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Kieran’s rage has settled to nothing. He’s giving it his all and smiling more, especially when it comes to Lyric. Callum stopped fighting cold turkey and hasn’t had a bruise in two whole weeks. It’s odd to see him without the discoloration on his face or body, but I’m glad he stopped.
More often than not these days, Callum sneaks out around three and comes back at six covered in sand, with a goofy smile lighting up his face. I was starting to worry about my damn brother all the time. I knew one day I’d find him dead in an alleyway after mouthing off to some asshole on the street. Thankfully, it never happened. So, I can rest easy now.
“At least you bitches just get to sway and look pretty. I’m pounding my shit into the drums as hard as I can. God, I think I’m fucking dying.” I wave my hand in front of my face, trying to get cool air across my overheated skin. What I wouldn’t give for one of those glorious ice baths.
Ahh, yeah. Dip my nuts into the ice until they’re scurrying back inside me instead of trying to melt off. A guy can dream.
I love my Pretty Girl. I really fucking do. With my whole goddamn heart and body, I also know what she’s up to. She doesn’t think I do. Probably doesn’t think I’m as quick as I am. But I know she’s trying to get us back into shape. I’m an intelligent guy when I want to be.
But something has to give. It’s been like this since everything came to a head, and we made our pact to not fuck anything else up.
And this last stint of torture has been three long ass days.
Yesterday, we were kidnapped and taken to a county fair four hours away. Don’t get me wrong, being on stage again felt glorious. It’s been months since we’ve been on tour and getting back up there playing our music in sync was fucking beautiful. Sure, we’ve played a few shows per the rules of our contract with River. But it wasn’t like this. This is fucking brutal.
Then, after our orgasmic performance. Because yeah, I may have cum a little during because I knew my Pretty Girl was right in my sights, watching my every move. I could have used Little Rad as a fucking drumstick. Scratch that. That wouldn’t have felt very good unless it was a pussy drum attached to my girl.
Then after that performance, we were ushered home to the band house, where she ripped each of our testicles off and made a damn necklace. With pride, too. Her smile may have lit up the room, but it put the fear of God in our souls. I mean, she’s hot with nuts all around her face. Or nuts on her face. But not at that moment. Abso-fucking-lutely not.
“I want you boys to look this over,” she says, handing Kieran a piece of paper.
“What is it?” Kieran asks, taking the paper from her outstretched hand. As his eyes gaze at the report, they widen in surprise. His body stiffens, and he sucks in a breath.
“This is a list of everything I noticed that could be improved during your shows. I want you guys to look over this carefully. This will help you be aware of what I’m looking at and what you can adjust. This is your homework for tonight. We have two more shows tomorrow.”
“Two?” I choke on my water, letting it dribble down my chin. “Tomorrow?” I squeak pathetically, clinging to the couch. Please don’t let it be true. I don’t know If I can survive another two rounds of performances.
“Two,” she says, giving me that oh-so-pleased smile she’s perfected lately.
Evil Pretty Girl is hot as fuck, but goddamn, I need a break. My body might give out on me if I have to drum again.
Yup. This is fucking torture. It’s our goddamn penance for being little shits and walking away from her instead of being big boys and having a conversation. Oh, if I could go back in time and pull my dick up—we’d all be in a better place. Maybe we wouldn’t be rock stars in the prime of our lives. But nowadays, that doesn’t seem as important as River and Lyric.
“There’s like twenty things here, River Blue. Were we really that bad?” Kieran asks, rubbing a tired hand down his weary face.
“Not terrible. But not good either.”
Well, ouch. Spank my ass and call me Ashton because this woman is bending us over and telling us exactly how it is. Add in a spiky cactus up our asses without the necessary lube. I shudder. Damn, my butthole puckers at the stern look she gives each of us. Would she be offended if I called her Mommy and sucked her tit? Probably. Then we’d be in even more trouble, and she’d probably add another thousand shows to torture us with.
“When I watched you guys before you played as one, you moved around and commanded the stage, forcing everyone to have their eyes on you. You were electric, enthralling, and now, you’re like watching paint dry. You’re as stiff as boards up there, eyeing each other like you’re ready to pounce and rip your heads off. You don’t smile anymore; you don’t even act like you like music. So, I’m curious, do you guys still enjoy playing, or is this a chore?”
Talk about a slap in the dick. She accused us—Whispered Words—of not enjoying our passion. The audacity! But wait, do we enjoy our passion anymore? Reaching deep inside myself, I try to pull out the magical feeling. Shit. It doesn’t come. Where’s the giddiness and eagerness I always felt before shows? It’s…empty. The well is dry. I frown, staring around the room at the other guys, oblivious to the pain ricocheting through me.
“Just think about it. I’ll see you in the morning. We have a show at noon and a show at the KC Club in the evening. Get some rest, boys,” she coos, strolling out of the room, sashaying that curvy ass that I want to paint red with my palm. But I’m a good boy. I stay planted in my seat, blinking rapidly, and trying to digest what the fuck just happened. Also, I’m too tired to fucking move.
“Did that just really happen?” I frown, saying my thoughts aloud.
“Yeah,” Kieran grunts, staring over the paper. “Looks like we have fucking homework.”
“For the pact,” Callum murmurs, leaning over to peek at the paper.
“For the pact,” I reluctantly say.
I’d much rather sleep it off in my bed than look over my critique.All for the Pretty Girl, I repeat in my head, cringing at her words.
“For the pact,” Asher agrees.
When River leaves us sitting in our self-deprecating juices, we discuss how we want to move forward with this. We have to prove to my Pretty Girl that this is it for us, we want this, and there’s no other way around it. Music is our damn lives. Always has been and always will be. Maybe.
