I want more.
He takes me as he gives, fills me as I swallow him.
Oh…
The beginning of an orgasm twines around my legs like a serpent of flame.
Yes…
I feel Kellan’s burning breath against my ear as he moans with his own pleasure.
Aaahhh!!!
The serpent of flame coils around my thighs, forcing them apart as it slides inside me, into my volcanic center.
Ooohhh!!!
Fire explodes in my pelvis, filling me with ecstasy.
I’m coming.
Oh, god, I’m coming!
The fire snake fills my chest, rushes up my throat, and pours out my mouth in an exploding geyser of magma.
I scream my ecstasy…
JOHNNY!!!
…What?!?!
I open my eyes and Kellan isn’t on top of me.
No one is on top of me.
I’m in Johnny and Karen’s dark apartment.
No purple glow.
No Kellan.
But my fingers are pinned between my thighs doing who knows what. I swear, I didn’t put them there!
“Yes! Johnny, Yes!” Karen shouts from the bedroom.
“Oooaaaggghhh!” Johnny groans.
I yank my slick fingers out of my crotch.
Johnny and Karen’s headboard bangs against the bedroom wall repeatedly.
Karen shouts, “YES, YES, YES, YES!!”
I drape my forearm over my eyes and laugh-cry fake tears. I think the Northridge fault line decided now was a good time to shake the apartment once again. This time, the earthquake scientists are all pointing at me and laughing.
I really, really, really need to get my own place.
“OOOOH!” Karen moans.
Tonight.
I grab my pillow from behind my head and jam it in my face.
Can you suffocate yourself with a pillow?
I think I’ll try right now.
“KAREN!!” Johnny shouts.
“JOHNNY!!” Karen wails.
Kill me now.
Because the pillow isn’t working.
“WEEEEEEE!!” Karen squeals.
Chapter 89
KELLAN
I’m fucking Victory plain old missionary style and it’s the greatest sex I’ve ever had in my entire life. We’re in a circular room and the walls are made of Marshall speaker cabinets stacked upward into eternity like we’re in some rock & roll nirvana having religious sex like the gods intended. It’s sex, it’s love, it’s rock & roll, it’s passionate, and it’s connected.
It’s incredible.
Until I wake up and realize I’m dry fucking my sheets.
My arms are wrapped around my pillow like it’s a cotton girl.
Not much of a turn on.
She doesn’t have arms, legs or a head. I know that’s what some guys prefer, but not me. I like a whole person.
I flop onto my back and rip off the top sheet and throw it in the corner in a wad. The heat of the day is still stuck in the billion tons of cement that make L.A., which includes my oven of an apartment. I twist the knob on the A/C mounted in the window above my headboard, seeking relief.
That’s not gonna help anytime in the next five minutes.
I get out of bed and walk to my bathroom. My dick is a raging red sword and leads the way like Russell Crowe in the beginning of Gladiator when he charges into battle on horseback, waving his own raging sword in the air.
Hold the Fucking LINE!!!
Or whatever.
I step into the shower and crank the water onto full cold. It comes out hot at first then cools to slightly less than tepid. L.A. pipe water is never actually cold in the middle of summer. That said, the point of the cold water is to cool my body temperature, not reduce my sex drive.
That cold shower shit is a myth.
I rub one out with my eyes closed, pretending I’m banging Switchblade’s awesome ass from behind. Not that I’ve ever seen it pantsless. And I still haven’t figured out if she’s really gay or not. But in my imagination, she’s sick for the dick and we fuck like rabbits and live in a rock & roll beach mansion in Cancún or Bora Bora or wherever the water is ice blue and the beaches are silver and gold.
And it’s totally not working. I’m not turned on at all.
Then an image of Victory in her hot ass heavy metal hooker costume, the one she wore on stage with Skin Trade the night I met her, and again today at the Wild Child audition, stomps all over my Switchblade fantasy.
Get out!
