I finish up my song, kiss the tip of my sticks, and start in on another. I have no idea what time we're supposed to go clubbing, but I don't give a fuck. If the others have to wait, so be it. When the devil calls, I come running, letting his demons prick me with their horns until I'm pouring sweat, tasting it on my lips, feeling it slick up my fingers. Doesn't stop me. I keep playing, hitting my kit hard, hoping the sticks turn to splinters in my hands, shards that can cut at the same time they can sing. I want that.
I use a heel-toe technique on my kick drum, a rocking movement that produces a double stroke. It's supposedly hard to do, but not for me. I'm not trying to brag, not trying to toot my own horn; this is just the way things are. If there's one place in my life that I've never struggled, that I've never screwed up, it's this.
Lola's voice rises in time with my playing, until she's shouting and sliding to the floor, a quivering pile of flesh and shuddering muscles, a pulsing heartbeat and sweat sprinkled skin that draws me like a moth to flame. I want to let myself fucking burn. I screw the rest of the song out, gritting my teeth and clenching so hard that one of my sticks really does break.
I stand up suddenly and chuck it against the wall, shoving my kit unceremoniously out of the way as I stomp across the carpet in my boots and slide my arms under Lola, fingers tight against her skin but gentle.
“Like I said,” she whispers as I carry her to our ugly gold bedspread and lay her out on the king sized bed I never thought I'd have, that I'd end up sharing with another drummer. “Bloody brilliant.” I lean down, nibble her earlobe and breathe a sigh of contentment against her throat. Sweat drips from my body onto hers as I slide my stick up her thigh and find her heat, pushing it inside as Lola gasps and arches her back.
“Now I'm going to play you like I play my drums,” I growl out, letting that feral urge break over me. I mean fuck it. Why fight? I keep trying to hold myself in check, keep preparing for the worst, but isn't it already over? Yeah, sure I have some gumshoeing to do, some answers to discover, some bullshit to shovel, but I can relax for this one, single, little moment, can't I? “Next time, it'll be your turn to play me something.”
Lola starts to speak, but I cover her mouth with mine, fucking her with the slick piece of wood, the one that just made my kit sing, but is much, much happier here, drawing sounds from Lola's throat.
“More,” she whispers, reaching down to grab my wrist, to graze her teeth across my lower lip. “I need more. Get that skinny stick out of the way and fuck me with your cock. Now.” I raise an eyebrow and sit back, sliding the stick from her pussy and raising it to my mouth. Lola's eyes shimmer like sapphires and she raises an eyebrow. “You wouldn't dare.” I slide the stick between my lips, tasting her heat, the sweetness of her body. Can't help myself. This is all her fault. She's the one that asked me to play. The music always wakes up all sorts of weird shit inside of me. Normally, I dull it back down with drugs. Today, I don't have that luxury. So if I'm thinking all kinds of weird shit – like how I'm going to marry this girl – you'll have to excuse me. I'm a drummer; it's what we do. And, like I said before, I had a chance with a soul mate and I lost it. Not many people get a second one. I refuse to waste it.
So I lick the stick and then fling it away, against the glass doors that lead out to the balcony.
“You're a nasty fuck, aren't you, Ronnie?” she asks me, sliding her hands up my sweat soaked abs, digging her fingernails into the grooves of my muscles. I smile down at her, tracing the leopard tattoo on her shoulder, the drum kit on her belly. Lucky for her, the bullet managed to avoid fucking up her ink. That'd have been a damn shame. I scoot back and lean over, running my tongue across the words Sugar Baby that are tattooed under her belly button. “Bloody fucking pervert.”
“Only if that's what you want me to be,” I whisper, looking up from under a fall of dark hair. I sweep it away and sit up again, unbuttoning my jeans. I pause at the zipper and scoot off the bed, retreating into the bathroom to dump out my duffel bag. Underneath all the drug paraphernalia are a handful of condoms, all with the Indecency logo of course. I'm definitely going to need some more, and very, very soon. Or at least until my test results come back. Then maybe Lola can get on the pill or whatever. Or shit, maybe I should get a vasectomy? As much as I'd love to see Lola pregnant with my baby, I already have four fucking kids. All under the age of seven. Ugh.
I cut those thoughts off at the source and jog back into the room to find Lola bent over, ass up in the air, stretching like a kitty cat. Fuck. Her panties are gone, pussy swollen and ready for me, and my fingers itch to take hold of her hips and pound her like a snare drum.