by Gina Whitney
Chapter 2
Abel
My father had always had great taste in women. He had married a beauty—my mother. And he had always hired exquisite-looking help with rocking bodies, too. I wondered if the old man had hit Gia up yet. Fucker!
Nevertheless, I needed to play my love life close to the vest. Morgana, my ex, was trying to fuck me and fuck me good and hard. She was pulling some pretty fucked-up shit, trying to turn the vanilla media and public against me. They wouldn’t understand my need to bind, dominate, and fuck women, within an inch of their lives. I had something broken in me—a need, a want I had little control over. I loved brutal sex. Liked it real rough. Bringing a chick pain with a side of pleasure was on the daily specials for Abel’s appetite menu. And I had a very healthy appetite. The more they screamed the harder my dick got—and the harder I came.
Some would say that I’m a sexual deviant. I say why label people and mind your own fuckin’ business. This was how I was born—how I chose to live. How my parents made me. It was in my DNA to be dominant. Spanking a chick till her ass came up a pretty shade of red made me wanna blow my load all over her ass—mark her. But, people and their opinions? Did I really care?
That was a loaded question. And the answer was both yes and no. As a rule, I was a private dude. But because I was in the public eye as a performer, I had signed away all rights to privacy. And prying eyes wanted to know what went down behind my bedroom door. The cold hard facts were: my family and band would pay for my preferences and indiscretions were they to be put on blast. Could it ruin my career, because I preferred to tie women up? I mean, they loved it. Came back for more and shit, screamed my name at the top of their lungs. That had to mean something, right? We were all consenting adults. Most chicks praised our Heavenly Father for the multiple organisms I gave them.
Speaking of coming, I needed to get that little vixen Gia firmly underneath me. My cock had twitched hard while I had chatted with her earlier. Fuck. I was still as hard as stone just thinking about her. I could go for working some of my kink on her. My dick throbbed and was fighting my zipper, MMA style. Poor guy wanted out in the worst way.
“Sweet Agony,” one of our most downloaded songs, was written as an homage to my love of BDSM. Its heavy bass laced with my throaty lyrics set it apart from anything those top-40 loving DJ’s were playing on the radio. It was erotic as fuck and every time we preformed it my balls pulled up north, relishing the phantom sensations of sex. Man, I loved to fuck. I needed to get laid. I was not one to rub one out. Don’t get me wrong: if it was absolutely necessary I would. But I preferred a female’s firm fist on my cock. A nice squeeze and a twist on the upstroke. I loved seeing their faces when they got an eyeful of my hardware and tatted dick. Most were awestruck, some were hesitant—no matter how they tried to play it off. Their eyes always gave it away … followed by their mouths forming a perfect O. As in: O shit, I’m in trouble with this badass. Some chicks were concerned about hurting me. They didn’t know their way around my hardware. Didn’t understand that if they were blowing me they needed to use some serious spit to work my loops properly. But, there were those few fan-girls who wanted to permanently face-plant there, too. Yeah, my dick had his own groupies—got fan letters and shit. I caught shit from the guys. Fuck it. What did I care? I had a nice wide fatty. Fuck, yeah. It was all part of the scene. Rock and Roll and babes. I was never going to settle down. Well actually, come to think of it, I settled down every night. Ha! Yep, I loved my life.
Christ, where was my father? Why was I always on the back burner? My manager Dave was sitting across from me playing with his fucking new phone. I needed to pace. Being here had me anxious as shit. Between the chick out front and my father’s disapproving eyes my day was going to be hell.
I walked over to the water cooler to quench my thirst. Standing there daydreaming about the festival this weekend, I saw Gia’s smoking reflection. Oh, yeah, it was play time for Abel. I turned and had a nice view of her ass, as she practically ate the file cabinet falling over. She quickly recovered, making sure no one saw her epic fail, but didn’t count on me being at the water cooler. I laughed. Chicks didn’t find that kind of shit funny—they got embarrassed instead. Whatever. I could hear her and Cindy scuffling out there. I decided to go find out what the problem was. But by the time I got there, they were gone. I figured I’d catch up with Cindy later. I wanted to ask her what the deal was with Gia.
