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I nod.
“How boring,” she says.
Great. I huff. The admiration is entirely one way. This woman doesn’t care who the fuck I am or about my fame. It’s so...different, but also refreshing in a way I’m not expecting.
“I wanted to be a poet, but then I learned poets make no money, and I wanted money more—”
Sofia laughs. “But you know you got lucky, right? Most bands don’t make it. They don’t see the kind of money you do.”
I agree with her, but even back then, I’d had a gut feeling thatIndustrial Novemberwould be successful. We chat for about an hour, and I almost forget about how tired I am, so I tell her the band’s origin story.
I met Fritz in college. He was studying economics at the time and playing bass as a hobby. After I showed him some of my poetry, we became friends, and he started writing music to it. Eventually, we decided to form a band to get laid—honest-to-god, that’s how most bands start. It was successful, but Fritz is first and foremost a businessman, and he knew we had something. He wanted to shake that money tree. He had the vision, and I had the writing and the voice, so that was that.
“Wow,” Sofia says when I tell her everything. “So to him, it’s a business?”
“Yeah. It is to me too, to an extent, even if it didn’t start that way for me. I don’t know how much longer we’ll keep the band going. Fritz and I are a little tired from all the touring but adding Karl’s youthful energy to the mix has...rejuvenated something in the band.”
Unable to fight it anymore, I yawn.
Sofia bites her lip, and I snap. “Stop it!”
“Sorry!” She looks annoyed now as she crosses her arms, and it’s so damn adorable.
“Do I really need to fly out there only to turn around and fly back here a few hours later? Are you trying to kill me, woman?”
“Oh, that’s what you meant.”
“What—”
“When I bite my lip. It turns you on. Oh, Bren, you shouldn’t give me ammo like that,” she teases me. She’s damn well aware of my obsession with her lips.
I watch as she shifts in the bed, props her phone up with a cushion, and leans forward toward the screen like a cat. She bites her lower lip, and my cock twitches despite my exhaustion. Fucking hell. Then she gets on her knees to show me her short shorts, and I smile at the screen.
Bringing a finger to her mouth, she sucks it and trails it down her front until it plunges inside her shorts. The fabric bulges with her knuckles as she pleasures herself.
“Fuck, Sofia—” I stammer out and close my eyes. I’m about to reach for my now-hard cock when she speaks again.
“Tsk, tsk,” she says, biting her lip. She shakes her index finger side to side, motioning a ‘no,’ then grabs for her phone. “It’s bedtime for you,” she says and ends the call.
My eyes widen with horror at what she just did. I’ve never been so powerless in my life.
I’m so fucked.
And she is in for it now.
ELEVEN
Sofia
Joe and our two cooks, Rubén and Martín, show up at the bar early on Thursday. We have a food delivery, and they want to do some prep work. I write out the specials for this coming weekend on the chalkboard we place on the sidewalk Thursday through Saturday night.
Bren has been gone a week and is supposed to have a weekend off soon, so I have a bit of a pep in my step today.
He wouldn’t forgive me for how I teased him that first night he was away. My punishment was a nightly video chat, text, or phone sex over the last three days. I don’t mind too much being punished by an international rock god.
Poor me.
“What’s that smile for?”
