（Untitled）
It was Friday — the Friday. Actually, a very late afternoon on the Friday, and I was still sprawled on the couch, popcorn wedged in the valley of my breasts, a few cans of Pepsi Max sweating on the coffee table next to an empty pizza box while I was watching reruns of Full House.
The clock kept ticking, and I genuinely considered remaining where I was because Milo Cross had pissed me the fuck off the night before.
It had been a pre-show party that he’d attended — and I had skipped because I wasn’t feeling it — and which had put him in a rather precarious spot between a brunette and a redhead.
How did I fucking know that? He’d posted it on his Instagram stories, the fucking dumbass.
I remembered launching a lamp at his head the moment he came back smelling like a whole liquor factory.
He’d managed to dodge it — it was still on the ground, next to the dent in the wall where it had hit. It had been heavy, too. And then he’d had the audacity to laugh about it.
“It’s PR, Mary. Jesus Christ.”
“PR my ass,” I’d shot back, picking up some award from a shelf, ready to launch it, too.
“Mary—” his voice had gone serious. “You put down that fucking Grammy!”
Oh, I had put it down, alright. By chucking it at him. Unfortunately, he’d managed to catch it. “They’re fucking models! The label set it up for promo shots.”
“Then why’s the redhead’s hand on your dick?”
He’d gone quiet at that. Because yeah — even through the grainy Instagram quality, you could see her fingers pressed against his thigh, dangerously close to territory that was supposed to be mine.
We’d gone to bed angry. Well, I’d gone to bed angry. He’d tried to touch me, tried to smooth it over with kisses and whispered apologies, but I’d turned away and pulled the blanket over my head. Fuck him.
This morning he’d left early for soundcheck without waking me.
Now it was almost six PM, and I was supposed to be getting ready. Hair, makeup, the works. Dahlia had texted three times asking what I was wearing. Burgundy sent a selfie of her outfit — a leather mini dress and some studded denim vest over it.
I reached for another handful of popcorn and shoved it in my mouth.
My phone buzzed. Milo’s name lit up the screen.
I slurped the Pepsi.
He called again.
I decided I would let him sweat for a bit. For another episode or two, while I drooled all over Uncle Jesse. It didn’t fucking help that Milo actually had similar features to John Stamos.
The phone buzzed again. Then again. I ignored it, watching DJ Tanner navigate some teen drama that felt refreshingly simple compared to my current bullshit.
By the fourth buzz, I caved and looked.
Milo: Baby please
Then, a few seconds later, a notification from my bank app: +$20,000.00
I stared at the notification for a breath before I started laughing. The man did, indeed, know me. Now, how could I say no to that? Twenty grand felt real heartfelt to me.
I grinned, fished out the popcorn from in between my breasts, and headed for the shower.
The hot water felt good, washing away the pizza grease and the sticky residue of anger that had clung to me all day.
I took my time — shaved everything, deep conditioned my hair, did the whole routine.
If I was going to show up to his concert, I was going to look so fucking good he’d regret every second of that photo op.
By the time I stepped out, wrapped in a towel, I had decided. I’d film the OnlyFans video at the venue. Yep. I’d make him fuck me while the whole arena was screaming for an encore.
I dried off and started the process. Foundation, contour, highlight.
I put on my pink wig, styled it in loose waves, and walked to the closet.
I decided against a dress, instead reaching for a crop top and some fishnets — I figured they would look good on camera when Milo would rip them — and hopped into the tightest leather skirt I owned.
The thigh-high boots I put on added an extra six inches to me, but I wasn’t complaining.
If they weren’t inside me, I’ll take them in the shape of a chunky heel.
The venue wasn’t too far from his place, but it was rush hour, so… safe to say I was fashionably late, which meant I wasn’t late at all but rather on time. Some smaller band was opening for them, warming up the crowd — I could hear it well outside the venue.
Security waved me through the moment they saw my face — apparently, Milo had put me on some VIP list. I walked past the merch tables, past the clusters of fans clutching drinks and wearing Black Psalm t-shirts, and headed toward the backstage entrance.
A guy with a clipboard and a headset stopped me. “Name?”
“Mary Porter.”
He scanned his list, then his eyebrows shot up. “Oh. You’re the Mary.” He stepped aside immediately, practically tripping over himself.
I smiled at him. “Just Mary, babe.”
“Cross said to send you straight to the dressing room when you get here.”
“And that is where…?”
“Just follow the arrows.” He pointed to the printed signs taped on the walls.
The hallways backstage were pure chaos — crew members rushing around with equipment, the opening band’s manager arguing with someone about monitor levels, the smell of sweat and beer and electrical equipment warping around everything.
I tried not to get in anyone’s way as I maneuvered the corridors. The music from the stage was so loud it felt like it was rattling every little boney bit of my body — I could only imagine what it felt like standing on that stage, surrounded by all those speakers and amps.