I squeeze my eyes shut hard, doing my best to picture Switchblade and our tropical beach mansion.
Dammit.
It’s not working.
I scroll through my extensive mental Pinterest list of the finest hotties I’ve hooked up with and I populate my fantasy beach mansion with all of them. I can see Switchblade on some red velvet bed surrounded by two dozen tight bodied hotties in a sex bedroom.
It’s like the fucking Playboy Mansion in my head.
But it isn’t helping my rager. I’m never going to sleep tonight until my boiler blows.
Sorry, Switchblade, honey. You’re just not doing it for me tonight.
I roll mental video of all the supernatural sex sessions I’ve had in the past, trying to find a particularly intense one. There’s quite a few to chose from. I snicker to myself.
I’ve had some mind blowing orgasms.
It’s a fact that men can have multiple orgasms.
You just need to learn how to relax your dick muscles and not shoot your load when you get the orgasm rush. You can have as many as you want, believe me. It’s best when you’ve got a girl who gives amazing head or wants to keep fucking after she has an orgasm. The kind of girl who absolutely loves incredible sex…
(Giselle)
I can’t deal with that right now.
I tilt my head back under the shower head and let water cleanse my face.
I go back in my mind through all the incredible and meaningless sex I’ve had with countless pinup hotties. There’s gotta be something in my back catalog that will get me off so I can go back to sleep.
Sadly, it’s like surfing internet porn. There’s too much to choose from.
Fuck it.
I don’t have a choice tonight.
I’m going with the obvious.
I picture Victory in that studded leather bra, her flat stomach, her perfect waist and legs, her long hair, and her incredible face. And those eyes, those spirited, rambunctious, fun-loving eyes…
Victory…
I hear her guitar playing in my head.
I hear the two of us playing together the night she slept right here in my apartment and recorded that video with me. And I remember how she
(Giselle)
showered in this very shower.
I didn’t get to see Victory naked, but I was totally tempted to tear the shower curtain off when I brought her all that shampoo just so I could get a good look, but I didn’t. I’m respectful like that. But damn, I wanted to and I can totally picture her naked from head to toe, right inside the shower with me, her hands caressing me, sliding up and down my shaft, cupping my balls, teasing the head, her tongue hot, wet, ravenous…
That’s when hot butter fills me from the ankles up, heat rising up my legs in mellow waves. Tickling pleasure in my dick trips me over the edge and my whole body rushes out the end of my cock in a geyser of heat release.
My back arches and I hiss out a grunty, “Fuck!”
I realize I’m breathing hard and that was a really fucking good orgasm.
Jerking off doesn’t usually feel this good.
Damn.
That was a first.
I glance down and watch my load circle down the drain.
I feel a distinct sense of emptiness.
That was lame.
I never feel empty after an orgasm. I always feel satisfied.
What the fuck is this emptiness shit?
And why didn’t
I bang Red when she took me home from The Canal Club?
(Victory)
Red was way hot and ready.
What’s my fucking
(Victory)
problem?
I lean my head back under the spray and let the cold water soak my hair and wash down my face for a long time.
Eventually, my skin is no longer broiling to the touch. The shower water feels like cold needles because it has finally lowered my body temperature to the point that I’m almost shivering.
I twist off the squeaky shower knobs and don’t bother to towel off before trudging back to bed. It’s so freakin’ hot in my apartment, all the water will dry in an hour, and I’ll be broiling once again.
I need to get a better A/C, and goddammit, I need to get laid. It’s been something like a month since the last time I had sex. That’s gotta be some kind of a record for me. I’m practically a born again virgin at this point.
All because of fucking Victory.
Or should I say, not fucking Victory.
Man, that chick rattles my nuts.
In a bad way.
Chapter 90
VICTORY
The morning is muggy.
The sun is already up, preheating the day to 350, which is the right temperature to bake brains. I know, because I’m trudging along like a zombie through the Hollywood neighborhood near Johnny and Karen’s apartment. Palm trees line both sides of the street. It’s all small apartment buildings in this part of town. No houses.