The elevator door opened and my prick of a father exited in a huff. I turned ass to have a seat. I sat in the white Queens Ann’s chair next to Dave across from Dad’s desk. His daunting solid mahogany desk fit his persona perfectly. He was an arrogant, wealthy elitist who had grown up with the preverbal silver spoon up his ass. His sense of entitlement was epic. He surrounded himself with like-minded people. His friends, most of whom also came from old money, were successful and full of themselves. A cross between a Viking and a piranha, my father was revered as a counselor. His skill in the courtroom was legendary. And I was grateful he was on my side. Morgana wasn’t too bright going up against me. My father might not agree with my lifestyle, but I was his son, and we were family. Family was everything to my father. At least, that’s the perception he gave. He could be a selfish prick. I’m pretty positive he felt the same about me—especially with this Morgana crap going on.
Oh, and my mother, Deirdre Gunner: what a piece of work! She had insisted I call her Deirdre from the moment I had spoken my first word. Hated the word Mom. My parents were the same age. Same pedigree. Same everything. They just didn’t share the same bed or anything intimate. It was all a show. They were loving, pleasant, and nauseatingly smitten in public. Image was everything. Unity was everything. The shame was, I was just a pawn between them. There was no love lost between any of us. No love period. I had grown up a bratty rich spoiled kid with day help shaping me. Yes, I did go to the finest schools. I received the finest of everything. If money could attain it, I had it. It was the other stuff I craved. It was nurturing, security, and warmth I needed. Fuck it. That was a lifetime ago. I had made my amends with it. They had to live with themselves—which they did very well every day, perfectly fine. What time was it, anyway? I looked at my watch: it was 9:18. The boys were late and any moment my dad was going to chime in. Three, two, one …
“And the rest of the boys are?” he asked snidely, looking at his estate Breitling watch. As if he needed to check the time. He knew exactly what time it was. And the fact that they were late. This was his typical condescending behavior.
A ruckus in the hallway told me they had finally arrived. My band members were the best of friends—brothers. Woody, our drummer, was an exchange student from Ireland. Only trouble was, he had never exchanged. Once he had made it here, he had never even thought about going back. People loved to fuck with him and piss him off. Once his mouth started going, he was unstoppable. We barely understood anything he said. With careful listening, we came to understand him over time. He had had that nickname since the 10th grade. He always had his sticks in hand, working his beats. His blond blue-eyed all-American look had the ladies swooning. His look didn’t fit our vibe. But he was a badass drummer. And he joked and cursed incessantly. Life was definitely interesting on the road with him: he was a huge practical joker. Of course, he always told the babes he had been given his nickname because of the tree-sized wood between his legs. What did I know? I had never looked at the dude’s dick. Whatever.
Jake, who played bass, had hair as dark as midnight, and eyes that were pools of sapphire. I thought they were strange—so blue they didn’t look real. We all loved to bust his balls about them being contacts. And this usually ended in a wrestling match. He wasn’t what I would call a good sport about it. He had also co-written some of the songs on our last album. He could be lyrically brilliant when he wasn’t cranky.
Last but not least was our lead guitarist, Surrender; we called him Ender. He was a gamer at heart, and was also our resident Latin dude. His dark brown hair,
green eyes and olive skin had girls creaming in their panties. A true Lothario, he had a mouth on him. He could curse in almost every language—and did. He loved pussy about as much as I did. And that was saying a lot, because I did love me some pussy. We were all close. There was no jealousy between us. We appreciated one another’s talents. And most importantly, we loved and supported each other—we would kill for one another.
“Puta, besame el culo!” Ender called out to me, meaning, “Bitch, kiss my ass!” Yeah, he was in a mood. I couldn’t blame him there. I didn’t want to be out of my bed this early either. We had rehearsed until 2 a.m. in order to be ready for the Telluride Blues and Brews Festival this weekend, Colorado’s biggest, most epic, four-day festival.
“Fuck you, Ender!” I spat back. He flipped me off and walked over to sit next to Jake.
“Enough! Sit, gentlemen—or should I say children? I have other clients today. Paying clients!” my father tersely stated. Woody took the seat to my left.