The arrows took me to a chipped green door with Black Psalm scribbled on a piece of paper and taped over a hole that looked suspiciously fist-shaped. I heard voices inside, and not all male.
Bold, I thought, and then — as long as he kept buying his guilt out with solid currency that held up in the global market, I could play the jealous girlfriend.
I opened the door without knocking and saw the dressing room turned into party central.
Bottles littered every surface, and the air was half cigarette smoke, half cologne.
Milo was mid-conversation with Brett, gesturing with his cigarette and shaking his head when I walked in.
He did have an arm candy running her hand down his back, which made me feel a particular way I didn’t care to examine too closely at the moment.
Milo didn’t see me, but Killian did. Dahlia was sitting on the armrest of his chair.
“Look who the cat dragged in,” he said, both of them grinning.
Milo’s head snapped toward the door. The second his eyes landed on me, his whole body went still. The cigarette froze halfway to his lips, and whatever he’d been saying to Brett died in his throat.
The girl’s hand was still on his back.
I cocked my hip, letting my gaze slide over her slowly before returning to Milo. “Well, don’t let me interrupt. Y’all look just fine as wine.”
“Mary—” He was already moving, shaking off the girl’s hand. She stumbled back slightly, looking confused.
“Who’s this?” she asked, voice pitched high.
“His girlfriend,” Owen supplied from a couch, emptying a bottle of Coors Light.
“He has a girlfriend?” Another girl asked.
I smiled, genuinely amused. “Looks like it's news to him too, hun,” I said, holding Milo’s gaze.
“Babe.” Milo crossed the room in three strides, his hand reaching for my waist. I stepped back, just out of reach.
“Uh-uh.” I held up one finger. “You don’t get to touch me yet, rockstar.”
Brett let out a low whistle. Owen was grinning like this was the best entertainment he’d had all week. Killian sighed.
Dahlia slid off the armrest and came over, kissing my cheek. “You look fucking incredible.”
“Thanks, babe.” I kept my eyes on Milo. “Figured I should dress up for the occasion.”
The room went silent except for the muffled bass that was picking up on the stage behind the wall.
Milo’s jaw tightened. “Can we talk? Alone?”
“Why? You seemed pretty comfortable having an audience five seconds ago.” I gestured to the two girls who were now whispering to each other near the makeup counter.
“They’re nobody,” he said.
“Excuse me?” one of them said, offended.
“Not helping yourself, man,” Brett muttered.
Milo ran his hand through his hair, clearly frustrated. “Mary, I swear to God, nothing happened. They’re label plants. Same as last night.”
I took a breath and finally walked up to him, running my hands down his shoulders. “Baby,” I began. “You told me you’re not fucking any groupies, and I believe you. Besides — it’s highly unlikely your enlarged prostate can withstand such a load, you know.”
The room erupted. Brett choked on his drink. Owen doubled over laughing. Even Killian cracked up, his shoulders shaking. Dahlia covered her mouth, eyes sparkling with barely contained amusement. Burgundy, who had been sitting next to Owen had her eyebrows shoot up.
“Enlarged—” Milo’s face went through several emotions at once. Shock, disbelief, then something else — something in the realm of relief. “I’m thirty-five, not seventy, you fuckin’ menace.”
I patted his chest condescendingly. “Sure, baby. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
The two label girls looked thoroughly confused. One of them whispered something to the other, and they both grabbed their purses and left without another word.
“There goes our paycheck,” Brett said, watching them go.
“Who were they?” I asked, feeling Milo’s hands around my waist, pulling me close before I could dodge.
“Daughters of some label exec,” Milo murmured against my neck.
I rolled my eyes although I couldn’t say his touch was entirely unpleasant.
“I’m sorry about last night. The label’s been pushing hard on the PR angle for the new album drop.”
“The album you haven’t recorded yet?”
“Semantics.” He leaned down, his breath warm against my ear. “Forgive me?”
I pretended to think about it. “I don’t know, dude. Twenty grand is nice and all, but I’m thinking you owe me something more.”
“Yeah?”
I pulled back enough to look him in the eyes, making sure everyone in the room could hear. “How about you fuck me on that couch after the show?” I pointed where Owen and Burgundy were sitting. “On camera.”
The room went dead silent.
Milo’s eyes narrowed. “Here?”
“Right here. On that couch, against that wall, bent over that makeup counter — wherever I want.” I traced a finger down his chest. “Consider it penance.”
“Holy shit,” Owen muttered, glancing down at the couch. “We’re sitting on a future crime scene.”
Dahlia was grinning like the Cheshire cat. “I fucking love you.”
Milo’s grip on my waist tightened. “What about my enlarged prostate?”
My mouth curled upward. “Oh, I think we’ll figure something out.”