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1GunnerAnother pair of lacy lingerie sailed through across the stage and smacked Brody on the leg.
Ten points!
Brody, the front-man of our band, Hard Fought, snarled over his shoulder at me. I laughed and kept banging the hell out of the drums because it served him right. After all, my buddy was playing to the crowd. Just minutes earlier, he’d drenched his white T-shirt with a bottle of water and then ripped off the fabric, displaying a rock-hard chest and washboard abs.
The asshole was good-looking, even I had to admit.
Bronze skin. Sculpted. Hard muscle everywhere.
And of course, the ladies ate it up, screaming like banshees. They were practically losing it right before us because Hard Fought is bona fide rock star catnip. If you think the females went wild for the Beatles or New Kids on the Block back in the day, then you’re almost in the ballpark.
We’re ten times that. Fifty times more magnetic.
And the ladies are insane. They go hog wild, ready to sell their firstborns to get their hands on a pair of our concert tickets. Mothers and daughters, hell, even grannies in the crowd were losing their minds, not to mention their panties.
Because our female fans never have any self-control when it comes to their favorite rock stars. Lingerie? Oh, please. That’s just the beginning. Last week, we got back to find two nude girls swimming in our pool, slick and wet like slippery, hairless otters. Plus, Brody threw gasoline on a raging fire, cannonballing into the pool with a roar.
Yeah, this is the life. The rockstar rage that makes us unstoppable. Throwing my head back, I let out a howl to the delighted squeals of the all-female crowd. Sweat poured down my face and the beat pounded through my hard, muscled body. Everyone wanted a career like ours. We owed it to the fans to give it our all.
So yeah, life is good. Better than good. The best. After all, for the past few years, I’ve been the drummer for the hottest band on the scene, with money, girls, and cars galore. Everything at my fingertips.
The guys and I have been on magazine covers. We have billions of dollars in the bank. Plus, all three of us have been on every hot bachelor list in the past five years. We were on top of the world and rockin’ it like kings.
Mostly.
“Hard Fought!” a group of girls screamed from the front row while flashing their tits.
“Choose me! Eeeee!” hollered another chick, eyes wide and hair wild.
I should have been on top of the world. Yet incredibly, inklings of boredom were beginning to make me dizzy. Right there on stage under the hot spotlights, things were starting to get dull. It seemed impossible, but never say never. Because after five years of dodging dirty panties and every filthy proposition in the book, easy sex was getting old. Maybe you don’t know what you have until it’s gone, but right now, I wasn’t jumping on the carousel.
If I was attracted to skinny, anorexic-looking groupies, then the rock star life would be perfect. That wasn’t my scene, though, because scarecrows did nothing for me. I like them plump and curvy, with a sweet smile and innocent ways.
Nonetheless, there was money to be made. Winking at the ladies like a Lothario, I hooked the panties out of the air with my right hand, all the while hitting the cymbals with my left.
Oh yeah. I got this whole thing down.
The girls in the audience screamed louder as more lingerie flew at us. It was a blizzard of lace and leather.
