34. Interlude 9
Degenerate
Lou Braun – ten years ago
Cohen Brady’s guitar talent might have been what initially caught my eye, but it was Rain Gamble’s fire that held it from the first viral clip I came across online to meeting her in person in that first limo ride to now, two years later. Nothing about that has changed.
She doesn’t realize the effect she has, not on Cohen, nor on the rest of the idiots in their band.
She doesn’t realize the effect she has on all men.
Not for nothing, but every time she opens her mouth, I have to adjust myself because I dream of driving into her until she screams, until that voice finally gives up.
Rain is all contradictions. She might play introverted and shy when she’s off stage, but only a fool would believe that.
Behind closed doors, when she thinks it’s just her and those boys, I see the real her.
They don’t notice me watching. Youth is stupid, too stupid to notice just how much attention I’m paying. To them. To Rain.
My unbroken foal. What that girl needs is a man to whip her, ride her, and break her in until she’s nothing but a docile little mouse. A mouse with a beautiful voice. And Cohen Brady ain’t gonna be the one to do it.
The idea may have started as a random thought, and maybe something I fantasized about during an odd jerk-off session. Slowly, however, it’s evolved into a bit of an obsession. Even I can admit my fascination with my Ray-Ray is becoming borderline problematic.
The band is in the early stages of writing their third studio album.
The second has only just come out, and already it’s blowing up.
The first single, West Coast Trash, has more of a pop sound than their first album, and it’s taking them mainstream.
If they can repeat the magic this time, they’ll knock Blue and the Graces from the top of the rock charts.
Unfortunately, this first session doesn’t seem to be going well. From the safety of the production booth, I watch through shadowed glass as she and Cohen bicker over song lyrics.
As their manager and someone with big, big plans when it comes to The Pistols, I should step in.
Except that if I don’t, eventually Rain will storm out, and I’ll follow her.
Capture a precious moment alone with her, the kind of moment I’m starting to crave, to make excuses to get even though she looks at me like I’m the one who’s trash, and not the man responsible for pulling her out of poverty.
She should be grateful. She should think the sun shines out of my goddamned ass, and yet there’s nothing but disdain written on her features every time I get close to her.
Wiping that look off her face. Breaking her in.
Getting the gratitude I’m owed, whether willingly or by force, has become somewhat of an obsession.
It’s not a good look considering The Preaching Pistols will be the band that makes me filthy fucking rich.
Mess with that, and I’ll be shooting myself in the goddamn foot.
Still, I need Rain Gamble out of my head, and there’s only one sure-fire way I can think of to get what I crave so badly.
And I know just the men to help me with that.
End Interlude