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

by Stevie J. Cole

  I don’t even acknowledge that. I just unlock the door and climb behind the wheel, watching through the windshield as she slowly makes her way to the passenger side. She opens the door and hisses when she goes to sit down.

  “Really?” I ask, shoving the car into reverse.

  “Really. I mean… really. I honest to god thought at one point that my life was actually in danger.”

  I glance over at her before I shift into drive and pull onto the street. “Was he choking you or something?”

  “No, he just fucks hard, and his dick is the width of a coke can.”

  “Lauren!”

  “I swear to god, Phoenix. I kept imagining his dick lacerating my cervix and tearing through parts of my intestines…” She shakes her head, that is the first time in my life I have actually prayed… and I prayed for him to get off at that.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah, wow is right.” She shifts in the seat and whimpers.

  “At least I don’t have to worry about you trying to fuck him again.”

  “Oh, now, let’s not be rash. Was it painful? Yes. Did I think I might die? Absolutely. But I’m a ‘fall off the bike and get right back on’ type of girl.” She flashes me a grin. “Never say never.”

  “I question my morals by being friends with you.”

  Lauren shrugs and flops her head back against the head rest. “Morals are overrated.”

  _________

  After I drop Lauren off at her apartment and watch her old-lady shuffle to the door, I pull up the text from James with Jag’s address, swearing to myself when I type it into the GPS.

  Fifteen minutes later, I’m winding through the ‘look how big my cock is’ part of LA.

  “You’ve arrived at your destination.”

  I come to a stop outside a black, wrought iron gate with the Pandemic Sorrow logo– a weird P and S– in the center. I roll my window down and punch the buzzer.

  Five minutes and fifteen presses later, static comes over the intercom. “If you are a large breasted woman with a tub of lube, you may enter. If you’re Phoenix, you can go fuck yourself and then come in, because your attitude will be better.”

  Before I have a chance to respond, the motor to the gate whirs to life and the entrance slowly swings open. I drive through, rolling my eyes at the monstrosity of a house with marble columns and bushes shaped into guitars. I’m honestly surprised there’s not a fountain in the front with a gold statue of Jag’s cock spurting water. I park my car right beside the Chevelle and Lotus and Maserati, grab my guitar case, and head to the door.

  The second I step up that last stair, my stomach churns. I don’t get nervous. People don’t intimidate me– until now. Why in the hell am I letting these immature manwhores get to me like this? There’s sweat building under my hair, above my lip. I wipe over my face and pull my hair up into a ponytail before I ring the bell.

  It’s going to be fine. Two weeks of my life. I can manage two weeks of my life.

  Jag yanks open the door and he’s in nothing except a pair of boxer briefs. I stare straight at his face. Straight at his face. His tongue darts through of his lips, skimming the little loop pierced through his bottom lip. “I told you to go fuck yourself, don’t tell me you’re that quick?”

  “Look, I’m just here to practice and get this song done.”

  He sniffs. God his pupils are blown about as wide as they can go. I take a second to study him. He’s Jag Steele, rock god. Idol. And when I really take the time to look at him, I see how miserable he actually is. It’s two in the afternoon and he’s in his underwear, high as shit. “We cancelled practice today,” he says. “The guys are hung over.”

  I stand on his front porch, staring blankly at him. He tosses his hands up. “Hello? I said there’s no practice, so unless you want to come in here and suck my dick, I’ve got nothing for you.”

  I blink. Frustrated. Angry. Insulted.

  “Jesus,” I say, “get a fucking grip.”

  And Jag slams the door. Groaning, I turn around, and Stone’s standing right behind me on the step. “Seems he’s warming up to you.” He grins and my heart does that stupid flutter shit it does around him.

  “Yeah.” I huff. “I don’t have time for this crap. I need to get this recording over with so I can get my album done.”

  Stone pulls his keys from his pocket, walks past me, and shoves one into the lock. “Come on,” he says and opens the door.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Practicing.” He steps into Jag’s foyer, grabs my arm, and yanks me inside.

