20. Chapter 20
ONYX
There’s a plucky, disjointed tune in my ears and every time unfamiliar, sweaty skin brushes against mine, my brain rings with a metallic squeal that sounds like a finger dragging too hard on a guitar string.
I wince away from another “accidental” touch.
I’m met with a glassy eyed look and a sloppy, off-kilter smile that I’m sure is meant to be flirtatious.
“You’re like the most amazing guitar player alive,” he slurs, stumbling closer to me, his eyes bloodshot and his breath reeking of whatever Gray is passing around in shot glasses to all the groupies crowded inside the tour bus.
“Thanks,” I mutter, forcing a polite smile.
I want to tell him that objectively I’m at most probably the tenth best guitarist alive, but I don’t think he’s actually interested in the cold hard facts.
Besides, I doubt he gives a single shit about my skills, he’s just trying to stroke my ego, kiss my ass, and pepper me with just enough compliments that I’ll unzip my pants and tell him to blow me so he’ll have a good story to tell his friends tomorrow.
I recoil at the thought. It’s not like I’m a prude.
I’ve had plenty of sex with plenty of random people.
It just started feeling so fucking gross once I became famous.
It took all the sport out of it or something.
It’s one thing flirting and picking up a stranger at a bar, but people who claim to worship you, even though they don’t know the first thing about you, just feels… hollow.
Someone refills his shot glass, and he throws it back without hesitation. While he’s swaying on his feet, I take my chance and slip away, elbowing through the bodies to get to the door that leads to the single bedroom at the back of the bus.
“Hey, you want some compa—” I close the door before whoever is asking can even finish their question and turn the lock to make sure I remain alone in here.
We have a rotation, and I’m pretty sure it’s Jett’s night to get the bed, but too bad.
He can bitch at me about it tomorrow. I sigh and flop down on the uncomfortably stiff mattress.
The party rages louder outside the door, and people occasionally bump into it and rattle it.
The smell of weed and sweat and booze can’t be stopped by the plastic barrier, and neither can the sound of laughter and moans.
I’m a rockstar, isn’t this supposed to be my dream?
A drunken orgy on the tour bus is basically rockstar 101.
It’s not me though. None of this feels like me.
How could I have wanted this life so badly and end up hating everything about it?
I stupidly thought it would be more about the music.
But I don’t even get to play my own songs.
I feel like a robot on stage more nights than not, mindlessly strumming the music someone else wrote for me and told me to memorize.
I pull my phone out of my pocket and pull up my text thread with Hero.
We were chatting back and forth about his cat last week, and I’ve been wanting to text him every day since.
Except all I really have to say is a lot of whining about my stupid, perfect life.
Who the hell wants to listen to a rockstar cry about how hard it is to be on tour and how misunderstood he is as an artist?
Fucking yawn. I flick my lip ring with my tongue and stare at the screen before typing out a message.
ONYX: You up?
It gets marked as ‘read’ immediately, and my heart jumps as I watch the text bubble bounce with dots to let me know he’s typing back. I roll onto my stomach, propping my chin on the pillow and grinning at the screen as I wait for his reply.
HERO: Why, are you in town??
ONYX: I wish.
HERO: Oh, well in that case, no I’m not up.
I muffle my laughter into the pillow, tuning out all the noise going on outside of this claustrophobic little bedroom.
ONYX: You must be sleep texting then. What are you dreaming about?
A response bubble pops up again, then disappears, then reappears. After more than a minute, a three word answer comes through.
HERO: Motorcycles and tattoos.
I wonder what he was typing and erasing before that.
ONYX: Haha, not a bad dream to have.
HERO: I’ve had worse…
HERO: It’s late. Are you on the road?
ONYX: Not exactly. There’s a wild party keeping me up.
HERO: You’re texting me during a party? Wait, is this a drunk text?
ONYX: Haha, no. It’s an ‘I’m so bored of being pawed at by drunk groupies and complimented and fawned over that I had to hide out and talk to someone REAL’ text.
HERO: That… sounds like a lot.
ONYX: Yeah, sorry, you don’t want to hear me whine about this shit. Can I just say one thing though before I stop bitching about my perfect rockstar life?
HERO: You can say as many things as you want.
ONYX: Haha, seriously just one. I never thought I’d miss people arguing with me. Everyone constantly kisses my ass now. It’s exhausting. What do I have to do to have one good fight with someone?
HERO: You want someone to fight with you?
ONYX: Hell yes. At least that’s something real. It’s cathartic to have a good shouting match with someone every so often, isn’t it?
HERO: I guess so. Tell you what, next time I see you, we can argue about something stupid.
ONYX: Yeah? What should we argue about?
He takes a long time to type out his answer again, and I let myself imagine what he might be typing.
We could argue about how much I wish you were here more.
We could argue about what this relationship really means… or if it’s a relationship at all.
We could argue about the fact that it’s been over three years and this feels like it should be more than sex by now.
His reply finally pops up.
HERO: I don’t know, we’ll have to figure something out.
I sag into the bed with a little bit of disappointment. He probably wasn’t thinking any of those things. If we got into a fight about how much I tour or where things stand, that would mean this is a relationship. But it’s not. I just wish it was.