I did manage to sleep some last night.
After Johnny and Karen wore themselves out.
I don’t know how they do it so much. They’re worse than teenagers.
I left the apartment early to seek out some coffee and some peace and quiet before I head into the guitar shop. I also need some space from the two lovebirds before I spend the rest of the day glaring at them behind their backs for ruining my Kellan fantasy.
That was only slightly embarrassing.
My phone rings while I’m walking down the sidewalk.
I pull it out of my pocket and answer, “Julian Whittaker,” I chuckle. “I didn’t expect to hear from you.”
“Victory…” I can hear him smiling “I’ve missed you.”
“You have?” I grin.
“You have no idea,” he chuckles.
“Where were you?”
“I was in Sweden.”
“I know, Colette told me. What were you doing there?”
“I was stuck in a recording studio.”
“That’s a bad thing?” I ask skeptically.
“This time it most certainly was,” he laughs.
This is the first time I’ve spoken to Julian since the night he took me to Trois Mec for dinner. And threw me against the side of his Ferrari back at his house and snuck his fingers between my legs.
I repress a sudden shiver as I remember the night.
And…
“Hey!” I blurt. “You were supposed to call me to come by the studio to listen to whatever top secret project you and Max were working on!”
Julian chuckles guiltily, “My sincerest apologizes. Things got a little carried away. When you’re dealing with a prima donna, it’s bound to happen.”
“Prima donna? Who, me?” I’m offended.
“No,” he laughs, “Layce.”
“Wait, did you just say Layce?”
“I did,” he chuckles. “You most definitely are not a prima donna, my dear Victory.”
I don’t even register his last words because my head is still bouncing, “You mean the Layce? Number one selling pop mega star LAYCE Layce?”
“Yes,” Julian says, “the very same.”
“Was she the reason you bailed on me after our dinner date that night?” And left me hot and bothered and never called? Julian is pretty typical for a guy. Should I even be talking to him?
“Sadly, yes. It wasn’t my choice, believe me…” his voice trails off suggestively. “I would much rather have spent that evening with you, Victory.”
I shiver pleasantly, thankful for the fact we’re on the phone and not face to face.
“So,” I ask, “What did you and Max have to do that night? And in Sweden?”
“How about I tell you over breakfast? Are you hungry?”
“I could eat some food,” I grin. I want to say no, but I’m way too curious to hear about Julian working with Layce. That is a big deal. He’s rubbing elbows with one of the most successful pop stars on the planet. I can only imagine what part he plays in the whole process. I guess I didn’t realize how big a deal Julian actually is.
He asks, “Where are you? I’ll come get you right now.”
“Oh, I need a few minutes to get cleaned up. Can you pick me up at 9:30?”
“Certainly. Just give me the address.”
I do.
He says, “I’ll see you at 9:30, sharp.”
Chapter 91
VICTORY
Julian takes me to THE Blvd in Beverly Hills for breakfast. It’s on the corner of Wilshire Boulevard and Rodeo Drive, the epicenter of swanky upscale L.A., on the ground floor of the Beverly Wilshire Hotel.
Everything about THE Blvd is upscale. You know it before you walk in the doors. A flaming orange Lamborghini Diablo and an angry carbon black Hennessey Venom GT are parked in the white loading zone in front of the hotel.
Julian valets his Ferrari 458 Spider, which seems inferior compared to the super cars parked on Wilshire.
We walk inside the plush art deco restaurant.
Every table inside is full. People mill around the entrance, obviously trying to look important while they wait.
Based on the crowd, I get the impression that Julian and I won’t sit down to eat for at least two hours. If we wait, I’ll be late for work.
Maybe Julian will give up and we can go someplace less crowded. And less intimidating.
Julian glances at me, “Wait right here.” He strolls over to the maitre d’.
The maitre d’ smiles immediately and they chat briefly.
