Page 15 of Her Filthy Mistake

The resort. Zoe is in an adjacent room. Lying naked in her bed and thinking about me. Playing with her perfect breasts. Teasing her tight, wet pussy.

Fuck. I lay back against the mattress and grasp my dick. There’s no point in pretending I can function without finishing what the dream started. I stroke up the length of my shaft, running my fingers over the tip, sliding in the abundance of pre-cum.

“Jesus,” I groan and increase the pressure and speed as I imagine her plump, pink lips surrounding my flesh. Taking me deeper. Gagging. Spit running down her chin. Eyes blazing with heat. Finger fucking her sex as she pleasures me. Digging her nails into my thigh. Convulsing as she sucks down my cum.

“Fuck,” I grunt and spasm as streaks of white semen shoot onto my abdomen. My entire body shakes from thigh to shoulders as reality crashes back down. This is as close as I’ll ever get to having sex with her–jerking off with her in the next room.

Pathetic.

After taking my shower and ridding myself of the evidence of my weakness for her, I snatch my cell phone off the end table. Benjamin Leftwich. I frown. What does Benjamin want? I haven’t spoken to my old agent in over a year. He finally got tired of calling and begging me to come back. The dude must be desperate for a monthly fee.

I ring his number and wait.

“My boy, how’re you?” His voice is loud and boisterous to fit the image of the man. Benjamin is over 6’2” tall, and while he’s lean, his shoulders and biceps still fit the physique of a college linebacker.

“I’m fine.” I rotate my head and shoulders, surprised to discover no aches and pains. I haven’t felt this relaxed in–forever.

I pull up the edge of the blanket and lift the fitted sheet. What kind of mattress is this baby? If I feel this good after one night, I’ll be 20 years old again if I have one of these back home.

“I’ve been trying to catch you for a while now.”

“Yeah?” I respond absentmindedly as I memorize the name of the mattress. Is it hard or soft? I press my fingertips into the pillowtop and press my lips together. Probably firm with a 2-inch pillow top. Maybe three.

“Are you listening to me?”

“Yes.” I drop the comforter back down and stand in the middle of the room. Talking to Benjamin brings up too many bad memories, and I don’t want to lose this loose, comfortable feeling.

“Dude,” he growls.

“What?” I march over to the window and yank open the curtain. Bright sunshine. Crystal clear blue-green water. White sand at the end of the wooden plankway that leads to the main resort. It would be a perfect place to grab a guitar and start piecing together a melody.

Shit. My head snaps back, and I spin away from the spectacular view that speaks to me like a siren’s call. A siren’s call that’s as dangerous as a drug that won’t loosen its grip on me. But I let all of that go.

“I need you to pay attention.” His voice is clipped and harsh.

“I’m paying attention.”

“I received a call from a talent scout at Harmony Records. He was watching some of your stuff and loved it. He said he spent 26 hours watching all the old material of you writing songs.”

“He should’ve found something better to do with his time. Watching someone say a phrase, play a few notes, leave the room to snort coke, and come back to toss it all into the trash is not a good use of his time. I hope he doesn’t want me to pay his hourly wage for the time he can’t get back.”

“Don’t be a smartass. He liked your stuff and wanted to know what new material you have.”

“I don’t have any new material.” I haven’t written since the night before Zoe kissed my cheek and I called her a child.

That next night, when we got back to K.C., I got so wasted that I woke up in a pile of vomit with my pants undone and a pair of girls’ panties hanging from the lamp, and promptly got sick again.

And until yesterday, I had no idea what happened. I’d always assumed I had sex with the random pathetic groupie who couldn’t wait to tell her friends she banged some guy in a band. A band she’d never heard of. One, her friends didn’t know.

But the point was still the same. She fucked someone who got up on stage. Another dick to add to her bucket list. It doesn’t matter what the list was–one for each of the 50 states, every type of band, every band member assignment, all the hair colors. Those women are all the same. They’re trying to fill out a bingo card. Unfortunately for her, I wasn’t able to perform that night.

I went to rehab and left it all in the past. I can’t write and sing on stage. It puts too much at risk. What if I can’t sing without using? What if the words don’t flow onto the paper if I’m not high? It’s best if I never know. It’s not a risk I can afford to take.

“Then, you need to get some. This guy is interested. He said he’d fly you to L.A. and shut down the business so everyone could listen to you. He loves how you write. The process. Your finished products. He specifically said, ‘Whatever your muse is, don’t lose it.’”

I’ve already lost it. Hell, I never had it. I turn away from the wall that adjoins Zoe’s room as anger swells in my gut. “I don’t write, and I don’t sing. That’s a part of my past, so you need to drop it.”

“You’re making a mistake. You were always on the cusp of making it big, and then you walked away. I get that things are different, and you aren’t using anymore, but you don’t have to be plastered to sing. You don’t have to go off the deep end and fuck groupies.”

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