by C. L. Riley
“I’m Misty Simpson, Shag Steal’s personal assistant. He sent me to make sure you were escorted to the ship.” She doesn’t offer her hand.
“An escort, aren’t we special,” Robin slurs, embarrassing me even more.
“You’ll have to excuse her, she enjoyed the in-flight booze a little too much,” I explain, not sure why I feel the need to tell this woman anything.
Misty flashes a practiced smile and motions over two men that I just now notice. “If you’d just point out your luggage…” she trails off, interrupted by an incoming text.
Robin’s humungous, leopard print bag appears first. I’ve never been happier to show someone a suitcase, and with logistics taken care of, relief replaces my anxiety. I won’t have to handle an intoxicated Robin and our bags alone. I wonder if the other winners are receiving the same treatment.
I want to believe we’re somehow unique because of Shag’s interest in me, but quickly shove the idea aside. Robin is the grand prize winner. It makes sense that we are being treated special.
Twenty minutes later, we’re settled inside a spacious limousine. I lean my head back against the leather seat, watching the palm trees rush by. Robin has calmed down and is sipping a cup of coffee, and Misty is on her phone. It sounds like she’s doing her job, organizing and managing Shag’s affairs. I tune her out and focus on Miami. Compared to Portland, the sunny world outside my window might as well be another planet. A spike of something akin to excitement shoots through me, and I shiver despite the heat.
The feeling is short lived as I catch sight of Misty’s gaze, gliding over me for a second time, almost like she’s searching for something. I’m not sure why, but I get the feeling Shag’s PA doesn’t like me. She didn’t bother hiding her disapproval after a slow scan of my attire back at the airport either.
She is fashion model material where I am average with a capital ‘A’. So why do I get the feeling she’s jealous of me?
Maybe I’m just tired and reading more into her behavior than what’s actually there. It wouldn’t be the first time.
Regardless, I refuse to dwell on her potential motives a second longer. I close my eyes and let myself drift.
I know one thing for sure. I’m not here to seduce rock-stars, win friends, or seek approval. I’m here to have fun with my best friend, and I damn well intend to have the time of my life while doing it.
Chapter Three
Shag
“If you pour some music on whatever’s wrong, it’ll sure help out.”
- Levon Helm
I pace the large room, unable to relax. Another round of unfamiliar feelings batter the usual cool and in control image I present to the world. I’m anxious over something that has never worried me before―a female.
Despite my vow to forget Cadie, for the past week she’s occupied my thoughts, making every other woman seem inferior. My limited interactions with the sexy redhead have been on perpetual rewind, and I wish now that I’d crushed my lips against hers instead of giving up so easily. The way her body swayed towards mine had been clue enough to confirm her desire, even if she was afraid to admit or acknowledge the attraction.
I have no issues admitting my desires. I’m used to getting what I want. Yet with her, I’d froze, a first for me.
It won’t happen again.
By the time the Starlight Sea Queen docks back in Miami, I will have fucked Cadie O’Shea in every position known to man and then some. I will spank her ass and flood her pussy, her mouth, and her tightest hole with my cum, and she’ll love every minute of it. Once I’ve had her, she’ll be out of my system just like every other bitch I’ve banged. Then I can go back to my before-Cadie life, drinking, drugging, and fucking a multitude of women desperate for my brand of shagging.
I know she is aboard the ship, but I’ve yet to cross paths with her. I sent Misty to retrieve her and Robin from the airport, refusing to leave anything to chance. According to my personal bodyguard, Omar, Cadie hasn’t left her suite since their arrival.
Robin, on the other hand, hasn’t allowed her roommate to slow her down and is on the main deck, socializing with other contest winners and overindulging in the free-flowing liquor. I’m a level down, currently hovering by the bar closest to our assigned dinner table, hungry for a glimpse of shocking red hair, not the soon-to-be-served seven course meal.
Someone slips up behind me. My nose tells me it’s a woman wearing too much perfume. Fighting the urge to gag, I clear my throat. I’ve never understood why some women feel the need to drown themselves in flowery, headache-inducing formulas they pay ridiculous amounts of money for.