  Jag’s standing between the foyer and his living room with a box of Coco Puffs. “What is she doing in here?” he mumbles through a mouth full of cereal. A few crumbs fall to the marble floor.

  “Practicing.”

  Jag rolls his eyes. “Rush isn’t coming and I don’t feel like playing.”

  “Okay.” Stone heads down the hallway, pulling me behind him.

  “Don’t fuck her around my guitars,” Jag shouts.

  “I’m not fucking her, Jesus Christ,” Stone groans.

  “You don’t have to do this, really.” I pull against him and he stops, glancing over his shoulder.

  “I know I don’t.” He smiles, and if I had any less will power, I’d melt into a puddle. He walks me to the studio room, opens the door, and flips on the lights. I follow him inside and the door bangs shut behind us.

  And… here we are. Alone. In a room. He rubs his hand over the back of his neck and bites down on his lip, that silver hoop catching in the light. God, I wonder what his lips feel like… I mentally slap myself and quickly turn around, clearing my throat as I reach for the mic.

  “So, since no one else is here…” I say.

  “We just do it acoustic.” He walks to the side of the room and opens a closet lined with guitars. He grabs two acoustic ones, handing one to me.

  “Thanks.”

  He grins. “I can kinda sing, so don’t worry.”

  He thumps his hand over the body of his guitar before strumming out a chord. He glances at me and nods. I sing the first line and he joins in, his voice raspy and deep and fuck me, it sends tingles down my spine. I freeze and slowly glance over at him.

  He stops singing and shrugs. “What?”

  “Why is your brother the lead singer?”

  He laughs. “He started the band, besides I don’t like being the center of attention, if you haven’t picked up on that. I leave that to Jag and Rush.” He strums over the guitar again. “Come on, now.”

  He’s not like the other guys. I mean, sure he’s got a cocky side. A dick side, but there’s something about him, something deep and raw that just draws me to him like some gravitational pull, and the more I’m around him, the harder and harder it is to ignore.

  Singing with him is unbelievable, it gives the song a completely different feel. The lyrics sound tormented as they roll from his lips, deep and dark, hypnotizing. I keep glancing at him when he’s not looking, studying the way he closes his eyes, the way his hair falls in his face when he leans over the mic. His hands. I watch how delicately his fingers pluck over the strings…and I’m getting hot. The way he sings literally oozes sex, and I find myself fucking swooning like an idiot. When we finish the first run-through and he looks over at me. “Maybe me and you should sing it instead of you and Jag, huh?” He laughs.

  “I’d prefer that on so many levels.”

  “Hey, why don’t you try going down an octave during the bridge? I mean, it sounds good the way you’re singing it, but I wonder if it wouldn’t sound a little more tragic if you took it down, like you’re filled with pain and shit.”

  I smile. “Filled with pain and…shit?”

  He chuckles. “Hey, whatever works, right?”

  And we start from the top, and he’s right. It sounds so much better at a lower octave. We finish the song, and I hand the guitar to him. “Thanks,” I say.

  “That’s it? Just two run throughs?”

  “
Yeah, I’m sure you have stuff to do and,” I shrug, “I mean, the other guys aren’t here so it’s kind of pointless.”

  “I don’t consider this pointless.” He takes a step toward me and I take a step back because he has this seductive smirk dancing over his lips. And those damn eyes are like the eyes of Medusa, only instead of turning you to stone they make you strip naked and spread your legs. He laughs. “God, you are so fucking awkward.”

  “Thanks.” I back away another step.

  “You’re welcome.” He places the guitar back in the closet and turns around. “And don’t worry, I won’t tell any of the guy’s you can actually be nice.” He winks. “I’ll tell them you were a major bitch.”

  He crosses the room, sweeping his unruly hair behind his ear. All I can think about is him pinning me to the wall and kissing me, so I grab the door and open it, nearly throwing myself into the hall. “Thanks again for, you know,” I stumble into the wall, “not being a dick and all.”

  He waves and I hurry down the hall and through the foyer letting myself out.

  When I reach my car, I take a deep breath and try to force the thought of him and his voice, and that sexy let-me-fuck-you-into-next-week look out of my head. How the hell I am going to make it out of this unscathed, I’m not exactly sure. I just cannot, in any circumstances, ever have tequila around that man. Ever!

