AllFreeNovel
Share Us
I don’t trust myself to.
“Tomorrow,” I finally manage to grunt out. “Tomorrow, you’re getting the hell off my island, if I have to ferry you over myself.”
Because I need you fucking gone.
She nods.
“I know. I get it. And thank—”
“Don’t fucking thank me.”
My eyes narrow.
“Just get gone.”
11
Jackson
Seventeen Years Ago, London:
“You knowwho I bet fucked a lot?”
I glance up from the guitar in my hands to where Iggy is sprawled out shirtless on the couch, drumming against the back of it. A haze of smoke from…several different substances hangs like fog in the lavish hotel suite. And the very faintest glow of morning is beginning to creep in around the edges of the shaded windows.
“Oi, Iggs, we talkin’ about your mum again?”
I grin at Will’s voice from behind me, followed by the familiar flick of his zippo. Iggy glances past me, grinning himself as he raises a middle finger.
I blink, trying to focus as I glance around at the scene of absolute carnage around me. The picked-clean bones of our last-night’s decadence of the after-show party lie tumbled around the room. Topless and naked groupies drape like discarded clothes across couches and the floor, and I can hear someone—God only knows who, orbywho—getting absolutelyrailedin one of the bedrooms down the hall.
Behind me, Will sits slumped in a chair smoking a cigarette and drinking heavily from a bottle of scotch. The blonde passed out at his feet with her head against his knee suddenly stirs, fumbling and reaching a hand up. Will passes her the smoke, which she drags on—comically, as the big Velvet Guillotine flag that she probably bought at the show last night falls off her shoulders, baring her tits.
“Gene Simmons,” Asher mutters from the corner of the suite, where he seems to be fastidiously dividing coke into the most even lines ever achieved by a drug user, all with two utterlyblastedlooking girls in miniskirts and tube tops perched on his knees.
As if anyone in this room needs more ofanythingin our systems right now.
“You asked who fucked a lot. Gene Simmons,” he shrugs.
Iggy raises a brow.
“Fair guess but disqualified for obvious reasons.”
“Obvious reasons like being inKiss,” I snicker..
“FUCKKISS!” All four of us crow at once before devolving into drunken, drug-slurred laugher.
I don’t even know where the Kiss-hate originated from. I mean, aside from the fact that they’re a mediocre band with like one good song who basically got famous for wearing Halloween makeup.
Needless to say, we allhatelame gimmicky bands.
“Simmons is a good one, but, nah.” Iggy shakes his head, dropping his drumsticks and reaching for the bottle of whiskey on the floor next to the couch he’s draped across. He takes a heavy gulp.
“Dean Martin.”
“Fuck, good one,” Will mutters.
“Right? Like, you know it. But you don’treallyknow it until you do. And then it’s just like…that guyfucked.A lot.”
