Page 2 of The Bloodfeather Promise
Chapter One
My hands in your hair,
torn to pieces by degrees,
bloody words from my mouth.
Yeah, stay down on your knees
‘cause doing what you’re told
means selling off your soul
to get my fuckin’ share.
Yeah, you never say it’s easy
when it’s me you gotta please.
~Seven Seconds
Hollywood, CA
Just before midnight
Greyson Finch
I’m sure the two blondes crouching beneath the table never dreamed they’d have to work so hard for such a small taste of notoriety. I’ll be damned if they aren’t real troopers, though, taking turns pleasuring me.
A collection of beer bottles and half-empty glasses litter the splotchy, wine-red tablecloth. Draping fabric almost hides their bodies, crouching under the cheap wood furniture. Bare kneed on the sticky, faded carpet, they aren’t the first to take turns at sucking my dick. They won’t be the last. Hoping they get an invite back to my hotel room. Hoping they’ll be asked to join the tour as part of the band’s entourage.
They bore me to tears.Goddamn, just fucking blow me already and get it over with.
Everyone is amped up, celebrating the success of our welcome home concert at the Hollywood Bowl tonight. Good thing the record label reserved this bar for the private party. It’s one of the few instances I agreed with them. The space is dimly lit and insanely crowded. A mixed cocktail of perfume, designer cologne, liquor and smoke wafts over the heads of nearly four hundred, tightly packed bodies.
Yet I barely notice it. The discomfort blooming at our table emits its own heady aroma, overpowering everything else. Like a young, depraved Caligula, I revel in it, breathing it deep into my lungs as if it’s prime Humboldt weed. Bits and pieces of potential verses, enough to fill an entire album, flow through my brain. Now, if I can remember some of this night, I might get a few songs down on paper.Shit.Where are my notepad and pencil, anyway?
My inspired musings end rather abruptly as a set of teeth rakes the crown of my dick.
“What the fuck?” My inattentiveness is pissing off one of the girls. Well, she might try perfecting her technique. Learn a little finesse or some damned patience.
It was simply a matter of time before discontent reared its head with these two, and it’s finally making an appearance. Oddly enough, I welcome it because this, the threat of skin peeled off my dick by a sloppy blowjob,thisis a valid reason to be a first-class asshole. Not that I really need one. Nor do I need excuses or reasons. Ask anyone who knows me. Ask those whothinkthey know me.
My bandmates, yeah, they might know me best. At the moment, they are sprawled alongside me in this notorious, darkened corner booth in an equally notorious bar in the middle of the Sunset Strip. As usual, our evening is quickly disintegrating into debauchery, but that’s all right. Goddamn, I love nights like this. Nights when I hold court like a petulant king toying with my loyal subjects.
Doesn’t matter how cruel I am. They crawl before me anyway, eager and willing to worship. Just like the two women kneeling between my legs.
The party pushes the boundaries of decency, and we’re experts at breaching those invisible borders. Flyby Records reluctantly gave the go-ahead for it after someone relayed tales of our antics during our European tour. The big suits decided our elegant hotel posed too many liability issues. Too many guests who might find our celebration disturbing. Too many expensive things we could destroy. Too many witnesses to our indulgences.
Cheaper and safer reserving this dive. It’s well versed in handling young, rowdy, destructive assholes like us. This is where we cemented the band’s reputation as a genuine throwback to the rowdier days of rock and roll.
So, here we sit, music thumping in irritatingly loud beats, drinks flowing too freely, and an assortment of drugs and women spread before us. Readily and eagerly available for our enjoyment and abuse.
Some might say we’re bad guys. Well, I say being bad is a priceless commodity. A reward. Wanna be nice? Go head. You’ll get used up until nothing is left. This industry is full of nice people with promising careers. They are your waitstaff, your bellhops, your maids, bartenders. Shooting to the top, and staying there, requires cruelty and an utter lack of humanity.
I’ll do whatever is necessary to retain this tarnished throne. Even when it makes me cringe.
A busty waitress with hair dyed dark lavender assumes the position, informally known as “Hey, check out my tits.” A strategically tattered t-shirt with the bar’s name and logo displays her fake breasts. She should save herself the effort. Considering she’s performed the same jiggly, bend-over- the-table routine during the last four passes of our table, I’ve seen more than enough of her assets. For a second, I briefly consider inviting her beneath the table, just to liven things up, but there’s not enough room between my legs for three of them.
