Page 53 of Pistol Whipped

Instead, I’m getting sucked back into the past drama, the kind that landed me in the deepest shit of my life. Ten years ago, Lou Braun made me his fucking stooge. And all I have to show for it is a fat fucking accountant and a major debt to not one devil, but two.

Somehow, someway, Franklin Barrett, CEO of Barrett Holdings and miserable S.O.B., found out what we’d done that night and, worse, what we did afterwards. He’s been using that information to blackmail me ever since. Blackmail me into some kind of money-laundering operation that I didn’t really understand. Thank God, Bruce Cooper did. Which is why I hired him to manage my books all those years ago.

Speaking of that fat accountant, he is texting me every damn day lately. And let me tell you, nothing ruins a Vegas pool party faster than Bruce’s bitching. The man is convinced that I need to get the Graces in on the Deviant Dreams tour so that we can guarantee Rain Gamble keeps her damn mouth shut.

I figure that since she’s kept quiet this long, she’s not about to start blabbing now. Even if she did, it would make her sound like nothing but a drunk slut who couldn’t keep her legs closed.

Well, unless she’s somehow figured out the second part of what we did. But even then, it’s been years, and she’s got no fucking proof. I said as much to Brucey-boy in my last reply.

That blonde piece of ass is still eyeing me from across the pool. I lower my Gucci sunglasses, appreciating the other perks that come along with performing in Vegas, like her big tits.

I have moves to make on blondie, and the last thing I need is another interrupting text. Doesn’t stop him, though. My phone pings again, and I pull it from my pocket to turn it off.

Damn thing is, the message he’s sent contains a question that stops me dead.

Lou Braun

If Rain didn’t say anything, riddle me this, Blue—how did your man Franklin find out?

That very question has plagued me for years. Exactly how did Franklin Barrett find out what we did to Rain Gamble and The Pistols? And how did he get video evidence?

Lou Braun

Because it sure as shit wasn’t me or you. So, it was either Rain Gamble or…

There’s no good way to fill in that blank because the only other option is that Lou Braun, either by accident or more likely on purpose, royally fucked us over.

I’ve spent years wondering, but right now the need to know makes my blood run cold in spite of the blistering sun. Rather than reply, I turn my phone off as planned. I still make my way over to the girl and manage to get my dick wet inside the cabana I rented for the day.

It’s not until later that night, after the show and another shag—different girl, of course, because I don’t double dip—that I scroll online looking for the next available first-class ticket to Calder.

Interlude 11

Sex and Candy

Blue Grace – ten years ago

She’s fucking done it again. Does the media have some kind of permanent hard-on for that little bitch? This is the third time this year that she and her band of fucking losers have knocked me out of the number one spot.

Rain Gamble and her stupid fucking single, whatever the fuck it’s called, are currently number one on rock radio; their sales figures are out of this world, huge, and there’s already talk that their next tour will take them to stadiums worldwide. Hell, they’ve even outsold me in Asia. I’ve always fucking dominated the Asian market. It was just me and the K-pop idols. Now even they’re obsessed with Rain-fucking-Gamble.

I know because we’re on the Asian leg of our tour and every radio interview I’ve done in the last week has asked about her and her magic songwriting. They aren’t the only ones focused on The Preaching Pistols either. My goddamn manager hasn’t crawled his head out of their ass in months. So perhaps it’s time that Lou Braun is reminded that I am his most important client.

There’s an eight-hour time difference between Seoul and Calder, but I don’t give a shit. He’s my fucking manager, and I expect him to pick up the phone even if it is the middle of the night.

Besides, I’m too damn restless to let this wait until tomorrow. My fault for reading the charts instead of paying attention to the girl kneeling between my legs. Actually, scratch that, her fault because her subpar blowjob hasn’t been a good enough distraction. Back home, I’d let it slide and probably go for round two. Right now, though, I’m too preoccupied for this shit.

Fucking Rain Gamble, I repeat to myself; she’s not just shitting all over my music, she’s now ruining my damn hard-ons. My cock won’t cooperate ever since I saw their band name in the headlines, no matter how much this chick—an American girl here teaching English—gums my dick.

Her mouth isn’t doing the damn job, so I show her off me, and grumble, “Get out!”

I can’t actually remember her name, but she looks up at me with wide-eyed confusion. Sometimes these dumb sluts just don’t get the message.

“I said,” my voice, cold as ice, “get the fuck out!”

Tucking my dick away, I’m up and out of the hotel room’s cuck chair. I start grabbing her shit, and she catches on real quick, racing and scrabbling for her clothes. Bitch finally realizes I have zero qualms about tossing her ass out in the hallway naked.

Once she’s gone, I whip out the small bag of coke I stashed aside after tonight’s show. I’ll say this for Lou and our tour manager: they do keep us well-stocked. The pleasant buzz manages to take the edge off my anger.