the front of the black lacy bra I’d packed my round cleavage into.

  “What the fuck, Mona?” I asked in horror.

  “Just hold still,” she said, doing two more cuts. I was horrified as I felt the cold metal of the flat side of the scissors slide over my skin.

  She took a step back to survey her handiwork. I looked down to see that she had cut a large V from the front of my T-shirt so my cleavage and a good portion of my breasts would show.

  She then tucked up the tail of the shirt and knotted it under my breasts so the T-shirt now looked like a homemade halter top. Thank god my tummy was toned (more from not eating than exercising), or else I would have been totally embarrassed.

  I was already wearing a black leather miniskirt and thigh-high boots. When I caught her eyeing the miniskirt with the scissors still in hand, I took a step back.

  “That’s enough, Vera Wang,” I said, holding out my hands.

  “Much better,” Mona said with a satisfied sigh.

  “Totally,” Sherry agreed, taking my tray of drinks and handing me an empty one. “Now get up there and take his order.”

  * * *

  Cain Bohannon was sitting at the VIP table with the blond guy who had followed him in and three other men who I assumed were also from BEG. I kept an eye on them as I made it up the steps to the upper level. I paused for a moment, taking a deep breath to calm my nerves, and then strode over to the table with as much cleavage and confidence as I could muster.

  “Good evening,” I said formally, standing with the big round tray clutched to my breasts. I glanced down and remembered that I was supposed to be sexy. Or was it slutty? I couldn’t remember. Anyway, I lowered the tray so my big boobs would show and asked what I could bring them to drink.

  As the others ordered, Cain Bohannon sat with his head down, focusing on his cell phone. He didn’t look up until Blondie bumped him with his elbow and asked what he wanted to drink.

  Suddenly, it was like the world had been thrown into slow motion, like a scene from a cheesy romance movie. Cain Bohannon’s beautiful brown eyes slowly drifted up my body, starting at the leather miniskirt, then up my belly, then up, around, and over my big boobs, finally reaching my face.

  I sighed.

  Or I think I did.

  Or maybe I had been holding my breath and had to let it go.

  I didn’t remember. I just knew that the moment his eyes met mine, my knees gave a little shake.

  Like I said, cheesy romance bullshit. Go figure.

  He blinked at me a couple of times and his lips curled into a slow smile. His eyes burned into me. I could feel the heat coming from them, like little lasers that were burning me up from the inside, making my nipples hard and my lady parts damp.

  “I’ll have a Grey Goose, straight up,” he said. He tucked his phone inside his jacket and leaned toward me. His eyes bounced from my tits to my eyes. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

  “Liv,” I gushed like a silly schoolgirl. I almost curtsied. For fuck’s sake. Who curtseyed anymore? I cleared my throat and gave my head a little tilt. “I mean, Olivia Poole. My friends call me Liv. Or Olivia. Whatever.”

  The little voice inside my head was going ballistic, screaming, Christ, girl, will you just shut the fuck up?

  “Nice to meet you, Liv,” he said, holding out his hand for me to shake. “I’m Cain. This is Drew. And these are…” He frowned at the others sitting with them, as if he had no idea who they were. “The rest of the group.”

  “Um, hi,” I said, bobbing my head at the group while shaking his hand. His fingers closed around my hand and held on for a minute. A little tingle crept up my arm. I had a lump in my throat that refused to go down. He smiled again and let his fingers drift away from mine…sad. His teeth were perfect, white. How lucky they were to be so close to his lips… Shit!

  The blond guy named Drew leaned in to interrupt our little flirting session. His timing sucked.

  He said, “So, Liv, be honest with us.”

  He gestured toward the stage below. The first act was getting ready to start. It was a band called the Dead Dudes who mainly played covers of Iggy Pop songs. They were zero competition for the Flakes. I mean, Iggy Pop was like a hundred years old and never even had a hit song. Nobody gave a shit about Iggy Pop. What the heck were these losers thinking?

  Drew asked, “Are any of these bands any good?”

  I narrowed my eyes, mocking deep thought, and tapped a finger to my chin. I noticed Cain had not taken his eyes off me. I could feel his eyes scanning my body like one of those machines at the airport.

  “Most of them are shit,” I said with a shrug. “But there is a group called the Flakes that I think you’ll really like.”

