38. Interlude 11
Sex and Candy
Blue Grace – ten years ago
She’s fucking done it again. Does the media have some kind of permanent hard-on for that little bitch? This is the third time this year that she and her band of fucking losers have knocked me out of the number one spot.
Rain Gamble and her stupid fucking single, whatever the fuck it’s called, are currently number one on rock radio; their sales figures are out of this world, huge, and there’s already talk that their next tour will take them to stadiums worldwide.
Hell, they’ve even outsold me in Asia. I’ve always fucking dominated the Asian market.
It was just me and the K-pop idols. Now even they’re obsessed with Rain-fucking-Gamble.
I know because we’re on the Asian leg of our tour and every radio interview I’ve done in the last week has asked about her and her magic songwriting.
They aren’t the only ones focused on The Preaching Pistols either.
My goddamn manager hasn’t crawled his head out of their ass in months.
So perhaps it’s time that Lou Braun is reminded that I am his most important client.
There’s an eight-hour time difference between Seoul and Calder, but I don’t give a shit. He’s my fucking manager, and I expect him to pick up the phone even if it is the middle of the night.
Besides, I’m too damn restless to let this wait until tomorrow.
My fault for reading the charts instead of paying attention to the girl kneeling between my legs.
Actually, scratch that, her fault because her subpar blowjob hasn’t been a good enough distraction.
Back home, I’d let it slide and probably go for round two.
Right now, though, I’m too preoccupied for this shit.
Fucking Rain Gamble, I repeat to myself; she’s not just shitting all over my music, she’s now ruining my damn hard-ons. My cock won’t cooperate ever since I saw their band name in the headlines, no matter how much this chick—an American girl here teaching English—gums my dick.
Her mouth isn’t doing the damn job, so I show her off me, and grumble, “Get out!”
I can’t actually remember her name, but she looks up at me with wide-eyed confusion. Sometimes these dumb sluts just don’t get the message.
“I said,” my voice, cold as ice, “get the fuck out!”
Tucking my dick away, I’m up and out of the hotel room’s cuck chair. I start grabbing her shit, and she catches on real quick, racing and scrabbling for her clothes. Bitch finally realizes I have zero qualms about tossing her ass out in the hallway naked.
Once she’s gone, I whip out the small bag of coke I stashed aside after tonight’s show. I’ll say this for Lou and our tour manager: they do keep us well-stocked. The pleasant buzz manages to take the edge off my anger.
Not for long. Because it takes me four separate tries to get through to Lou. Who sounds like shit when he finally picks up.
“Blue?”
“There you are, mother fucker.”
“Blue.” He still sounds groggy, but he’d have to be thick as pig shit not to hear my frustration. “It’s the middle of the night here. What’s going on?”
“What’s going on, Lou, is that you are shit at your job.”
I spend the next ten minutes railing into him about The Pistols and threatening to fire him if he doesn’t fix this shit.
At some point, I run out of steam and fall backwards into the king-size bed.
The ceiling in my deluxe suite dances above me, thanks to my favourite mix of whiskey and drugs.
While I watch the patterns twist and swirl, part of me wishes I never sent BJ-girl away, because I could have been getting my cock sucked while my cock sucker of a manager tries to defend himself.
Instead, fucking silence. Silence that lasts long enough for me to say, “Braun, you hear me?”
“Oh, I heard you, Blue.” I’m unexpectedly pleased when he continues, “You might be right. I’ve been prioritizing The Pistols too damn much. They’ve gotten cocky. Especially Rain Gamble. She could stand to be knocked down a peg or two.”
His voice takes on a faraway note. Like, even though we’re mid-conversation, his thoughts are somewhere else. I chalk it up to the drugs in my veins.
“That girl needs taking down a peg,” he repeats almost to himself. Serves me right for calling this late. The fucker is barely awake, except he keeps right on surprising me.
Brighter than before and totally out of nowhere, he asks, “Say, Blue, how’d you like to fly in for a party I’m hosting next week?”
For a second, I’m lost, but it turns out it’s not such a rogue question after all.
End Interlude