I tug my lip ring between my teeth and stare at his response for another minute or two, trying to decide how to answer.
Part of me wants to pick a fight with him just for the sake of it.
Couples fight, people in love fight, but a random guy you hook up with a few times a year isn’t someone you fight with. I sigh and finally type back.
ONYX: I’ll start thinking of some ways to be super irritating so you can argue with me.
HERO: Kinky. I look forward to it.
ONYX: Can I video call you?
HERO: Yeah, sure.
I press the video button and it only takes a second for the call to connect. Hero’s hair is messy and he’s clearly in bed, his chest bare, squinting slightly against the light from his phone.
“Did you call so we could bicker?” he asks with a grin.
“No. I called because it seemed infinitely silly to jerk off thinking about you without giving you a little show.”
His eyes widen and he’s instantly more alert. My cock swells underneath me, pressing into the hard mattress.
“You’d rather jerk off on the phone with me than go back out to that party I can hear raging and find someone to get off with?”
I scoff and shake my head. “Don’t be stupid, sweetness. Now, say something dirty.”
I wiggle around a little so I can prop my phone up, and then I shimmy my tight jeans off and kick them away. Hero watches it all with a dreamy, amused look on his face, waiting for me to settle back into place before he says anything else.
“Something dirty?” he murmurs. “Like how I can’t wait to get my hands on that perky ass of yours again?”
I hum in approval. “Yeah? What do you want to do when you get your hands on it?”
I rock my hips, dragging my stiffening cock against the bed, my barbells catching on the fabric of my briefs, and I imagine Hero underneath me instead of a thousand miles away.
“My fantasies are endless, but I really want to eat that pretty pink hole of yours until my jaw is sore and your legs are shaking. I want my spit dripping down your balls and your cock hard and leaking while I make a meal out of you.” His voice gets huskier, and I can see his shoulder moving.
“Show me,” I whimper, nodding down and hoping he’ll get my drift as I rock my hips a little faster.
Hero tilts his phone and gives me a nice shot straight down his body, his sheets kicked off to the side, a pair of shorts down around his hairy thighs, and his other hand wrapped around his hard cock, pumping himself slowly.
I muffle a moan into the pillow and slip a hand underneath myself to tease the head of my cock.
“Fuck, I want to suck you so bad,” I whine. “I love having your cock in my mouth. And then, right before you’re about to blow, I want you to stuff your dick into my tight ass and fuck me until I can’t remember my own name.”
His moan crackles through the phone and I watch his cockhead swell and dribble in his grip. Mine aches in response, more slick precum pooling and dripping from my piercing, clinging to my fingers as I drag them back and forth over my crown.
“I love watching you bounce on my cock, rockstar. I love that big cock of yours slapping against your belly when I fuck you. I love the sounds you make right before you come.” He grunts, stroking himself faster.
I wrap my hand fully around my cock and match his rhythm, fucking into my grip and trying like hell to pretend it’s Hero’s hand instead.
“No one makes me come as hard as you do,” I pant.
Hero moans loudly again and his thighs tremble.
Our dirty talk fades when all either of us can do is gasp and grunt, jerking ourselves furiously.
I’m vaguely aware of the sounds coming from outside, and it’s possible they can hear my moans when I stop trying to muffle them, but all I really care about is Hero’s strangled voice whispering my name and the sound of his hand moving over his cock.
My balls pull tighter, and my insides turn molten hot, clenching and aching from the partial satisfaction of only having Hero on the phone and not here in bed with me. My eyes are glued to the screen and I run my tongue over my lips, imagining I can taste his kiss lingering there.
“Onyx, fuck,” he rasps, arching his hips off the bed. His cock flushes and his groans get louder just before the first sticky rope of cum lands across his hairy belly.
My cock spasms in response, stiffening and twitching in my fist, my cum flooding my briefs as my orgasm washes over me in toe-curling waves.
My eyelids try to close, but I don’t want to miss a second of the show on my phone, Hero’s orgasm going on and on as he strokes himself through spurt after spurt of his release.
I whimper and whine, grinding into my fist as I ride out my own pleasure until my balls are drained and tingling and my whole body feels heavy with the kind of peaceful relief I haven’t felt in months.
The image on screen blurs and wobbles, and his face reappears. He looks flushed and sweaty, grinning at me as he sucks in breaths.
“We could still argue if you want, but I have to warn you, it’ll be hard to rile me up right now,” he jokes, and I chuckle.
“I think I’m good,” I murmur.
I shimmy my cum-stained underwear off, using them to mop up the cum still clinging to my softening dick, then toss them aside to deal with later.
“Stay on the phone with me a few more minutes?” I say through a yawn. I can already feel sleep trying to drag me under, in spite of the loud party still raging. But the thought of ending the call feels impossible.
“Sure thing, rockstar.”
Neither of us say anything else, but the sound of his breathing as my eyelids get heavier is all I need. I don’t know if it’s my imagination in my half-asleep state, but before I’m pulled all the way under, I think I hear him whisper “Sweet dreams.”