“How you holding up?” he whispered, leaning over. I nodded. I had no words. What would I say: I’m sorry the cunt everybody hated and warned me about was now dragging them them? I shook my head in disbelief. They had warned me about her at least hundred times. ‘She’s a conniving cunt, Abel.’ ‘All she wants is your dick and your money, dude.’ ‘She’d let you do anything, be anything, so long as you keep funding her shopping habits,’ Man, was I an asshole. I had thought she was really into me. She was the only chick I had been close enough to to maybe call her my girlfriend. And even that had been a stretch. But she was cool, and loved to fuck. And she had let me take her with no hesitation—ever.
“Extortion is the crime of obtaining money or property by threat to a victim’s property or loved ones, intimidation, or false claim of a right,” my father stated. Christ, the counselor was in. Goddamn blowhard.
“Speak plainly! I think we all have an idea of what’s going on. Enough with the legal vomit,” I said contemptuously. I looked around at the guys. Their eyebrows were raised disapprovingly. I guess they thought I was being a dick. Whatever. Woody patted my leg again.
“Dude, chill,” he whispered. Nodding yeah, I was fucking stressed. I didn’t want to be here. I wanted to be practicing or getting my dick wet. I needed to chill the fuck out.
“Cabron!” Ender murmured, looking towards the window. This was his way of calling me a “dumbass.” What a dick he was. Jake, who played peacemaker at times, shook his head at Ender in warning. Taking a long deep breath, I tried to hold my shit together.
“As I was saying. Extortion can take place either over the phone, by mail, email, text, or any other wireless communication. Nevertheless, it is a federal crime. She has engaged Abel by text and voicemail. I could also make the case for defamation of character, slander, and bribery. Now, this is how we’re going to handle Morgana,” my father instructed us. He picked up the receiver and barked out an order. A minute later there was a knock.
“Here’s the file, Mr. Gunner. I was just going to file it away.” Gia sashayed around his desk and handed it to him. She waited a beat, looking at the boys. Finally, her eyes landed on me. I winked. She blushed. Ender, being closest to her, popped out of his seat to greet her. Of course.
“Hey, I’m Surrender, but you can call me Ender.” He shook her hand.
“Hi. I’m Gia. Nice to meet you, Ender,” she said, smiling softly. With that, the rest of the band introduced themselves, causing a minor disruption. I knew this would make my old man twitch.
“That will be all, Gia,” my father snapped, dismissing her. She nodded. A rosy hue colored her cheeks. I found her self-consciousness endearing. My dad didn’t do subtle. He must have fancied her—otherwise, there would’ve been a shit-storm. Time was money. And money was his God.
Ender jumped out of his seat. “Gia, if you don’t have plans the weekend of May 30th, I have two extra tickets to the festival. We happen to be gigging at the Telluride Blues and Brews that weekend. If you’re interested—that is?” He winked at her. Son of a bitch. He turned to me, smirking.
“That would be awesome, Ender. You’re totally sweet. Thank you!” She smiled happily, then turned and left. I knew what he was thinking, because I had been thinking the same thing just a few minutes ago.
“Got a problem, Putu?” he asked. I loved him, but he had some big balls. What the fuck did I care, anyway. I had enough women to go around. I didn’t need another bitch on my ass. We had a little healthy competition going between the two of us—with the understanding, of course, that if we were ‘feeling’ someone, the other would back off. No questions asked. Gia was hot, but like I said, I had enough on my plate at the moment. Let Ender have a go. And just like that, I rationalized it—and I was okay.
“No problem, dude.” I shrugged, basically saying whatever. We nodded—man-talk for ‘It’s on, motherfucker. Good luck.’ I leaned back and swung one leg over the other, trying to give the impression I really didn’t give a fuck. But my old man was giving me the stink eye. Nothing got past him. After all, he was my maker. We are alike in some ways. One of those ways involved women. He was just better at the discretion part than I was. With photogs following me everywhere, it was nearly impossible not to end up in a tabloid, no matter how careful I tried to be.
“As I was saying, gentlemen. It’s my understanding that Morgana Jennings has certain elements of her past she’d like to keep there. I’m not at liberty to discuss the details with you, but I will say it does look very good for our case against her. Nevertheless, you will all refrain from any contact. And if contact is unavoidable have security politely escort her away. And for the love of God: please use what He gave you—your better judgment. That’s all, men. Are we clear?”
