（Untitled）
Dahlia was perched on Kill’s thigh, laughing at something Brett had said. Me? My world was spinning, and I was suddenly acutely aware of how much Jack Daniel’s I had poured down my throat.
The room tilted slightly, or maybe that was just me. I reached for my glass — when had I refilled it? — and found it empty. So, hadn’t refilled it at all. Probably for the best.
“You good, man?” Brett’s voice cut through the fog.
I nodded, though I wasn’t entirely sure that was true. The leather of the booth was sticking to my forearm, and the bass from whatever track was playing felt like it was coming from inside my skull instead of the speakers.
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
Owen was passed out in the corner of the booth, drooling onto his own shoulder. Pathetic. I wanted to tell him to get his shit together, but who was I to talk? I was sitting here like a wounded animal, licking my wounds with whiskey.
Shit. I probably just needed to go home and sleep.
“Maybe you should call it a night, brother,” Kill said, his voice low enough that it was just between us. “Get some sleep. Tomorrow everything will look different.”
Funny how he voiced my exact thoughts. Meant we’d spent too much fucking time together.
“Yeah, probably,” I agreed and reached for my phone in my pocket. “Anyone know how to order a fucking Uber?”
Brett grabbed my phone before I could unlock it. “Dude, you can’t even see straight. I’ll do it.”
“I can see just fine,” I protested, but the way the table seemed to be breathing in front of me suggested otherwise.
Killian exchanged a look with Dahlia, who slid off his lap. “I’ll walk him out when the car gets here,” she said, and her hand landed on my shoulder.
“I’ll take him home,” I heard a voice suddenly say, and when I turned my head, I saw Baby Doll there.
“You… sure?” Dahlia asked.
“Yeah, you sure?” I found myself echoing, because given how our interactions had gone, it did feel oddly out of character for her.
“Yeah,” she said. “He’s too drunk to do anything.”
“I wouldn’t be so certain,” I muttered, but I really couldn’t see straight anymore.
“Maybe someone should go with them,” Brett said, but his voice was already fading into the background noise.
“I’ll be fine,” Baby Doll said, and there was something in her tone that made everyone shut up.
Killian’s eyebrows went up, then his hands lifted in surrender.
Dahlia studied her for a long moment, then nodded. “Alright. But you call me if anything happens, yeah?”
“I will.”
The next few minutes were a blur. I remember standing up — or trying to. The floor wasn’t where I expected it to be, and I would’ve face-planted into the table if Baby Doll hadn’t grabbed my arm. For such a tiny thing, she had a surprisingly strong grip.
“Come on, rockstar,” she muttered, slinging my arm over her shoulders.
“I can walk,” I protested, even though the evidence clearly suggested otherwise.
“Sure you can.”
We made it to the door somehow. The cool night air hit me like a slap, and I sucked in a breath that tasted like cigarette smoke and wet, rotting magnolia.
“Where do you live?” she asked.
I rattled off an address that might’ve been correct. Honestly, I wasn’t entirely sure anymore. Something Bourbon 99… In theory, it should’ve been just around the corner. Or a few.
We stopped before a car, and even in my god-awful state, I realized there was something off with it. It had lashes. Right there, glued just above the headlights. Not to mention it was pink. Or rather oddly purple-ish in the dim light of the parking lot.
“What the fuck is wrong with your car?” I mumbled, squinting at it, or rather the weird fluffy plastic strips glued to it.
“They’re cute,” she said defensively, and opened the passenger door. “Get in.”
I folded myself into the seat with all the grace of a newborn giraffe, my knees hitting the dashboard. The car was small. Everything was small. Almost like it wasn’t fucking made for me. Obviously.
I smelled her there, stuck in the leather. Something sweet and fruity. Reminded me of Granny Smith apples.
I watched her get in the driver’s side and start the engine. We pulled away from the curb, and I let my head fall back against the seat. The streetlights strobed past overhead, each one a little burst of pain behind my eyes. I should’ve stopped drinking hours ago.
“You know,” I mumbled, “being an asshole is part of my charm. Chicks usually dig it.”
“Not this one.” She didn’t even glance at me as she said it, her eyes fixed on the road ahead, but I could hear a hint of amusement in her voice.
“Copy that.” I let out a laugh that came out more like a wheeze. “Still gonna rub one out to your videos before bed.”
The car swerved slightly, and I gripped the door handle, suddenly very aware that I was trapped in a tiny vehicle with someone who probably wanted to drive me off a bridge. “Jesus—”
“Pothole,” she said and even through my whiskey haze I could see that twitch in the corner of her mouth. For a minute we drove in silence and then: “Which one’s your favorite?”
