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The headache I woke up with shouldn’t have even been in the range of things humans were supposed to experience.
When I say my head pounded, I mean it pounded.
Like someone was taking a sledgehammer to my skull and repeatedly driving it with heavy blows, just to be funny.
Just to see if it would make me keel over.
It did.
I spent at least an hour on my knees before the toilet bowl.
This shit had been funny when I’d been twenty. It was no longer even slightly amusing at thirty-five. But as my mantra went — we were rolling with it.
I walked out on the balcony when I felt like I wasn’t going to retch my soul back up, and lit a cigarette.
Not a wise choice, but — again — we’re rolling with it.
I don’t rightly know what compelled me to buy a penthouse in the very heart of New Orleans, but I know it was never making decisions for me ever again.
The noise of traffic was almost unbearable.
City buses passing, muscle cars revving — all the good stuff that somehow reached me up on the twenty-second floor.
Not to mention the humid heat that clung to my skin and felt all the worse up here.
I remembered the Louisiana summers at my grandma’s house — remembered watching her hang out the laundry, and it was a fifty-fifty gamble if it would actually end up drying, or just rotting on the line.
I felt like I was inhaling liquid.
Was kinda surprised to see the place hadn’t molded over while I was gone. I mean, sure, I had paid good money to have some teenager come over once a week and make sure the place was still standing but I harbored no illusions about what actually happened here when I was gone.
When I had first walked in after six months gone, I had noticed all of the plants exchanged for their plastic twins — and the liquor in the bottles I’d left on the shelf before leaving for tour, had looked oddly watered down.
Not to mention the grand piano had been scratched up.
That had pissed me off. The rest? Whatever, couldn’t care less.
But the piano — that I had to unpack with a therapist. Probably.
Or just drown the anger in more whiskey.
I lit another cigarette, thinking about the piano.
It tasted like a mouthful of ash, but I kept smoking it anyway because what the fuck else was I going to do?
My phone was somewhere in the apartment — probably dead, definitely full of missed calls from my manager asking where the hell I was and when I was going to get my shit together.
I took another drag and tried to piece together last night. The Gilded Lily. Dahlia. Brett and Kill giving me shit. Owen passing out. And then—
A blowjob. What the fuck had I done to earn a fucking blowjob? I couldn’t remember half of the night nor who had sucked me off — all I remembered was a blond head bobbing up and down.
I pressed the heel of my hand against my forehead, trying to will the memory into being clearer, but all I got were fragments. Black heels. A black dress. The way her dress rode up on her thighs. The sound of her voice.
Who was she?
Baby Doll? No. Couldn’t be. Yet I could swear I’d been in a car with her, talking OnlyFans. Or had I dreamt that?
The cigarette burned down to the filter, and I stubbed it out in the ashtray.
I needed coffee.
I went back inside and found my phone wedged between the couch cushions.
Had no idea how and wasn’t about to try to figure it out.
Thirty-seven missed calls. Twelve voicemails.
Too many texts to count. I ignored all of them and opened my messages instead, scrolling back through the conversation history, trying to piece the missing night together and instead noticed a message from BabyDollXO on OnlyFans.
I frowned, tapped it and stopped breathing.
It was a topless photo from her. Taken in what looked like the driver’s seat of a car I may or may not have remembered.
The flash was on, washing her skin in harsh light.
The dress had been pulled down revealing her tits — so full and soft, her nipples hard and pink.
One hand was cupping the underside of one breast like she was offering it to the camera.
The caption underneath read:
BabyDollXO: Thanks for the breakfast. Still have your taste on my tongue.
I stared at the photo until my eyes burned.
My hangover headache faded into the background as blood rushed straight to my dick.
The memory slammed back into me all at once — her on her knees in my living room, that filthy mouth working me until my soul left through my dick — the way she’d looked up at me with spit dripping down her chin and pure wicked delight in her eyes.
“Fuck,” I muttered, voice rough. So this was what being starstruck felt like, because I was pretty fucking sure I was starstruck.
I was about to hit reply when the phone buzzed in my hand. It wasn’t a message from her but rather Kill.
It read: You alive?
I typed back: Questionable.
Three dots appeared immediately, then: Good. I’m ten mins from your place. Coming over
I checked the time. It was already past noon. How the fuck had that happened?