He ended his rant by looking each and every one of us in the eye. I was the final nod. I rolled my eyes. Obviously, I didn’t need to be told to stay away from that twat. I was done.
Getting ready to leave for his next meeting, my father grabbed his briefcase and some files. I wondered what he was getting at by telling “all” of us to refrain from contact. It was certainly ominous. And as far as I knew, no one from the band had made a habit of speaking to her. Hmm. Everybody hung back for a heartbeat. No one said a word until we heard the ding of the elevator, enclosing my father within it.
“Well boys, its 10:00. Why don’t we get some grub and head to the studio? We can get a few hours of time in,” Dave proposed, pulling his e-cigarette out for a quick toke while looking around.
“I need a nap,” Jake said, yawning and covering his mouth with his hand. Ender gave him the thumbs-up. That meant they were out. I looked at Woody, who looked indifferent either way. I stood up, grabbed my phone, and started towards the door.
“Why don’t we hook up at 2:00?” I counter-proposed. “Meet at the studio. I could use some eats, though. Dave? You in?” I threw my chin at him, waiting for his reply. He was a typical redneck—always up for food and beer. Thank God Colorado didn’t have a demand for boiled peanuts. Garlic or hot sauce were his two favorite flavors. And that shit stunk up the place. We had kicked him off the tour bus two months ago, making him ride with the roadies. We were all gagging at the noxious smell those peanuts gave off.
“I already said I wanted to eat. So obviously I’m in,” Dave answered, then went back to texting. He was addicted to our Facebook fan page. In fact, he answered a majority of the questions fans asked when we were gigging or rehearsing. He was our official social media stalker.
“Ok, I’m out. Later.” I walked past them, readying the elevator for exodus. As I waited, I made sure my eyes made contact with Gia’s. I didn’t need words. What I needed didn’t need verbal justification: my eyes conveyed my message. For a few heartbeats our eyes danced seductively, hinting at erotic things to come. My posture was pensive. I was now fighting a hard-on again. I wanted to spank that sweet, tight ass of hers for doing this to me. She had the nerve to wink at me. Oh, this chick was going to get a nice spanking in her future. And I’d enjo
y watching my handprint blossom on her ass …
My attention was derailed as the boys approached raucously. Ender grabbed Woody in a headlock. The elevator came. We all stepped in. I hit Lower Level. Ender blew Gia a kiss, and then the donkey kicked me.
“What the fuck, man?” I pushed him against the elevator wall. Woody and Jake got between us before fists started flying. We loved each other completely. But we also frequently got on each other’s nerves. And that usually led to a whole lot of punching and posturing.
“Bollo,” Ender spat, trying to break free.
“Go fuck yourself, esse,” I cursed back.
“Puto, I’m no Mexican asshole. I’m from Spain,” he corrected.
“You’ve been an asshole all morning. What’s your deal?” I asked. Oh, I knew this was just his alpha macho shit. Everything with him was a competition. Who had more allure? What the fuck ever, already. Get over yourself. I needed to count to motherfucking ten or he was going to eat my fist. One of my many therapists over the years had suggested this technique for managing my anger. I had denied that I had issues: I was just surrounded by assholes.
“Lads, I’ll break your faces if ye no’ stop acting the cunting maggot. You little fuckin’ arsehole cunts,” Woody shouted. This wasn’t a rare comment for Woody. In Ireland, they called everyone cunts. It was practically a term of endearment. But we all loved hearing it, and so we cracked up laughing. And that’s how most of our arguments always ended—in laughter. We needed this reprieve—even if it only lasted a few minutes. It lightened up the vibe considerably.
The elevator door opened and everybody took off except for Dave and me. We hoofed it over to the diner to fill our bellies and talk of our impending festival dates later in the month. While he talked, I fantasized about Gia. There was something about her. Something that made me itchy. It annoyed me. Either way I needed to scratch that itch. I would soon find out I should have left that itch alone—should never have scratched it, should just have fucking ignored it. But there was no leaving her alone. I had the feeling she and I would always have unfinished business. We were made to be broken. I’ve since come to realize this, but I still can’t accept it. …