The question caught me off guard. I blinked at her. “What?”
“Your favorite video of mine.” She kept her eyes on the road, but there was something different in her voice now. No hint of anger or the previous stonewalling. “I, personally, liked the balcony ones,” she said. “There’s something almost liberating in getting fucked when the city is watching.”
My favorite? Video? Of her?
Man. All of them. That was the honest answer. But I didn’t end up saying it. I kept staring at her, thinking this had to be some elaborate trap. And then I was thinking — why would I care if it was? I had offered her thirty grand to fuck her. Did I care? I absolutely did fucking not.
“Sybian,” I said. “How many times can you come before you tap out — or something. I don’t remember the exact title.”
“Why that one?”
I let my head loll against the headrest, eyes half-closed. The streetlights were making patterns on the inside of my eyelids, spinny things that did nothing but make me nauseous. “Because you came four times.”
She was quiet for a long moment. Long enough that I thought maybe she wasn’t going to respond at all. Then: “Five.”
“Counted them, did you?”
“I was there for it.”
Fair point. I let out a breath that might’ve been a laugh. “You looked like you were gonna die by the end of it.”
“Felt like it too.” There was something almost conversational in her tone now, like we were discussing the weather instead of the most intense orgasm I’d ever witnessed another human being have. “Couldn’t walk right for like two days after.”
“Damn.” The image of that — her, sore and sensitive and unable to move properly because of what that machine had done to her — went straight to my dick. Which was inconvenient, considering I was too drunk to do anything about it.
“You got off on it,” she said. It wasn’t a question.
“A few times.” I didn’t see the point in lying. “Probably sent you like… I don’t know, couple thousand that week?”
“Five thousand and forty dollars,” she said immediately.
I turned my head to look at her again. “You remember that?”
“Mm,” she hummed. “The forty though? That threw me off. Like couldn’t even make it a round number?”
I laughed — actually laughed, a real one this time that came from somewhere deep in my chest. “That was all the cash I had left in my account at the time.”
She glanced at me then, quick, like she was checking to see if I was fucking with her. “Seriously?”
“Dead serious.” I rubbed my face with both hands. “Spent the whole week’s per diem on your videos. Had to borrow money from Kill for smokes.”
She turned her head. “Like be dead honest right now — you didn’t have money? You’re like… One of the biggest rockstars out there.”
“A rockstar who likes to spend.”
“On what?”
“Anything.” I let my head roll back against the seat, watching the lights blur past. “Cars. Guitars I don’t need. Hotel rooms I trash. Your OnlyFans, apparently.”
She was quiet for a bit. “That’s... actually kind of sad.”
“Yeah, well.” I closed my eyes. “Welcome to my life.”
The car slowed, and I felt us turn. When I opened my eyes again, we were pulling up in front of my building. I recognized the doorman through the glass — Carlos, or maybe it was Marco. I could never remember.
“This it?” she asked.
“Yeah.” I fumbled with the door handle, my fingers not quite cooperating. “This is me.”
She put the car in park and just sat there, engine idling. I managed to get the door open, but the act of actually getting out seemed suddenly impossible. The ground looked very far away.
“Need help?” Her voice had that edge again.
“I got it.” I absolutely did not have it. I got one foot on the pavement and immediately felt the world tilt sideways. “Fuck.”
Then she was there, her small hands gripping my arm, steadying me. She’d gotten out and had come around without me even noticing. “Come on, rockstar. Let’s get you inside.”
“You don’t have to—"
“Shut up and walk.”
I did.
Sort of.
I leaned on her more than I wanted to admit, and she guided me through the door that Carlos-or-Marco held open with a knowing look.
The lobby was draped in marble and gold fixtures that swam in my vision, and somewhere in the back of my mind I registered that this probably looked bad.
Rockstar being half-carried by a girl who looked like she wanted to murder him.
“What floor?” she asked.
“Penthouse.” The word came out garbled. “There’s a key. Pocket.”
She sighed and reached into my jacket pocket. Her fingers brushed against my chest through my shirt, and even drunk off my ass, I felt it. She pulled out the key card and led me to the elevator.
The ride up was silent except for the mechanical hum and my own ragged breathing.
I watched her reflection in the polished doors.
She was staring straight ahead, her jaw still tight, and I wondered what the fuck she was thinking.
Probably regretting this decision. Probably planning where to dump my body.