Stone: A Standalone Rock Star Romantic Comedy (Pandemic Sorrow)

by Stevie J. Cole

  “Are you high, Jagger?” One of the men shout over their camera before the flash flickers. Jag flips them the bird. “Of course I’m fucking high,” he slurs.

  Jesus… I attempt to walk a straight line, and Rush takes off in a sprint, jumping on top of a parked car and shouting before whipping his dick out. The group of paparazzi quickly direct their attention to Rush and his dick he’s now slinging around like a helicopter ready to crash and burn. Pax runs over and gives him a shove, and Rush falls off the car.

  Jag and I slip inside the studio lobby. “I can’t believe this shit,” Jag huffs under his breath as we step into the elevator, and I’m just trying to put one foot in front of the other. Right now, walking is a struggle.

  “Man, it’ll be fine,” I say as the door slides shut. I press a button and fall against the wall.

  He glares at me. “No, collaborations mean the label thinks you’re turning to shit.”

  “What the hell are you talking about. The fucking Weeknd collaborates with everyone!”

  Jag wrinkles his brow, snarling his lip in disgust. “He’s a pop bitch, Stone. A pop bitch.”

  The elevator door dings open and we step off. Rush and Pax are getting off the elevator across the hallway, and Rush is, of course, adjusting his dick. We head down the hallway to James’ office and find the door wide open.

  “Now what the fuck do you want us to do?” Jag says, stopping in the doorway.

  James glances up from his desk. “Two hours late!”

  I lean against the doorway because it’s too much effort to stand straight. Jag glances at me and smirks. “Well, we had shit to do. Hope the little princess doesn’t mind.”

  James grins. “You guys are such a joy to work with.” He rolls his eyes as he pushes his chair away from the massive mahogany desk and stands. “You guys need to practice before we record, so you need to get your act together for two weeks.”

  “What if she sounds like shit?” I ask.

  “She doesn’t.” James walks through the door and down the hallway, motioning for us to follow him.

  “No girl’s going to be able to sing our shit,” Jag shouts. James stops in the middle of the hall and spins around to face us, his eye twitching as he steps toward Jag. He’s silently fuming, just staring at Jag. All Jag does is laugh and pat James on his saggy cheek. “Fine,” Jag says, “but from now on, she comes to my house.”

  James looks blankly at him. “I’m not in a mood for this shit. Trust me, I’ve been arguing with Henry all morning about this. It’s a bad move, the styles aren’t going to mix and the song will tank, but what the hell do I know? It’s not like I’ve given Henry ten multi-platinum bands over the last few years. And frankly, I don’t want the liability of you twats around this girl.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I say.

  “You’re all nasty assholes and throwing anything resembling a woman in the mix of you is bad news if you ask me.” He glances at Rush. “Don’t fuck her.”

  Rush makes a crisscross motion over his crotch. “Cross my cock and hope to die, shoot the clap in my eye.”

  James grumbles beneath his breath and rolls his eyes. “And don’t you fuck her either!” He points at me.

  “Okay, fine…”

  “Why didn’t you tell Jag not to fuck her?” Rush asks.

  “What’s the point, he fucks everything.” He turns back around and storms down the hall towards the studio. Rush shoves Pax into the wall. “Notice he didn’t tell you not to fuck her. He knows you don’t have a shot because you’re just the drummer.”

  We all laugh– except Pax, he just flips us the bird.

  James throws the door to the recording room open. “Well, the guys are here, Phoenix.”

  “What a stupid name,” Rush mumbles under his breath.

  “Greeeeeat…” I hear a girl say.

  “Jesus, you know how these new acts are,” Rush says, “can you imagine how all over our dicks this one will be since it’s a chick. Uhhh…” he groans, “all up on our junk, I’m telling you.”

  Rush and Jag step into the room first, then me and Pax.

  Leaned against the wall is a girl with curves out the ass. She’s plucking at the strings of a black guitar that’s slung over her chest. My gaze falls to the waist of the tight, black jeans hung low enough on her hips that I can see the top of a tattoo peeping out. All I can hear is James saying not to fuck her and my dick pulses, wanting to stand to attention because this is absolutely the kind of girl I would fuck. Over and over.