I hear the maitre d’ say, “Yes, sir. Right away, sir.” He strides purposefully toward the back of the restaurant.
Julian turns and grins at me. He’s wearing a misty blue double breasted summer suit that is a striking contrast to his always tan skin and goldenblond hair. He must’ve gotten a lot of sun in Sweden. Do they even get sun up there, or does he tan regularly? Either way, it looks good on him.
He walks up to me and leans toward my ear and mutters, “We’ll be seated shortly.”
He’s obviously proud of his ability to make things happen in a ritzy place like this.
True to his word, we’re seated right away and handed leather menus.
The waiter walks up shortly after and clasps his hands together, “Would the lady like a mimosa for starters?”
I wrinkle my nose and whisper at Julian across the table, “What’s a mimosa? It sounds like a flower.”
Julian grins.
The waiter obviously overhears and is about to say something but defers to Julian and says, “Would you care to explain, sir?”
“Certainly,” Julian smiles at me. “A mimosa is champagne and chilled citrus. Either orange or grapefruit.”
The waiter looks at me, “We serve only the finest fresh squeezed Valencia oranges with Veuve Clicquot BRUT.”
I know what orange juice is, and I know they grow them in Valencia up north, but the other part, I have no idea. I giggle stupidly. I can’t help it. I don’t speak rich.
“You’ll like it,” Julian encourages.
“Okay?” I wince.
The waiter arches his eyebrows, still clasping his hands together, “A glass for the lady?”
“Sure,” I nod.
Julian smiles casually, “I’ll have one as well.”
“Very good, sir,” the waiter says before walking off.
I look around at the people sitting at the tables. Everyone is dressed in expensive yet casual clothes. I don’t know h
ow, but it’s obvious no one here shops at Target or the mall. Except me. I’m wearing the same cutoff denim shorts I wore on my first date with Julian. But at least it’s a different t-shirt.
“Oh my god,” I whisper, “is that Kim and Kanye?”
Julian turns to look.
“Don’t look!” I hiss, “It’s rude!”
“What do I care?” he chuckles. “Do you care?”
“Yes! I can’t be seen with them!” I say sarcastically.
Julian chuckles, “You’re a gem, Victory. Do you know that?”
I shrug and grin.
When the mimosas arrive, I sip mine enthusiastically. “That’s yummy.”
Julian raises his for a toast, “To yummy alcoholic beverages for breakfast.”
I smile, “I can drink to that.”
We clink and I sip again. I wonder if drinking on an empty stomach before breakfast after I slept poorly is a good idea?
Who cares.
It’s not like I’m going to do anything stupid.
A tall handsome guy strolls past our table with a beautiful woman at his side.
I lean over the table and hiss at Julian, “That’s Wolverine!” Normally I’m not so blatant about celebrity sightings, but today, I blame the champagne.
He grins, “You mean Hugh Jackman?”
I whisper, “Do you think he’ll show us his adamantium claws if we ask politely?”
Julian chuckles, “Go ahead and ask.”
I roll my eyes, “I’m not that starstruck.”
“It’s okay if you are. I enjoy your uninhibited enthusiasm. It’s a pleasant change from the pressure cooker I’ve been in the last several weeks.”
“Oh?”
He leans back in his leather chair, and folds one leg over the other. He sips his mimosa then lets the glass dangle casually from his hand. He looks so at ease in this environment, like he belongs here. “I don’t want to talk about it here. Too many ears. But let me just say, you, my dear Victory, are sweet sunshine and a breath of fresh air.”
I grin, “Thank you, Julian.”
The waiter returns, “Is the lady ready to order?”
“Oh,” I say, “Uh, I haven’t looked at my menu.” I flip it open. “How about the Lazy Duvet?” It’s crepes, caramelized apple, and ricotta. I’m pretty sure crepes are like pancakes, and I love caramel apples. Oh, geez. It’s nineteen bucks! For pancakes?
Victory RUN: Collected Victory RUN 1, 2, 3 Page 42