  “The Flakes,” Cain said. “Why do you think we’ll like them?”

  “Well, they’re an all-girl group and they play all original songs,” I said slowly, with a serious frown, like I was explaining the fucking theory of relativity to a dog. “And they’re singer is really, really talented. And hot. I mean, you know, hot in a rock and roll sort of way. I’m not like a lesbian or anything…” Shit.

  “She’s really, really talented?” Cain mocked, giving me that smile again. I finally felt the lump slide down my throat. I resisted the urge to lick my lips while our eyes were honed in on each other.

  “Yes, really, really, really talented,” I said, throwing in another “really” and playfully bouncing a little on the balls of my feet. My boobs bounced, which made the other three guys glance at each other. Cain didn’t take his eyes off mine.

  “What’s the singer’s name?” Drew asked, cutting the others a hard look. I got the feeling he was number two on the pecking order, with Cain being the solid number one.

  “Her name?” I blinked at him and licked my lips.

  “Yes. Do you know the singer’s name?” Drew asked.

  Rusty suddenly appeared from behind me, saving me from embarrassing myself further. He gave me a “what the fuck are you doing in this section” frown.

  He rubbed his hands together and said, “Okay, Cain, we’re about to start. Liv, are you taking their drink order? I thought this was Sherry’s section.”

  “Um, we sort of swapped,” I said, leaning in to speak quietly in his ear. “So I could, you know, schmooze a little.”

  Rusty glanced down at my mutilated T-shirt and frowned for a moment. Then he made an “aha” face and smiled. “All right then. Get their drinks and let’s get this show on the road.”

  “Yes, sir. Right away,” I said, forcing a smile.

  I looked at Cain and this time curtsied for real.

  I fucking curtsied.

  I’d never curtsied in my entire life.

  The little voice inside my head was laughing its ass off.

  I quickly walked away so Cain wouldn’t see how red I had turned.

  My one chance to schmooze Cain Bohannon, CEO of BEG and Mr. Fuck List himself, and I freakin’ curtseyed. I could only hope my performance onstage would be more impressive than my waitressing.

  As soon as I dropped off their drink order at the bar, I rushed into the bathroom and puked my guts out. The night was not starting out as smoothly as I had planned.

  CHAPTER SIX: Cain

  “Please tell me it’s almost over,” I said, leaning my elbows on the table and burying my face in my hands. I’d downed six old fashions and decided that no amount of alcohol was going to make this night any better. The only saving grace was our waitress, Liv, the blond
beauty with tits out to there and an ass up to here.

  I leaned in to Drew and whined. “Jesus Christ, man, this is sooo fucking painful.” I glared at the three talent acquisition idiots who had set up the battle of the really, really bads. They had the fearful look of men lined up for execution. I snarled at them.

  “Let me hear you guys say, ‘Do you want fries with that?’ Come on, motherfuckers, say it.”

  In unison, they said it.

  “Good,” I said, waving at them like they were a bad smell. “Practice that, because tomorrow that’ll be your fucking job.”

  Over the last two hours, we had heard ten of the worst bands on the planet. I had lost interest after the third band, a death metal trio that called themselves Satan’s Bitches. I wished I could say they were the worst of the worst, but they weren’t. Not even close. By the time the tenth band was through, I was ready to drive railroad spikes into my ears because it would be far less painful than sitting through another band.

  Like I said, the only reason I hung around as long as I did was the smoking-hot waitress with the big tits and big ass that I would have loved to have sunk my teeth into.

  Olivia Poole—Liv, to me and her other close friends—was a gorgeous blond with big blue eyes and plump lips and a fucking smile that made my balls tingle. Too bad she wasn’t famous. I would have her riding the magic pony in the back of my car.

  Still, a blow job in Rusty’s office would not be something I would turn down. Maybe I’d suggest that to her after the show.

  The talent guys huddled together in a tight ball on the other side of the table and tried to pretend they were no longer there.

  Drew had consumed twice the number of drinks I had, but he was somehow holding it together better than any of us. If anything, he just grew a little more flamboyant when he drank. He spoke with his hands, sweeping them through the air like Mr. Miyagi from that old Karate Kid movie.

  He bumped me with his elbow and nodded at the stage below. The stage lights were off between acts, but I could make out dark figures getting into place behind the microphones and drums.