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The rock and roller shook her mop of black hair and leaned back in her seat.
“Nah. I’ve known Matt and Jimmy since we were just a trio of weird kids in high school. We grew up together, and they know what kind of force I am. They’re great guys. On top of that, you won’t find a more talented bass guitarist or drummer out there. They understand their roles, and I know mine. It’s a symbiotic relationship or whatever it’s called. I may be the face of the group, but Tortured Hearts wouldn’t exist without Matt Mahoney and Jimmy Duke.”
“On that subject, I hate to ask this, but my editor would kill me if I didn’t,” Lola began hesitantly. She gave Giselle a sheepish smile.
Giselle rolled her amber eyes and chuckled. “Oh boy. Here we go. It’s the ‘have they, will they’ question, right?”
Lola blushed and nodded. “Inquiring minds want to know.”
“I get it—people see one chick and two dudes in a band and just assume they must be sleeping together,” the musician surmised. “Like I said, the boys and I have been friends for a long time. But it’s never been like that, not even for a second.”
“There’s no tension in the studio? No romantic thoughts while you’re writing songs together on long, late nights?” the journalist pried.
“That’s the last thing on my mind when I’m in the studio. If I’m writing lyrics or recording a song, I’m deep inside the music. I get lost in the beat. I eat, drink, and breathe that melody until it becomes what I envision,” Giselle waxed poetic.
“That’s beautiful,” Carrie breathed.
“What about dating outside of the band? What does the love life of a rock ‘n’ roll queen look like?” Lola pressed.
Giselle bit her lip and leaned in to pick up her rum and Coke. She hoped it wasn’t too obvious she was stalling as she sipped the drink. Lola stared at her expectantly.
“Not to be a disappointment to your readers, but my love life is… not the most interesting part of me,” was Giselle’s careful answer. “I know we’re called Tortured Hearts, but my heart is doing just fine right now. On its own.”
“Would you ever date a fan?” blurted out Carrie.
Lola shot her a warning glance, but Giselle looked amused.
“Good question, Carrie. I guess it would depend on the fan. I mean, he’d have to be my type,” she explained, gulping down another sip.
“And what is your type?” Lola asked.
Giselle grinned and shrugged. “Don’t know. Haven’t met him yet. What I do know for sure is that there isn’t a man on this planet who can boss me around.”
The group of young women smiled conspiratorially. Giselle tended to have that effect on others. She was a welcome shock to the system, cool enough to put you at ease, yet fiery enough to make you feel alive. The rest of the interview passed in a similar high-energy fashion. Questions and answers bounced back and forth in an almost rhythmic harmony. Giselle was in a fantastic mood, seeing these accomplished young women laugh along with her and share in the joy of being female powerhouses in their respective fields.
Sure, Giselle was famous enough to get recognized multiple times by shy, reverent strangers throughout the evening. But she wasn’t stingy with the spotlight, as her detractors claimed. As potent as her personality was, her fans came away from her feeling buoyant and inspired. She shared a little bit with everyone, while never losing sight of herself.
It was growing dark outside by the time Giselle stepped out onto the Boulevard and ordered a cab via app. She lived only a short distance away from Swirling Cosmos, in Silver Lake, but the traffic made it a twenty-minute drive. She gazed out the window at the hazy bright lights of the city, which quickly gave way to charming residential neighborhoods. Houses and blocky apartment buildings recessed into the hills, and trees lined the streets. She sighed with happy relief when the taxi pulled to the curb in front of her marigold-colored Mission-revival house. She tipped the driver generously and slinked up the staircase to her front door.
Feeling a little buzzed from cocktails and still wearing a tired smile on her face, she fiddled with the key code and slipped into the little house. She wandered down the dark hallway to her bathroom and flipped on the light. Without even stopping to glance at her reflection, Giselle started running a hot bath. She hummed softly as she stripped off her black clothes to reveal her pale, nubile body underneath. She poured a scoop of lavender-scented salt into the steaming water and stirred it around with her hand until it dissolved.
With a little shiver of surprise at the heat, she slid down into the tub. Her muscles twinged as the hot water rolled over her taut stomach and long legs. Her breasts bobbed gently when she moved, her rosy pink nipples poking from the surface and exposed to the cool air. Giselle dipped backward to dunk her mop of black hair under the water. She slicked it back with both hands before sliding over onto her stomach to gently wash her face.
Turning again on her back, she lathered up and began to massage the fragrant soap into her skin. The hot water whisked it away in iridescent bubbles while Giselle’s body slowly relaxed. Resting her head back, she closed her eyes and let her hands smooth down over the swell of her tits. A breath caught in her throat as her fingers danced over her stiffened nipples. She felt a familiar longing pull at her soul, and a tingle between her thighs. She licked her lips as her mind wandered back over the evening. Giselle was still riding the high of the evening, feeling proud of herself and sure that she’d killed the interview. She deserved a little self-care.
And a little self-love.
As her hand slipped down to cup her aching mound, she pondered the question Lola had asked her. “What is your type?”
Her answer had been a half-lie. Despite having never been in a serious relationship and remaining a virgin at twenty-two, Giselle did have some idea what she wanted.
Smart, kind, and tough enough to handle her. As fiercely independent as she was, deep down, Giselle longed to belong to someone. Heart, body, mind, soul. She wanted to be held—tightly, but not hostage. She would never admit it to anyone, but underneath her devil-may-care attitude was a soft voice begging to be dominated. She imagined what kind of man he’d have to be to control her. A deep, authoritative voice in her ear, whispering filthy demands.
Touch yourself there. Keep going. Don’t stop.
Giselle breathed the words to herself as her fingertips gently stroked a tight circle around her aching clit. She pictured a man caressing her, pushing his thumb between her full lips as he murmured the praise she was so eager to hear.
Good girl. Just like that. Now, come for me.