  “Phoenix,” James says, “this is Jag, Rush, Stone, and Pax.”

  She stares at us while messing with the strings on her guitar. Rush steps into the room and immediately trips over his feet and stumbles into the wall. “Are you guys high?” she asks.

  “Do you have a vagina?” Rush says.

  “Oh my god,” Phoenix looks at James and shakes her head. “I can’t do this.”

  “Great!” Jag claps his hand. “Great news because we don’t want to do this shit either.”

  James swipes his hand over his mouth. “It would be easier to get Ru Paul to come out of drag than make this work...” he sighs. “No choice guys, sorry. The label’s made their decision.”

  Jag grunts. “Well, from now on we practice at my house.”

  “I’m not going to his house,” she says.

  “Then you aren’t fucking practicing with us,” Jag says.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were the CEO of Deviant…” Phoenix lets her guitar fall to her hips and she crosses her arms over her chest.

  “Look, I’m not driving down here to practice. Do you really want me coked out of my head driving through LA every day?”

  “Hey,” she smiles, “here’s a thought, why don’t you just not get high?”

  Jag glances at me and thumbs at her. “Is she serious?”

  “Okay,” James sighs, “what about every other practice at his house?”

  “Nope.” She glances up, and locks eyes with Jag. I see a little flash of defiance flicker through her green eyes, and I know this is going to be a shit show.

  “Well,” Jag says, dragging his hands through his messy hair, “too fucking bad. You wanna sing with us, you’re gonna have to come to my house to practice.”

  She laughs before strumming over her guitar once. “I don’t think you have much of a choice, really.”

  Jag glances back at me, then at Rush and James. “Is she for-fucking- real?”

  “Honey, I’m very for-fucking-real.” There’s such a condescending tone in her voice, and I can literally see the rage heating my brother’s face.

  “Shit,” James mumbles, shaking his head. “Look, you two divas work this shit out between you, I can’t– ”

  “Who the hell is she to make any demands?” Jag groans. “She’s nobody.”

  Phoenix laughs. “And if you ask some people, you’re nobody, too.”

  “What a bitch,” Rush groans and tosses his head back. Pax just stumbles behind his drum set and takes a seat.

  “Fuck this.” Jag moves past me and reaches for the door.

  Rush follows him. “Yeah, fuck this shit.”

  “Where do you think you’re going?” James asks.

  “Home. I’m not dealing with this shit.”

  “Oh,” James blocks the doorway, “you will deal with it.” He leans in close to Jag. “Henry Edwards, Jag. Henry Edwards.”

  “Oh my god,” Phoenix groans, “look, fine. If you’re that much of a whiny little shit, I’ll come to your house and practice. Better?” I glance over Jag’s shoulder and watch her push off from the wall, rolling her eyes. “Jesus, fucking rock stars…”

  James sighs, opens the door, and leaves.

  Jag turns around and he and that girl stare at each other. The tension in the room is mounting like a fucking volcano. I’m not sure what this girl’s deal is because she’s already got some major entitlement going on. Most new acts are humble and borderline annoying with their poli
teness, this chick…fuck, she already has blood on her fangs, and I know Jag’s going to make her life hell. He’ll go out of his way to offend her and make her quit, then Henry Edwards is going to be all over our asses… “Damn it, James,” I mumble.

  Rush taps me on the back. I glance over my shoulder as he subtly lifts one brow before cramming his finger inside his nose. “Hey, Phoenix,” he says, “like your shirt.” He yanks his finger out of his nose when she glances at him, then holds that same hand out to her. “Oh, and nice to meet you.”

  She snarls. “You’re disgusting.”

  “Thanks.”

  She sighs and walks over to the microphone, adjusting it for her height. God, her ass is just out there and… I adjust the soft-long growing in my jeans.

  “I’m sorry, little girl,” Jag says. “That’s my microphone.”

  She cocks a brow just before the stand drops with a bam. “Look, fuckface,” she says, “I’ve been warned about you.”