  9

  Stone

  The sun scorches my skin as me and Jag make our way past the Beverly Hills shops. A few girls pass by, snapping pictures with their phones and giggling. That kind of shit used to give me a rush of adrenaline– someone noticed me, they know me, they know our music… Now, it’s just par for the course. An invasion of privacy. Annoying. Shit, I’m starting to sound like Jag.

  “I’ve gotta talk to James. That girl cannot go on tour with us,” Jag says, opening the door to the restaurant.

  “She bothers you that much?”

  “Fuck yeah.” We stop at the hostess stand. She smiles and escorts us through the restaurant and out onto the patio. “That girl–,” he continues, “I can’t take her.” He pulls out the wrought iron chair and sits down.

  She’s not that bad, but fuck if I’m going to try and convince him of that. He pops open his menu. I grab my mine and skim-read over the items. A few seconds later, Jag tosses his menu down and props his elbow on the table, staring at me. “I know what needs to happen.”

  “What?” I ask.

  “You need to fuck her.”

  “What? No.” I think about her ass in those tight jeans. I would fuck her, damn would I fuck her, but I don’t want Jag telling me I need to fuck her. Takes the fun right out of fucking.

  “She’ll shut up if you poke her.”

  “That makes no sense,” I say.

  He arches a brow. “Fuck her, man.” He pretends to grab a pair of legs and spread them before thrusting his hips out of the chair over and over like the Energizer Bunny on meth.

  I would fuck her, but that would just be a train wreck because what happens when we’re on tour together? I’m not even touching that. “Man, I’m not fucking her, you fuck her–”

  “I’m too much of a dick. A girl like that will only rage fuck me to ruin my reputation.”

  “Jag,” I snort, “your reputation is one giant shit stain, you do realize that?”

  He grins. “Just stick your dick in her.” I grab the fork from the table and launch it at him. Jag rolls his eyes before his gaze drifts over my shoulder. “Everywhere you go…” He shakes his head, and I turn around in my seat.

  Phoenix is at a table across the patio with– “What the, is that Jimmy Rage?”

  “Yeah,” Jag snorts, “it is.”

  She’s all cuddled up at the table with Rage. He says something and she laughs. My eyes drop to the low-cut neckline of her dress. “Fuck, Harvey was hitting on her the night before last, and now… Has she no morals?” I joke.

  “She’s a cock climber. Fucking hate girls like that.” He glances at me. “I take it back, don’t fuck her. Don’t let her use your cock as the next rung on the ladder.”

  I shake my head. “Fucking Jimmy Rage and his pruney dick…”

  “Oh, fuck you!” Jag points at her as he leans back in his seat. I turn back around to find her flipping us a bird and Rage cackling his ass off before he grabs her hand, brings it to his lips, and kisses over her knuckles. “Can’t do this shit,” Jag says. “James is just going to have to figure something out.”

  I watch Phoenix and Rage stand from the table. His arm goes around her shoulder before they walk off. No shame. She has no shame at all. When I turn around, Jag’s digging a bag of coke from his pocket.

  “You really need to do that at 10 in the morning?” I eye his fist the baggie is now balled up in.

  “No.” He pushes up from the table. “But I want to.” And he heads inside the restaurant.

  There’s a crowd gathering outside the fenced in patio, cameras flashing as Phoenix and Jimmy walk down the sidewalk. A cock climber, huh? I watch her walk off, her ass shaking from side to side as she struts alongside Jimmy, and my cock swells just enough, like he’s asking if I’m up for the challenge.

  I’m a guy.

  I’m always up for the challenge. Phoenix… and I don’t even know her last name. The fact that I even care. Wow. What the fuck is going on here? It’s usually wham, bam, thank you ma’am. And here I am wondering what her last name is. Aw, fucking hell. This is not good for a rock star, so I order another drink and pretend I didn’t just wonder what her last name is.

  _________

  Jag grabs a beer from the fridge in his studio and tosses it to me. I catch it, pop the tab, and take a swig.

