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I’ve gonethrough different stages all afternoon of dreading the thought of this party and then chomping at the bit to get there. By the time I actually arrive I am pretty hyped. You can literally smell the rock ‘n’ roll. The sex, the weed, the bourbon. Yeah, this is right, I can feel my skin goose bumping to the bass of the strong beat. Yep, this is where Max Baines was born to be. My dick’s hard just walking in here.
‘Hail to the King’ is playing loudly through whatever PA system is in this ridiculously plush party pad. Unbeknownst to most of the girls in this room when we first hit it big this was literally my nickname. We’d be out. Me and Finch, my god damn wing man. They always called him the gent. But me. I was the fucking king. Because I always win. Because I’m always on top, in charge and because I’m the fucking one. The number one. The buck stops with Max Baines. Hail to the fucking King!
It had all started with Tom. When we discovered his not-so-secret obsession was watching wrestling. He loved it, probably still does and to amuse myself as well as him on a long tour bus ride I watched some with him. One of the wrestlers, a massive hulk of a man, came out to someMotörheadsong, ‘King of Kings.’
Queue me jumping down on his bunk doing my best wrestler impression screaming bow down to the king. The name kind of stuck from there.
That was then though. When goofy wrestling moves and banging a different chick every night just because we could was our number one priority. And Finch and Bobby were just as bad. They were just as fierce, just as desperate as me and Tom were. To laugh as well as to fucking party. I take a bottle of Jack Daniels from a passing waitress. I call her a waitress; most would call her a stripper in her little silver thong and cans the size of watermelons barely being contained in that tiny string bikini top. She’s fucking stunning though, so really who am I to complain. It’s been months since I’ve walked into a place like this and felt so fucking right. My skins got goosebumps but I’m pretty sure they are the good kind, not the ‘oh fuck your life is over’ type. Preston places a hand on my shoulder, but it’s not like when Titch does it, his face is full of encouragement, a wide pearly-white smile appears as he watches me take a celebratory draw of the open bottle.
The music changes, whoever this DJ is must have stolen one of my Spotify playlists because afterAvenged SevenfoldcomesDef Leppard—I’m a sucker for a bit of eighties glam rock. Preston nods me towards an open door which leads into an elaborate glass mirrored wall room, like something straight out of the sixties but it’s clearly been done recently, some interior designer was probably let loose in here to run up a bill which is paramount to the same money my apartment cost in London just to create their ‘vision.’ The room is literally wall to wall with girls, guys in suits, guys who look like they’d give anything to be exactly where I was a year ago and then there’s the usual label hangers on, groupies for the industry, they are a little better dressed than the girls that hang around our shows, but they are clearly still as desperate for their five-minute slot at fame. Sucking rock star dick, sucking the roadies dick even sucking dick of the bigwigs at the label I’m not sure some of these girls even care.
I didn’t care, I never really cared who had my dick in their mouth as long as they were pretty and not too needy, as long as they knew the score that they had to be gone by morning regardless of how many lines of charlie we’d got through the night before. But something has changed. I’d like to blame the accident, but there is only so much I can blame that on, responsible for my fuck ups yes, my brain not being able to comprehend basic social situations yes, but caring who sucks my dick? That can only be the responsibility of the last woman whose full thick thighs I was between.
But I can’t think of Ali now, I’ve tried so hard to push her beautiful face out of my head. I take another swig from the bottle. And another. Listening to one of Preston’s minions tell me how I’m the best thing to ever hit their shores, how America will never be the same since it’s seen me and London is such a lucky city to call itself my home. I take another draw. Preston himself looks smug as fuck tonight, his wife’s a fucking knock out I know but he’s not here with her this evening. His wandering eye seems to be holding the attention of several of the girls in this room, filling his navy-blue suit in that skin-tight teddy boy kind of way. The way his eyes travel up and down the nearest brunette makes my skin crawl. I’m all for sleeping with a new girl each night, I’m down for that when you’re single, not when you have a Missus waiting at home. And kids. I’m pretty certain he’s got a couple of them too. I nod to him but walk off, I like him, he’s a good guy, he talks sense and he’s going to make all this shit right for me. But that doesn’t mean I have to agree with his morals or lack of them.
I travel the rooms of the party, letting the beat of the music pulse through my body, the DJ really has smashed it tonight, I’ve even heard my own dulcet tones blast through the speakers a few times. The liquor is going down a treat too, I know I freaked out at the airport, but this feels good. My life is going in the right direction, I can’t shake that feeling of loss that’s still in the pit of my stomach, but I think I’m on the way up. Preston’s right, it’s not about the boys anymore, they don’t care about me and what I think, I need to put myself first. This is the way to do it.
* * *
“Ali,”I moan, my voice soft, desperate as I feel her velvety lips around my cock. It feels so good to have her near me again, close like this. Tasting me, exploring me. Licking a hard line up my shaft as my head drops back into the leather couch, the bass pounding, my lips parted as she takes me for everything I’m worth.
I might be drunk but this complete feeling of pure thrill cannot be matched.Alison Fucking Cannock.
“It’s Jenna.”
Fuck
Biting my lip for letting that slip, the intense feel of the pleasure of her lips around my dick seems to disappear. I look down at the stunning blonde bombshell making light work of my cock. But it’s not her. She’s not my girl. Not who I want. Who I need, in my drunk state I’d somehow told myself that it was her but it isn’t. Getting a girl’s name wrong isn’t exactly something I haven’t done before. Girls like this don’t care though, they only care that they are sucking famous dick.
Ali
Ali cares though, doesn’t she? She didn’t want me for my fame, she wanted me for me. She’s one of the only women who I’ve ever let really know me. Like really know me. My dick? Hey, that’s free game to the female population. But my heart? That got locked up a long time ago.
Until now.
Jenna’s eyes pull to mine. I can see what’s going on. Hell, I can feel it. Max Baines, the king of fucking rock. The hardest fucker, the biggest playboy. The front man, the god.
Max Baines has just gone fucking soft.
Her eyes look pleading as she feels my soft cock in between her lips. She seems well-practised; she’s not going to spit me out of her mouth. Fucking rock-stars is pretty much a hobby for her, I’m sure. She moves her hand up and tries to resuscitate the poor old boy. I sigh before reaching down to pull her hand from me and pull up my boxers and my jeans in a quick movement. I kiss Jenna on the forehead.
“Cheers, doll,” Not even sounding interested at this point. Her mouth is wide open. She can’t help it.
“Is it something I did, Max?” There’s a sense of disappointment in her voice.
“No, you’re just not her,” I state bluntly as I walk away.
“Ali?” Her voice rattles through me. I’m not sure if it’s lust, jealousy or disappointment I hear. I turn back, look into her eyes. They’re blue. Not green like my Ali’s are.
“Only I get to call her that,”
I need to get out of here. I need to leave this party. This goddamn city. The country. I need to get back to London. To my city. I need to find my girl. And I’ll fight for her this time. I won’t take no for an answer. I need to prove to her we’re so right for each other. This feeling is alien to me. If this is love, then it makes me sick. There’s a huge knot in my stomach and a bile in my throat because she’s my missing fucking piece, and I won’t feel right till she’s by my side.
I know it, I just need to somehow prove it to her. How I do that I don’t fucking know, but I know I need to get out of this country.