  Jag’s shoulders go tense, and I move in front of him. “Ah, don’t pay attention to those fuckwads,” I say with my charming smile. I step toward her and hold out my hand. “I’m Stone.”

  Her face remains stone-cold and she ever so slightly rolls her eyes. “And I’m not fucking you, no matter how nice you pretend to be.”

  “Oh, burn, baby,” Rush laughs.

  I glare at her, my jaw ticking. This woman is a bitch. A hot, curvy, entitled bitch. And for whatever reason, it literally makes my dick so hard I have to adjust myself. Again. She glances down at my swelling crotch and sighs. “Good to know all the wear and tear hasn’t affected its functionality yet.”

  “The sooner we get this done,” Pax says, “the sooner we can get the hell outta here.”

  “Sounds fucking good,” I mumble.

  “Oh, now you’re going to be a dick, too?” Phoenix says. “And to think, had I giggled at you and batted my eyes like I’d go all spread eagle, ass in the air for you, you could have pretended to be nice for another,” she glances at her watch, “what’s the average time from meet and greet to penetration? Thirty minutes?” She sighs and clasp her hand over her heart, feigning a pouty face. “I’m heart broken, truly.”

  “Shit,” Rush whispers in my ear. “She’s a major cunt. Fucking makes my dick hard.”

  I shove him away and I grab my guitar. Pax’s drumsticks softly tap over the snare drum, and I strum out the first few notes to the song. Right when Jag’s supposed to belt out those first few notes, that girl opens her mouth and this raspy, edgy sound bounces from the walls, the perfection in her tone causing the hair on my arms to raise. She goes right into the first line, and Jag doesn’t make a fucking sound. I glance over at him and he’s staring at her. It’s not until she starts on the second verse that he joins in, and when the song is done, all he says is, “Not bad,” and leaves the room.

  I watch her, the way her chest is falling ragged, the way her cheeks flush pink. She’s chewing on the inside of her lip. She’s nervous as shit, but playing it off so damn well that I find myself smiling a little. She’s hot. She’s volatile. She’s got a fucking voice. Dear god, this is going to be absolute torture.

  6

  Phoenix

  My heart pounds in my chest when I place the mic back on the stand. There’s silence, and I swear I’m so dizzy I think I may hit the floor. The thing is, I may not be happy about this little collaboration, but they’re an amazing band. The rock band all others are measured by, and I don’t want them to rip my vocals apart. I may be tough, but that shit will sting.

  “Not bad,” Jag says then struts toward the door, yanks it open, and steps out into the hall. “Still don’t want you on our album though.” The door slams shut.

  “It was alright,” Rush mumbles, heading toward the door. Pax doesn’t say a word as he trots right after the other two guys.

  “That was fucking amazing,” Stone says.

  “Thanks.” I glance up, and shit, he’s smiling and it’s sexy as hell. I make the mistake of looking at him really good for the first time. Of course he’s attractive. They all are, but it’s those dark eyes of his that get me. There’s something there, something deep or different. He has this cocky arrogance whirling around him like a storm cloud, but there’s this vulnerability in the way he smiles that’s not at all rock star. Almost like what you see is actually a lie. So there’s this vulnerability mixed with the sleeve of tattoos, the lip ring, the messy dark hair. The leather pants. The swagger. And all I can think about is how I bet he fists a girl’s hair when he kisses her. Oh dear fuck. I’m destined for destruction. I am…

  “Hey, don’t pay attention to Jag, he’s a dick,” he says, snapping me out of the sex spell he’s cast on me.

  “Yeah, I’m well aware,” I grumble.

  Stone takes a step toward me, that grin growing deeper. I take a breath and god, his cologne smells good. All manly and woodsy and spicy. “So,” he says, “where do you live?”

  He’s trying to be nice. Fuck, he’s trying to be nice… “Uh,” I grab my guitar case and sidestep my way around him and all his tight leather shit, “in LA.”

  “Yeah?” There goes that smile again.

  “Yep.” I reach for the door handle.

  “Why are you in such a hurry?”

  “I’ve got shit to do.” I smile, open the door, and step out into the hallway. The other guys are gathered at the end of the hall ogling some girl. I don’t say a word when I pass by them, just keep my head down and keep going. Just keep going. Just keep going. Like Dory, keep fucking going.