“Hey, Shag…” the woman coos, trying to sound all breathy and sexy, and failing. “Why are you hiding out down here? Dinner isn’t for another thirty minutes. Everyone’s up top.”
I swallow my rude retort. It’s none of her fucking business why I’m ‘down here.’ If I want to hang out in a mostly empty room and obsess over the first woman to reject me, that’s my business. Eager for her to move on, I let my top lip curl up and narrow my eyes, ensuring she knows I’m not interested in answering her question or joining her and everyone else.
I don’t have to say a word. She gets my message loud and clear.
“You don’t have to be a jerk,” she mutters mid huff, before pivoting like she’s on a runway and sauntering off.
My eyes follow the calculated swing of her hips, watching her disappear through a side exit.
So sue me for looking. I’m a man who earned his nickname in the trenches. And she might stink like she rolled around in a rotting rose bush, but she has a nice ass, nowhere near as nice as Cadie’s though.
Speaking of…why the fuck is Miss O’Shea hiding?
Maybe she’s sea sick. Maybe I should check on her? My nicer, kinder, more gentlemanly side takes a jab at the usual selfish part of me.
“Hey man, you ready for food too?” Slyder asks, appearing from another entrance. “I’m starving.”
He’s the last person I expect to see, especially without his ball and chain.
“What happened to your other half? Did you push her overboard?”
It’s no real shocker. I can be an asshole. I mean the bitch is pregnant; otherwise, a walk off the plank―pirate-style―would be a great way to dazzle our contest winners. It would also provide the one reporter who was awarded the cruise-story exclusive something outrageous to write about.
My guitar player doesn’t appreciate my sarcasm, not that I expected him to.
“Dude, that’s fucked up. She’s carrying my baby. I can’t believe you said that about my wife.”
Thank God he couldn’t hear my put-her-on-the-plank thought. “Shit, Slyder. I’m sorry. She just…”
He raises a hand. “I know. I get it. Chloe can be a little hard to deal with sometimes.”
A little…sometimes?
I don’t respond. The fact he’s admitted to her less-than-perfect behavior is a miracle. Most of the time, he defends her, no matter how out of line she is.
Ready to change subjects, he shifts to a safer topic. “So, you wanna write a couple songs while we’ve got some downtime? The label needs our album in eight weeks.”
His words remind me that our job is never finished, not even in the middle of an ocean.
Did I mention Slyder and me are the band’s primary song writers? Everyone contributes, but we’ve always been the ones to get the process started. He’s a genius when it comes to putting music to my lyrics, and as Crude Elements’ two original band members, everyone looks to us for inspiration, something that’s been harder to come by in recent months.
We clawed our way to the top, becoming one of the biggest music acts in the world, with five Grammys and four AMA awards lining our studio’s shelf. We can buy anything we want, fuck anyone we want, go anywhere we want…but suddenly, I’m bored and dissatisfied. No wonder Cadie O’Shea intrigues me. She’s different. She doesn’t worship me like the rock n’ roll god some people seem to think I am. In
fact, she doesn’t even like me.
Until recently, I’ve been more than happy to lounge in our lavish lifestyle. Now, I want something more. I’m not sure exactly what ‘more’ I want, but the sweet Irish girl is definitely on the list; in fact, she might be the list.
* * *
Cadie
Facing the suite’s massive mirror, I stare at the woman looking back. It’s hard to believe the woman is me.
Dressed for dinner in one of my new outfits, a form-fitting black dress that hugs my breasts and puts my cleavage on display, I look like someone else, someone sensual and confident. Someone a rock-star like Shag might want on his arm, or at the very least, in his bed for a night.
My cheeks flush at the image of our limbs tangled and our bodies pressed together, my soft curves and his hard muscles, meeting and moving, creating waves of unrestrained passion. Goosebumps dance across my skin, making my nipples tighten almost painfully, and I graze my palms over them, seeking relief.
