Page 4 of The Bloodfeather Promise
Jack abruptly changed course, leading the group in the opposite direction. He knew why we lurked behind the backup amps. Surprisingly, the brunette did as well. She glanced directly at me before they walked away. For a split second, our gazes locked.
I took the rolled-up hundred from Jett and snorted my hit.
“Didn’t want to meet them?”
At the shake of my head, Jett grinned. “Too bad, bro. I did earlier and fuck, they are hot as firecrackers.” We watched the group wander toward the stage exits. For some reason, I wished the brunette would look back one more time. “Come on, Grey. Let’s have Jack bring them to the back.” Jett’s Georgia twang was barely noticeable when he drawled, “We still got twenty minutes. Plenty of time for a hook-up.”
I had no desire to hook up with anyone. Regardless of who they were, or why they were there. Jett wasn’t terribly bothered when I ignored his suggestion, shrugging it off in his usual good-natured manner.
Launching into our first song, I wasn’t surprised the two girls had front row seats, the pair of them screaming along with the rest of our crazed fans. I just don’t know why I avoided making eye contact with the brunette for the entire show. Every time I ventured close to that section of the stage, I played to the other chicks, swiveling and rocking my hips in a manner both obscene and suggestive. It elicited high-pitched wails of delight from the audience, but the brunette cocked her head at one point, biting her lip as if she was onto my game.
Dylan has a hard-on for tall, curvy blondes, preferably tanned and willing to do whatever he asks. He rarely notices anyone outside that profile. So, it puzzled me when he zeroed in on the brunette during the encore. And, the fucker had the nerve to use the pre-arranged signal I developed. See a girl you want to screw until she forgets her own name but not yours? Here’s how you make that happen. Count in from the outside of the aisle, moving toward the center, flash the row number and seat position, and a roadie delivers your choice backstage. Just like ordering a fucking pizza.
Dylan specifically ordered up the brunette special.
But she waved our road manager off, neither girl leaving the prime, front row spots until the lights went dark. We exited the stage and there was the usual fuss made over band. Groupies swarming, drinks all around, towels handed out by our assistants as we made our way back to the dressing rooms for showers. To be honest, I didn’t think any more about that brunette and her friend until I recognized the redhead draped all over Jack’s lap.
I guess Dylan forgot about them as well. In typical fashion, he moved on to easier conquests upon our arrival at the bar. Two women were secured for use as his own personal bookends.
I lured those same two girls away from him. But, even now, watching the pale blonde head bobbing with such diligence between my legs, I waste foggy moments thinking about that brunette. Not because I have any real interest in her, but because Dylan did. And anything Dylan wants, no matter how insignificant, no matter how briefly, I take for myself.
Just because I can.
When another scrape of teeth rakes along my dick, I don’t stop the self-torture. I have my reasons, of course. Good ones, too. Nevermind their disgraceful performance when giving a guy head, but both blondes bear an uncanny resemblance to my girlfriend.
Well, my ex-girlfriend. The arrangement with Jessica didn’t last very long. How could it when my increasing use of drugs and alcohol turned me into a moody, volatile asshole? The overwhelming availability of women willing to satisfy every twisted, crazy fantasy I ever possessed, also chewed away any respect I held for the fairer sex.
“You’re no better than a cat in heat,” I once flung at Jessica during a heated argument. “Fucking anyone who shows you a bit of attention.”
She retaliated by giving me the cold shoulder for a couple of weeks. Next thing I knew, she’d convinced Dylan she loved him. He fell for that line of bullshit like a boulder dropped from the top floor of a high-rise. For three months, they were officially a couple, although Dylan continued screwing every girl that struck his fancy. Things had cooled a bit, but Jessica was still with him that fateful night almost a year ago.
She and Dylan had a vicious argument. Complete with screaming, scratching, and hair pulling. Alex, my older brother, offered her a ride home.
“It’s no problem,” I remembered Alex assuring Dylan while loading her high-as-a-kite, drunken ass into his Jeep. “I’ll make sure she gets home safe. Don’t worry.”
“Don’t worry.”
You shouldalwaysworry when someone says“Don’t worry.”
Jessica Martin is now a dead ex-girlfriend, nearly decapitated alongside Alex in that horrific car accident.
I miss my brother. And Dylan? He’s the catalyst for what happened. He paved the way for tragedy.
When I glance his way, he is staring at me with a brow deeply furrowed.
Yeah, he’s on edge. I know he is because I’m on edge. I should be happy Dylan is troubled, but I only feel a strange moroseness. Alex’s death is a pain that constantly haunts me, but right now, it is growing blessedly weaker. My attention hones in on my hand guiding the girl’s head. Of the two girls beneath the table, I think she resembles Jessica the most. The bobbing motion she’s got going on is mesmerizing. Hypnotic.
Up…down…up…fuck, let me forget, just forget, just for a while…
Yeah, that pill is finally starting to work. Sinking me someplace place fuzzy and pleasant. The sounds of the bar, the music, the chatter, all of it fades until nothing is left but a hushed murmur.
White noise. Loose and fluid. Fucking dead spaces that only exist when I’m high or drunk. Or both.
It’s long, long moments before I’m roused by the absence of lips sucking my cock. The groupies are swapping positions under the table. A new mouth encompasses me in soft, wet heat, and a tongue teasing and swirling in opposite directions. The novelty awakens me, almost brings me back to life. I’m still riding a pleasant wave of euphoria as I pry my eyes open.
How long have the girls been under there? Thirty minutes? An hour? I don’t even know. Time slipped by with alarming quickness. Is Dylan still watching?
He’s not.