Bring coffee, I replied. Then shot him another message. And 2 bigmacs
I needed a shower. Preferably a cold one.
The water helped with my hard on but did little for the headache.
I stood under the spray for a hot minute, letting it beat against my back while I tried to organize my thoughts into something resembling coherence.
The problem was that the more sober I got, the more the memories came back.
And the more the memories came back, the less sense they made.
I did remember Baby Doll from the club, but I didn’t remember ever talking to her.
Shit, I had been so fucking wasted.
I got out, toweled off, pulled on a pair of sweatpants, and decided to call it a day. That was about all I could manage. My hair was still wet when the doorbell rang.
Killian was standing there with two cups of coffee and a McDonald’s bag. He took one look at me, lifted his shades to the middle of his head, and just walked in without another word. He’d seen me worse, I was certain of it. But maybe not by much.
“So, she took you home,” he said as he was unbagging the food over the kitchen island.
“Who?” I took one of the cups. “Baby Doll?”
“I think her name’s Mary,” Kill said. “Yeah, the waitress.”
I downed half of the coffee, burning my tongue before I could answer. “Honestly? No idea. But… the evidence sure says she did, yeah.”
Killian paused mid-bite of his Big Mac and stared at me. “Evidence?”
I unlocked my phone, opened OnlyFans, and tossed it across the island to him. The topless photo loaded immediately — those perfect tits glowing under the car flash. The caption underneath was pure filth.
Killian let out a low whistle. “Goddamn. She sent you that this morning?”
“While I was still asleep, apparently.” I rubbed my face, trying to ignore how hard I was getting again just looking at it.
“I don’t remember much after we left the club, but I sure as fuck remember a chick on her knees in my living room.
That mouth… Holy shit, Kill. First of all, to get my dick up when I’m that blackout drunk — kudos to her.
But to get me to come when I’m like that? That takes some impressive skill.”
Killian handed the phone back, shaking his head with a grin. “You are such a lucky, stupid bastard. You offer her thirty-five grand in front of the whole club, and she still deepthroated you? Man, talk about being born with a silver spoon in your mouth.”
“Apparently.” I smirked despite the pounding in my skull. Then I rewound what he had said and my smirk disappeared. “Wait, what? I did what?”
“Oh, so you have conveniently forgotten that part.” Killian took a massive bite of his Big Mac. “You offered her thirty-five K to fuck her, my man. Loud enough that half the club heard it. Brett told you to chill. I told you to chill. You did not chill.”
I stared at him. The coffee was doing its best, but my brain still felt like it was wrapped in wet cotton. “I offered her… And she said no? To thirty-five thousand dollars?”
Killian frowned, his eyes drifting to the side, thinking. “Nah, I don’t think she said anything to that.” He swallowed. “Neither a yes nor a no. Not at the club at least.”
I frowned too. “So how did she end up at my place?”
“Took you home.”
I dragged a hand down my face. “She took me home,” I drawled out. “After all that.”
Killian grinned around another bite. “Apparently she has a thing for trainwrecks. Or maybe she just wanted to collect on the crazy rockstar experience — you know how they are.”
I looked down at my phone again, at the photo still open on the screen. Those perfect tits, that teasing little smile, the caption. Still have your taste on my tongue.
Fuck.
I locked the phone and tossed it on the other counter. “I need to see her again.”
Killian raised an eyebrow. “You sure that’s a good idea? You kind of treated her like a menu item last night.”
“She still sucked my soul out, so I’m taking that as a maybe.”
He laughed, the sound echoing off the high ceilings of the penthouse. “You’re impossible. At least text her first before you show up at the club.”
Right. Smart thinking.
I picked the phone up again and opened OnlyFans. My fingers hovered over the reply box. What the hell do you even say to the woman who deepthroated you after you publicly offered her cash for sex?
SaintCross69: Breakfast suits you. When can I return the favor?
I hit send before I could overthink it.
Killian shook his head, balling up the wrapper. “You’re gonna get yourself in trouble with this one.”
“Trouble’s my brand,” I muttered, already feeling the familiar pull. That low, addictive hum under my skin that only came when something — or someone — got under it.
Fuck, I loved women.