Enough! Get it together, O’Shea.
Twisting to the side, I silence the maddening inner dialogue and examine my form instead.
I am amazed by the way my body-shaper actually molds my body just as the packaging promised, giving my ass a lift and my tummy a tuck without any expensive surgery. Who knew undergarments could work such magic?
Robin did, apparently.
For once I’m glad she’s a shopping maven and that I listened to her advice on the shaper, amongst other things.
Before disappearing poolside, she advised, more like commanded, that I take advantage of the hair and makeup artist assigned to us as part of the grand prize ‘package.’ I heeded her advice, somewhat reluctantly, but from what I see in the mirror, it is obvious I made the right decision.
The stylist, Anthony, AKA Tony, breezed into our presidential suite ninety minutes ago, just now leaving me to admire his work. Sassy, bossy, and unquestionably brassy, Tony is a gay man who is more than happy to share his crazy escapades. He embraces his identity with unshakable zeal. In his early fifties now, he remembers when a considerable number of gay men spent their time cramped in-the-closet, afraid to come out.
Tony Coleman wasn’t one of those men. He made sure to tell me how he refused to hide who he was regardless of the consequences, never once allowing society’s prejudices to limit him. He admitted that it hadn’t been too difficult to rise above the prevailing judgment and fear during that time, simply because he’d found a niche amongst Hollywood’s elite as a sought out stylist linked to a long list of respected A-list actors, musicians, models, and industry moguls. In the years since, he’s become a legend of sorts.
According to him, Crude Element is willing to pay an exorbitant sum to keep him on call and offered him a huge bonus to join the cruise on short notice. He refused to tell me how much, despite my best efforts to lure the information out of him.
As for the other winners, they can access his expert services, for a hefty fee; but Robin and I come first. He went so far as declaring me his new pet project, raving about my old-school, Hollywood figure, amazing skin, and hair to die for. He also explained his goal isn’t to change me, but to enhance the assets I already posses.
Who would have thought? Me…with a personal stylist!
A giggle escapes, and I slap a hand over my mouth. More laughter bubbles up when I realize how silly I must look. There is no one here to see my antics, thank God.
The next sound is my stomach’s rumbling growl. It sounds like a ferocious beast has awakened from hibernation, ready to feast. I’ve avoided the food stocked in our private pantry so I can fully enjoy my first meal at sea. If my lipstick didn’t look so amazing, I’d give in to my ravenous hunger.
Resisting, I appraise myself a final time, gathering additional courage for my public unveiling.
Tony managed to pile my rebellious hair on top of my head, in some twisty thing that is utter sophistication. He left a few pieces loose around my face and down my back, seasoning my classic look with a dash of wildness. My eye shadow is dark and smoky, my eyelashes long and thick, and he found a way to make my eyes’ green shade stand out even more, promising the makeup he used wouldn’t irritate my contacts.
So far, so good.
He went easy on the foundation and powder, explaining that my skin was too fabulous to mess with…his exact words.
I can’t deny his praises boosted my confidence, elevating my normal, floundering self-esteem to a whole new level, where I feel sexy and desirable.
If only my stomach would shut up!
Grabbing my sequined clutch, I stuff my keycard inside and give our expansive suite a final glance.
Look out everyone. The new and improved Cadie O’Shea is on the move.
As if voicing its agreement, my belly lets out another obnoxious roar, begging me to feed it. I am reminded that I might appear elegant, but I’m still just a Portland girl with a big bottom and even bigger appetite.
* * *
Shag
In the last fifteen minutes, the fancy dining room has turned into the ship’s place to meet and mingle. With delicious aromas drifting from the kitchen, our guests are drifting in, their noses leading the way. Most have changed into more formal attire. I’m wearing my favorite jeans and one of our old band shirts.
Still no Cadie O’Shea.
Fuck. What if she doesn’t come down for dinner?
I’d stockpiled her and Robin’s pantry with an overabundance of everyday snacks. Now I wish I hadn’t been so damn thoughtful, because starving her out is no longer an option.
