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He grinned. “You said it, not me. Anyway, back to the college music critic. The little prick hated everything. And he obviously hated us. Ryan was being so fucking polite to him, so earnest, so… Ryan. And I just sat there the whole time staring at that punk with his little hipster glasses, thinking, ‘This asshole is just going to write whatever he was going to write anyway, and he’ll cherry-pick everything we say to support whatever shit he’s already decided.’ And did he? Of course he did. He wrote this scathing review, making us sound like dumbshits and calling us a mediocre, derivative rip-off of some band I’d never heard of. And when I went and tracked them down on Youtube, they sounded nothing like us. So I confronted him the next time I saw him at another band’s show.”
“You didn’t,” I said, and laughed in spite of myself.
“I did. He was there with this little jaded alternative chick. I asked him why he’d written all those lies.
“‘They weren’t lies.’
“‘Yes they were. For one, we don’t sound even remotely like My Bloody Valentine.’
“‘It’s obvious you do.’
“‘It’s pretty fuckin’ obvious we don’t.’
“‘Well, if you think that, it’s obvious you don’t know the first thing about music.’
“And then I got up in his face and started telling him that what was obvious is that he was a pathetic loser who wanted to be a musician and didn’t have the balls to get up on stage. He got all scared and said he was going to press charges if I touched him, which I wasn’t going to do at all, and then he takes his girl and splits. And THEN – THEN, like the little chickenshit that he is, he runs ANOTHER review of one of our shows, and starts insinuating I’m gay and that Ryan and I are lovers, and then he says how I would be better at giving blowjobs for ten bucks a pop behind the 40 Watt rather than singing inside of it.”
I put my hand to my mouth and had to suppress a laugh. That was just too funny.
Derek laughed, too. “Nothing against gay dudes, but don’t fucking call me gay; I’m not gay. Do you know how many chicks I lost out on ‘cause they read that article?”
I doubted it was that many, but I didn’t like thinking about ‘all the chicks he missed out on,’ so I kept my mouth shut.
“So I see him and his girlfriend again at another band’s show, and as soon as he sees me coming, he runs. Doesn’t even grab his girlfriend, just bugs out for the hills. And I walk over to her, and I say, ‘Do you know who I am?’
“‘Yeah,’ she says. She’s kind of interested in me, I can tell.
“‘I fuckin’ HATE your boyfriend,’ I say.
“‘I figured,’ she says, all cool, like she doesn’t care about him much, either.
“‘You know what he’s been writing about me?’ I say.
“‘Yeah.’
“‘You know it’s all lies, right?’
“‘Yeah.’
“‘He told you it was lies?’
“‘You should have heard him talking about it when he wrote it. He was more worked up than I’ve ever seen him before. Even when we have sex.’
“She kind of looked me up and down when she said that last part about sex, and I knew I had her.
“‘You know how I’m going to get him back?’ I asked her.
“‘How.’
“‘I’m going to take you back to my place and I’m going to fuck your brains out and make you come so many times you won’t be able to remember your own name. You down for that?’”
As soon as Derek said it, my stomach twisted… and jealousy began to gnaw at me again.
“She was totally down. So I took her back to my place and I pulled out all the stops – I mean, I used every trick in the book. Made her come about a dozen times. And, with her full knowledge and consent, mind you, I recorded the whole thing with some of Ryan’s sound equipment that was laying around. It took three hours before we were finished – and then I mailed CD copies to the music critic department at the Red & Black with a note: ‘I respectfully disagree with your critic Bryce Dunkel’s last column. If he doesn’t think much of me as a musician, I at least would be better as a gigolo than what he suggested. You can listen and decide for yourself. Or just ask his former girlfriend. Sincerely, Derek Kane.’”
Now my stomach was churning.
Pulled out all the stops.
Used every trick in the book.
Made her come about a dozen times.
It took three hours before we were finished.
My jealousy was eating me alive.