  “Dude,” Rush glances at his phone. “So, the redhead I had all bowed up at Danger’s house the other night,” he snorts, “she’s friends with Phoenix.”

  “And?” Jag says, tuning his guitar.

  “Guess what her friend told me?”

  Jag shoots a blank stare at Rush. “That you have a Vienna Sausage dick?”

  “Fuck you.” Rush grabs a drumstick from Pax’s hand and hurls it at Jag, smacking him right on the forehead.

  “You fucker!” Jag shouts.

  “Nah, dude,” Rush grins and glances from me to Jag to Pax. “She’s Henry Edwards daughter or stepdaughter or some shit.”

  “What?” we all say in unison, and Rush just nods, laughing before he takes a sip from his beer.

  “Oh, fuck no!” Jag says, pacing with his guitar in hand. “Fuck that. It’s bullshit! I knew it was some crooked-ass shit like that. I knew it! And James…” Jag’s face is red. “I can’t believe this shit? What are we supposed to do?” Jag is literally about to blow his lid over this.

  “Uh,” I say, “just record the damn song and move on?”

  “And then tour with her?” Jag stares at me, one eye twitching.

  “Yeah…”

  “Bro, you want to tour with Henry Edwards fucking daughter? Every move we make, she’ll be watching us. Every fucking breath we take–”

  “She’ll be watching us,” Rush sings.

  I take a sip of beer and grab my guitar from the stand. “It’s not that big of a deal.”

  “Oh no!” Jag says. He comes storming toward me. “Don’t you even think about it now.”

  “Think about what?”

  “Fucking her.”

  I toss my hands in the air. “Wasn’t thinking about it, man. Don’t worry.”

  “You can’t shove your dick in Edward’s daughter. That’s just asking to have our label ripped and crammed right up our own asses.”

  “Okay…”

  And then Jag continues to pace and rant and pace and rant, and do a line and rant. Ten minutes later, Rush checks his watch. “She’s late.”

  Pax taps over the drums. “I got somewhere to be.”

  “Where the hell are you going, Paxton?” Rush says. “Got a date with a pocket pussy?” He grins, holds his hands together, and pretends to pound away.
>
  Just then, the light signaling someone at the gate glows red. Jag snatches his beer from the top of the fridge, grumbling as he makes his way out of the recording room.

  Part of me feels a little guilty for us being so pissed over the situation, but the thing is, our music is our art, and being forced to let another person intrude on that, well, it’s a pain in the ass. And, she is abrasive as fuck.

  I take another gulp of beer. Rush pulls a joint from behind his ear, pinches it between his lips, lights it, and takes a toke, choking as he inhales, then passes it to me. I take a long drag, letting the pungent smoke fill my lungs before I hand it off to Pax.

  By the time Jag and Phoenix come in, the entire studio has been hot-boxed. When the door opens a thick cloud of smoke rolls into the hall. Jag sucks the smoke in, and Phoenix coughs, snarling as she waves the haze out of her face.

  “Jesus,” she groans. She struts in with these tight jeans and a tight black tank. The way her guitar is slung over her shoulder is sexy as hell. There’s a slight tick to her jaw, and for some reason, I find her nearly irresistible when she’s angry. It’s cute.

  “Alright,” I say, still dragging my gaze over her body. “Let’s get this shit over with.”

  She glances at me out of the corner of her eye. “Why are you staring at me?”

  “I mean…” Be a dick. Be a dick. Be a dick… “I’m just trying to figure out why you are so fucking ungrateful.”

  Jag laughs and Rush says Amen while strapping his bass over his shoulder.

  She strums over her guitar and glares at me. “It’s not ungrateful. It’s called not being stupid.”

  “And just what the hell does that mean?” Jag says, snatching the mic from the stand.

  “It means, guys like you— I give you an inch and you’ll fuck me up the ass.”

  “That’s what I’m talking about,” Rush claps his hand. “Fucking up the ass!”

  “I mean,” I say, “wouldn’t have anything to do with the fact that you’re Edward’s daughter, huh? Chip on your shoulder. Entitlement.”