Page 3 of The Bloodfeather Promise
“Another Jack and Coke, Mr. Finch?”
I need to remind her she already has a very important job. “Let’s make this easy, sweetheart. If you see I’m not drinking, regardless if my glass is empty or not, then yes, I need another. Don’t ask me again. Just keep them comin’ and make it quick, will ya?”
The waitress flushes bright pink, glancing at the other guys. She’s hoping one of them might be interested.
“Yeah, honey. That goes for the rest of us,” Brant lands a sloppy kiss on the girl sitting to his right. She’s not an actual groupie. Someone said she’s a lingerie model and was on the cover of a magazine recently. Guess that’s why she looks vaguely familiar. Poor thing. She really likes our bassist. Every now and then, her lips twist in a painful grimace when Brant’s attention turns to the other women coming and going from our booth.
The waitress’s nod is tight. Wheeling around, she hurries off on a mission to refill our drink order. But not before I overhear her mumbling that we are a bunch of assholes.
Of course, we are, sweetheart. That and so much worse.
Just how much worse makes me grin. After all, we do have a reputation to uphold.
Pursued by obsessed fans, a favorite of both new and established musicians, and worshipped by the Hollywood ‘In’ crowd, we’ve become the darlings of the critics. And, it’s only been two years that Seven Seconds singlehandedly revived an unwritten law. It’s a firmly entrenched commandment now. For those of you who have no idea what this entails, let me enlighten you.
Unless some chick has given you head while you’re seated in this particularly infamous booth in this particular bar, you’re a long way from being crowned rock royalty. No discussion. No excuses. No bullshit.
We’ve seen brawls from the girls foaming at the mouth and eager to rock our world. Fights which can only be described as entertainment at its finest. Catfights we’ve placed bets on. Fist fights rivaling the best the boxing world could ever hope to offer. And enough hairpulling to start our own wig business. The best part is the exhilarating moment when the victor sinks down on her knees beneath the table and delivers. I’m not exaggerating when I say that moment is something along the lines of an out of body experience.
Well, it usually is. I haven’t been so lucky tonight. The two girls granted the first dive inside my jeans may as well be knitting a goddamn sweater, regardless of all the moans and sucking noises coming from under the table. One of them has been working on me for at least fifteen minutes, and I barely feel a tightening in my balls. Damn, it’s gotta be somethingshe’sdoing wrong. Can’t have a thing to do with me. Isn’t it obvious I’m bored as fuck?
When she finally sits back on her heels with an exasperated sigh, her head bumps the underside of the table. Glasses teeter; one falls over. The three girls hanging all over Brant and Jett snicker in amusement.
Faster than a whiplash, I’ve got her hair fisted in a tight grip. Long, blonde strands spill between my fingers and over my knuckles. Like the asshole I am, I shove so her mouth is back on me. Then, like the bastard I am, I hold her in place.
“Giving up so soon?” I know she can hear me. Her breath rushes out through her nose in submission.
Her tongue immediately swirls, wrapping around me in apologetic agreement while dagger-like nails dig into my thighs. That’s the sign I was looking for. That she’s still onboard. If she pulled away instead of continuing, I’d probably let her go. But this one doesn’t resist. Hell, they never do, and we both know she wants whatever I decide to do with her.
“That’s what I thought,” I murmur, giving her hair a slight jerk. With a small hum, she begins swallowing me down her throat again. That’s the price you sometimes pay in the music business. Someone with more power crams something down your throat. And you either swallow or don’t. There’s always the option of walking away. No matter what, that option is there, even if it is rarely taken.
A recessed portion of my brain, the gentle, respectful slice long ago crammed into a dusty corner, cringes in horror at my actions. My parents would be appalled. They did not raise me like this…as if women simply exist for my pleasure and abuse. I’ve buried the respectful, sensitive boy I used to be, and melted away into a different person. Someone I despise. A selfish, cruel monster.
