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This night is fucking unbelievable. Indescribable. I’m on a high, and I never want to come down.
I’m also sweating profusely, not that anyone notices thanks to my all-black outfit. It’s been a while since I’ve performed in front of a crowd, and there are a lot more people at this shindig than I thought there would be. When Daddy Warbucks, a.k.a. Fitzy Lancaster, reached out to me via DM and asked if I’d perform for his daughter’s birthday party, I blew him off. Figured it was someone trying to catfish my ass.
Trust that I’ve had a few weird interactions since I started doing these personalized greetings, but a man’s gotta do what he can to survive, and I make a decent amount of cash. I’ve had a lot of strange requests, though. Like that one chick who keeps offering to pay me for dick pics. She started out at five thousand—definitely not enough. Her most recent offer is fifteen grand. Naturally I declined.
Though I was still tempted, can’t lie. Just for one photo? Granted it would be of my dick, and that’s just...
Not smart. Not after all the bullshit I’ve been through over the last few years.
Lancaster was persistent, messaging me constantly about how his daughter is turning eighteen and he’s throwing her a party. I was her favorite member of Five Car Pileup, blah blah blah. I’ve heard it all before, a thousand times over. She probably humped her favorite stuffed animal to thoughts of me late at night while staring at a poster of the band on her wall. I get it.
This scenario isn’t new to me.
He somehow got my phone number, and when he called, I picked up because I saw the name Lancaster flashing on my screen. Next thing I know, we’re talking about cars and music and fashion designers—all shit I care about like the shallow asshole I can still be. An hour later, and he’s got me agreeing to perform a full set of songs at his precious baby daughter’s birthday party. My payment?
One million dollars.
Yeah, I couldnotturn that amount down. I thought at first he might be playing me, but after our long phone conversation, he told me he felt we had a connection, and he wanted to help me out.
Now here I am, onstage and singing my heart out in front of a live audience for the first time in years, and it feels... damn good.
Don’t get me wrong. I prepped and practiced during the weeks leading up to this event. Hired a vocal coach I’d worked with years ago and did some vocal exercises to get ready. After a few hour-long lessons—paid for with some of the money Fitzy sent me as an advance—he told me I sounded better than I ever had. I figured he was blowing smoke up my ass, but maybe he was right, because tonight, this performance...
It feelsright, being onstage, singing to all the screaming, attractive women. When the Lancasters throw a party, pretty sure they invite all the beautiful people in New York City. Well-kept older ladies and pretty young things who are screaming so loud for me, I’m pretty sure they’re creaming their panties right about now. Any one of them I could take home with me. Even one of the married ones.
Especially one of the married ones.
But I’m a different person now. I don’t do that kind of shit anymore. No womanizing. No drinking, no drugs. I’m clean and sober and I meditate and I’ve met with a life coach more often than I care to admit. I go to the gym five days a week—Planet Fitness, not a private trainer, but a guy down on his luck can only do so much. I repeat affirmations on the daily, and I’ve recently reduced my red meat consumption. Damn it, I’m healthy, and sometimes...
Sometimes I’m bored as shit.
Can’t let that get me down, though. I’m striving and trying. That’s all that matters.
I finish yet another song, pausing as I let the wave of cheers and applause wash over me, a big ol’ grin on my face while I try to catch my breath. This running around onstage and eye-fucking a large number of women is exhausting now that I’m an old man of twenty-one.
I need to up my workout sessions, that’s for damn sure.
“How are we doing tonight, yeah?” I say into the mic, grinning when they all scream at me, their hands up in the air. “Pretty good, am I right?”
I scan the screaming crowd, looking for Little Miss Pink Pouf. The birthday girl can’t be missed in the dress that reminds me of an elaborate cake. Clearly, she’s trying to catch people’s attention, and I suppose I can’t blame her considering this party is all for her. Hundreds of people in attendance, lush flowers everywhere that probably cost a fortune, and then there’s that table full of cakes I noticed earlier, when her father informed me rather proudly that there are eighteen of them in honor of his precious Scarlett.
She’s a spoiled-rotten princess, I’m sure. Despite the overwhelming dress that could’ve made her completely disappear, she still looks hot as fuck. All that long brown hair spilling down her back. The dark-brown eyes that appear fathomless. She was smiling and eating me up with that gaze earlier. Dancing front and center of the stage at the beginning of my set, but now I don’t know where she went.
“Where’s the birthday girl, huh? Someone going to find Scarlett for me?” I ask the crowd.
Heads start turning; phones come out. They’re on the hunt for her, when she should be fairly obvious. In fact, I spot her at that exact moment, standing at one of the makeshift bars, bringing a glass of pink champagne to her lips just when the pale-pink spotlight hits her.
“There she is! Come here, birthday girl!” I wave my hand toward the stage, and she shakes her head.
Doesn’t budge either.
My hand drops to my side, the mic forgotten as I shout, “Aw, come on, Scarlett Lancaster! Join me onstage!”
She glares at me.
I grin at her.