Along with a certain queasiness at what he had done.
“You didn’t,” I gasped.
“I did,” he grinned. “I heard from some other dude on the newspaper staff that the little shit walked in right in the middle of hour two, and found the entire staff of the newspaper – all 60 of them – gathered around listening to his girlfriend scream my name and tell me about how her boyfriend had never given her an orgasm, and that he liked to wear women’s underwear and screamed out ‘Mommy’ when he came.”
I clapped my hand over my mouth and burst out laughing despite my nausea at the whole story. “OH MY GOD.”
“Yeah. Mr. Bryce Dunkel never showed his face again at the Red & Black, and I pretty much decided after that I was never going to fuckin’ talk to a member of the press, ever.”
“Until now.”
“Until now.”
We just stood there in the shower, the steam rising around us – me standing there with a digital recorder in hand, him standing there naked, soap and water streaming down his perfect body and his long, thick, gorgeous cock –
And then, as I realized I was staring at it, it began to get erect again.
Quickly.
Bigger.
Thicker.
Harder.
“You know… you don’t have to just stand there. You could come over here with me,” he said huskily. “You can even turn off the recorder if you want. Or not. Your choice.”
By the time he finished, his cock was fully erect, pulsing in the stream of water, even more beautiful and amazing than in my dreams from four years ago.
I remembered how I’d fantasized in the dorm shower the morning after. About how I wanted him to come in and pin me against the wall and take me, ravage me, make me come –
And now, I could have it. His body – his muscles – the water – the steam – his thick, gorgeous hard-on – I could have it if I wanted it.
Pulled out all the stops.
Used every trick in the book.
Made her come about a dozen times.
Three hours before we were finished.
But the thought of what he’d done with that music critic’s girlfriend made me stop.
I turned around and walked back into the locker room without saying anything.
17
I composed myself – no mean feat, I can assure you – as I listened to the water turn off. Derek came back into the room with one towel wrapped around his waist, and drying his hair with a second.
As soon as he saw me, he gave me a rueful grin and shook his head. “You are the toughest nut to crack ever, did you know that?”
“I’m just being professional,” I said, my voice shaky.
“Right. We both know you want to, so why don’t you quit using that ‘professionalism’ crap as an excuse?”
“Maybe you shouldn’t tell me stories about how you revenge-fucked some music critic’s girlfriend right before you try to seduce me.”
He squinted at me. “That really bothers you, doesn’t it?”
“What, you using women for your petty little schemes? Yeah.”
“She didn’t have any complaints.”
“How do you know? You probably never saw her again.”
“Sure I did. Two or three more times, as a matter of fact.”
Jealousy bit harder.
“And it was her pursuing me, not the other way around. That’s how I know she didn’t have any complaints: she came back for more.” He gave a smug, self-satisfied smirk. “They always come back for more.”
GOD, he was such a fucking asshole.
A HOT fucking asshole… but still an asshole.
“Well, then, maybe that’s what I don’t like – you using women to feed your monster ego.”
He rolled his eyes as he started to put on his clothes. I tried not to watch, but couldn’t help myself, as his lovely cock disappeared behind the fresh pair of boxers.
“Jesus, Kaitlyn – if I’m happy, and they’re happy, what’s the fucking problem?”
“Oh, I don’t know – pregnancy – disease – ”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” he said, throwing up his hands. “I always use a condom. Always have. And even when I had no money, I always got tested at the free clinic. I get tested now, once a month. And I’m totally clean, by the way. I don’t want to hurt anybody; I just want to have a good time. And so do they. Not everybody’s like you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I snapped.
“It means I know you’re good in bed…”
My lower extremities almost spontaneously combusted. I was right on the verge of jumping him when he continued.
“…but you have this whole Disney idea of sex, about how it has to be Cinderella and Prince Charming forever and ever, and love, and marriage, and gauzy curtains and shit. Not every woman feels like that. A lot of them want to just have the night of their lives.”