“Jesus, Grey. You’re gonna give the girl lockjaw or some shit,” Dylan comments around a mouthful of Jack and Coke.
Twirling my drink in my free hand, a golf-ball sized ice cube slides through the remnants of amber-hued whiskey. As it rolls, clinking against the side of the glass, I silently contemplate our handsome, personable lead singer.
Women naturally flock to Dylan, but I’ve never had trouble enticing them away. Does the fact I’ve stolen these two girls from him tonight piss him off? Fuck, I hope so. I hope he chokes on his anger. It wasn’t long ago that we shared our women. As our levels of self-indulgence ratcheted up, keeping pace with the band’s success, we discovered new ways to chase a thrill.
Dylan and I were once a formidable force. He reeled girls in with his charm and I kept them there with my moodiness. Chicks fell out of our beds swooning after a tag team encounter. Our mistake came in sharing Jessica, passing her back and forth until she grew tired of it. Up until that point, everything was fucking fantastic. Only when we were pitted against each other did it all unravel. How cliché is that? A woman coming between best friends?
My gaze flicks away, effectively dismissing him.
The ever-present strain between us is a noxious cloud. It blends seamlessly with the stale aroma of weed, perfume, and sour liquor. But, as tension creeps into the heart of the bar’s racket everyone at the table shifts uncomfortably. Like their seats are suddenly scorching their ass cheeks. The groupies peek at me as though I might transform into a raging werewolf at any moment.
Maybe I will. I won’t lie. Anger squeezes my gut until it takes my breath. Like the cramping pain you get after a drinking binge. You know what I’m talking about, right? That moment you’ve puked so much all you can do is dry heave in miserable agony, your stomach protesting with every retching gag.
If it wasn’t for the pill Jett gave me, I would just leave. I could avoid the ugliness I predict will occur. Dylan and I have tiptoed around each other for the past eight months, but things may reach a head tonight.Maybe the pill will kick in soon.I hope so. I need it to do two things: counteract the blazing high from the coke and calm my temper. Once it takes effect, I won’t care so much. Everyone, including me, can finally relax.
From under the table comes a muffled whimper.Oh shit.The blonde with the sloppy blowjob skills is capable of wreaking some serious damage if I’m not careful. I didn’t even realize how my hand unconsciously tightened in her hair to the point of causing pain, my knuckles white with agitation. I flex my fingers on her scalp in a soothing gesture until she resumes her efforts with a contented sigh. It reassures me this debauchery will continue unabated.
“Get it, Jack!” Jett shouts at our manager over the music, the exuberance in his voice infectious and upbeat. Our fireball of a drummer is always up for a good time and likes his cocaine almost as much as I do. He’s learned how to control his usage a lot better though, a skill I haven’t yet mastered. “Hell yeah, dude! Let us see her ass! Come on! Show us!” He starts chanting, beating the top of the table with drumsticks. “Ass! Ass! Ass!” Brant and the girls join him, intoning the word until they dissolve in fits of laughter.
It is rather surprising to see Jack drop the usual persona of professionalism he wears like a four-thousand-dollar suit. Shit, I think he’s actually screwing that girl just two booths away. Not openly, of course; Jack would never be that crude, but he’s got a redhead straddling his lap, cowgirl style. If it wasn’t for the height of the tabletop, her short white skirt would reveal everything each time she leans forward. If he decided to play along, he could reach down, flip that skirt up with the hands he has clenching her hips, and appease the boys’ demands.
Jack met the redhead earlier tonight backstage before the concert. Some lowly marketing tool from the record label had her and brunette along when he ambushed our manager. The jackass was comically disappointed when the redhead immediately linked arms with Jack, leaving him with the other girl who wasn’t nearly as flirty as her friend.
The instant the four of them headed in my direction for an introduction, I avoided that awkwardness by ducking behind a row of speakers. Jett waited for me there with two bumps of blow.
