Page 50 of Fake Rocks
It was a little over twelve hours until the gig. The one which would make or break the rest of my career.
I felt sick.
Reluctantly, I pulled myself out of bed. Tempting though it was to stay with Tris and hide out for the day, I had things to do. Joel fromRocciawas coming to The Windmill to do an interview with TheSB early evening, we had to get all the band’s kit over there, plus I had to decide what to wear. I grabbed my phone and messaged Rosie, begging her for help. She replied saying she’d be over in an hour.
“We have to get up.” I pulled the covers off Tris, admiring his naked body.
He rolled on to his back and I couldn’t take my eyes off his dick, ready and waiting just for me. “I’m up already.” He winked.
“No time for that right now. But later, I promise you.”
Tris wrinkled his nose. “Not even a quickie?”
I shook my head. “Much as I’m tempted, I can’t.”
“Then I guess I’ll have to sort myself out.” He quirked an eyebrow and reached down to touch himself.
“Oh my God, Tris! For fuck’s sake, stop it!” I covered my eyes, peeking through the gaps in my fingers. In all honesty, I would rather have been doing that for him.
“Sorry, if you’re not going to help, then you’ll have to leave the room.”
I was sorely tempted to stay. With a heavy sigh and a huge exertion of willpower, I grabbed a hoodie and did as he suggested. Now wasn’t the time.
“What look are you going for?”
Rosie stood in the middle of my room, the wardrobe doors open, clothes strewn over every available space.
“I’m not sure.” I sat, cross-legged, on the floor, an ashtray balanced on my knee, chain smoking my way through a pack of cigarettes, despite Rosie’s protestations it would be bad for my voice. I pretended I was looking to cultivate a husky tone for this evening when in reality, I was as nervous as fuck and it was the one thing keeping me calm.
“Casual, one of the boys; or slutty, come and get me, boys?”
“There’s only one boy I want to come and get me and he’s downstairs.” I chuckled at her analogies.
“This is a comeback gig, right?”
I nodded.
“Then you can’t play it safe. Jeans and t-shirt isn’t going to cut it.” She twirled around, an array of clothes in her arms. “Image, as you well know, darling, is everything.”
Not for the first time, Rosie was absolutely right. And I loved her for it.
“There’s plenty of sluttiness in here to work with.” She set to work, clearing the bed of clothes and replacing it with a selection of dresses in lace, latex and rubber. “Come on, get up. You need to try these on.”
I tried on each of the dresses she passed me, rejecting all of them for being too tight and restrictive, meaning they would hamper my singing or movement around the stage.
“Now what?” Dejected, I sat down on the bed, resting my chin on my hands.
Rosie was nothing if not resourceful as she trawled through the rest of my wardrobe. “Try this.”
She threw a pair of tiny black leather shorts at me, followed by a cut off black lacy t-shirt shot through with silver thread. While I wriggled into the clothes, she ransacked my footwear collection until she came up with a pair of thigh high stripper-esque boots.
“I’ll kill myself in these heels. Or at least break a bone.” I sat on the edge of the bed and slid my legs into the boots.
“So don’t dance around so much. Use the microphone stand as a weapon.” Rosie mimed a hand job. “You’ll have them hard within seconds. Well? Is this the winner?”
“Hang on.” I grabbed my phone and took a photo of my reflection in the mirror and messaged the result to Tris.
Within seconds he replied with a GIF of someone fanning themselves and the heart eyed emoji. I showed the screen to Rosie. “Seems we have our answer.”