Robin is already present, seated between Stix and Marx, laughing at something one of the twins just said. She’s clearly been enjoying her afternoon and is straddling the thin line between intoxicated and sloppy drunk. The twins don’t seem to mind. Considering the way Stix nurses his bottle of Jack Daniels, Cadie’s roommate might have met her match.
“Hey, you look lost. Can I get you anything?” Misty asks, tilting her head and making sure to bat her lashes.
Misty might be an awesome PA, but she’s a horrible flirt. Her over-exaggerated efforts make me want to laugh; but, in all seriousness, I made the mistake of letting her suck my dick a time or two too many, and lately, she’s been pushing for more.
I know better than to mix business with pleasure. I might be the ultimate man-whore, but I make every effort to avoid situations like the one standing right in front of me, staring me in the face. She even went so far as to comment on Cadie’s appearance after the final concert, calling her a fat mousy sow in that clipped British accent I used to find so sexy.
I should have defended Cadie, but didn’t. I was more worried about how Misty would behave towards her if she was aware of my attraction, which she seemed to sense anyway. She puts up with the never ending parade of groupies, but if she thought I was interested in a ‘normal’ woman…fuck, maybe it’s time to hire a new assistant. I’ve got enough complications without adding Misty’s head games.
Shooting her a cocky grin, I brush her off with a half-hearted compliment. “No, I’m good. Why don’t you sit down and relax. You work too hard.”
“That’s what you pay me to do, boss. Speaking of work…” She digs through her ever-present leather satchel until she finds what she’s searching for. “I forgot to hand this out earlier.” She circles the table, dropping a paper on each band member’s empty plate.
During our brief interaction, Slyder and Chloe manage to sneak by unnoticed. Chloe snatches up Slyder’s handout before he can pull out his chair. Shaking my head, I again picture her walking the plank and this time add on the image of her landing in a pool of hungry sharks.
Misty isn’t thrilled with her either. I’m pretty fucking sure she wouldn’t hesitate to help me shove Chloe off said plank. If only Chloe wasn’t the future mother of my best friend’s first kid.
“Why don’t you let Slyder have a look? It’s his schedule, after all, not yours, Chloe.”
I can’t help but grin. With that reb
uke, Misty is back in my good graces, at least for now. She’s one of the few women who can intimidate Chloe with a glance. That’s a gift I’m not ready to give up. As long as I ignore her advances and keep things purely professional, moving forward, we should be fine. I hope.
Chloe, on the other hand, is not fine. She glowers but hands over the paper in question to Slyder. She knows better than quarrel with a more formable adversary.
Marx groans, sounding frustrated. “This is fucked up, Misty. Shit. This is supposed to be a vacation.” He crumbles the paper in his fist and tosses it on the table.
“No,” she fires back. “This is work, not a vacation. You. Are. Working.” She punctuates the final three words with a stomp of her foot. “Besides, Rod wrote up the rules, not me.”
The fact our manager is having Misty do his dirty work doesn’t dissuade Marx. He snaps back and the battle is on. Unlike Chloe, he thrives on conflict with my PA.
The two of them argue like scorned lovers.
Maybe she’s been in his pants too.
Not caring either way, I tune them out and glance down at the schedule and immediately see what has Marx and now Stix up in arms.
The label has decided we should have dinner with our winners at least five out of ten nights, here in the main dining area, no exceptions. The grand prize winner (and personal guest) will join us. I’m more than okay with that particular item. It’s the rest of the list that has my blood boiling.
Two additional guests will dine with us those nights as well, and to make matters worse, the reporter will eat at our table too, just like one big dysfunctional family. I’m surprised they aren’t forcing us to finish all our veggies before we’re allowed dessert.
We are also required to spend an additional three hours, per day, socializing with our winners, on the ship, or when we visit the various ports along the way. If that’s not enough to keep us out of trouble, we will perform a minimum of three times during the ten day voyage, varying our song sets. Oh, and let’s not forget, we’re going to be writing new music.