  “Hey,” he calls from behind me, “why are you in such a hurry?”

  Jesus. He would be persistent, wouldn’t he? I keep walking toward the elevator. “I told you, I have shit to do.” I press my finger over the button again and again.

  “You only have to press it once,” he says with this deep, sexy laugh. Oh, fuck him.

  “I know.”

  I keep staring straight ahead and he tucks a piece of hair behind my ear just before the elevator door opens. I step in. He steps in and presses the button. “So, what shit do you have to do?” he asks.

  “Early dinner with a friend.” I glance at him. “It was supposed to be lunch, but since you guys were two hours late…”

  “Yeah, yeah. Sorry about that.”

  “You know, you guys really should be a little more professional.”

  He snorts at that remark. The doors slide open. I step out and he’s right beside me. I cut my eyes over at him. He’s got this wicked swagger going on and – “Fuck,” I say when I run into the damn wall.

  “Watch it there, Mr. Magoo.”

  I grumble under my breath, rubbing at my face. God, I can feel the heat creeping over my cheeks. I pick up my pace and slam my shoulder against the glass door, stepping out into the California heat. I go to turn right.

  “So, see you tomorrow?”

  I face him and he smiles. “Whatever,” I grumble and head down the sidewalk. Fuck me. This is going to be a disaster. A horrible disaster of epic proportions.

  Tires screech, a horn blares, and I glance behind me to see a black Chevelle pulled over by the curb. Stone opens the passenger door and climbs in, and then a pair of pale ass cheeks press right against the windshield. Stone covers his face with his hand before Rush falls into the driver’s seat and speeds off, engine growling like an angry jungle cat. I shake my head, put my guitar in my car, and carry on to the café two blocks down.

  By the time I get there, sweat’s trickling over my brow, I make my way through the restaurant and out to the patio, immediately spotting Lauren’s pale skin and red hair amongst all the bleach blonde extensions and fake tans. I weave between the cliché white bistro tables on the patio. She glances up when I pull the chair out across from her, the legs scraping over the concrete. “Hey, babe,” she says.

  “Sorry I’m so late.”

  “No worries, I’ve just been watching all the hot guys walk past. Whistled at a few.” She smiles. “So, how d
id it go?”

  “Alright.”

  “Alright?” she tuts. “Babe, you were just in an eight by ten room with Pandemic Sorrow.”

  “And?” I grab my menu and open it.

  “Look, thanks to good old Pam,” she rolls her eyes, “I’m used to all the rockers, but, it’s Pandemic Sorrow, babe.”

  “Yes, it’s Pandemic Sorrow.”

  “Three of the hottest guys in rock.”

  “There are four of them,” I say.

  “Yeah, but Rex is gross.”

  “Rex?”

  “The drummer.”

  “Oh, yeah, Pax.”

  “Anyway, so…alright? It was just alright?”

  “Yes, Lauren, sorry to let you down, but I just went in, did a run through of the song a few times, and left.”

  “Damn, I was hoping to hear that Rush whipped his peen out and swung it around like an elephant trunk.” She grins and claps her hands. “He’s such a hot fuck.”

  I roll my eyes. “You’ve got issues, you do know this?”

  She shrugs. “I just like peen.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  A throat clears beside me and I glance up at the gangly little waiter with his acne riddled face. “Can I…” his voice cracks and he clears his throat again. “Can I take your order?”

  “Mimosa,” Lauren says, “and a salad. No tomato. No cheese. No onions. No dressing.”

  He glances at her. “So…just the lettuce?”

  “Yes, and a mimosa.” She grins and winks, and he looks at me.

  “I just want a water and an order of cheese sticks.” I hand my menu to him and he nods before spinning around, nearly knocking over a waitress standing behind him.

  “Water?” Lauren says and shakes her head. “You’re just full of disappointments today, ma’am. No peen show. No alcohol. You’re going downhill fast, babe. Fast. How was Jag?”

  “He’s a dick.”

  “Standard.”

  “Stone?”