Chapter One—Rellik
Aftermath: the period of time after a bad and usually destructive event
“You have a killer smile,” the half-lit blonde with the perky tits slurred before tipping the bottle of bottom-shelf vodka to her mouth.
“All the better to eat you with, my dear.” I ran my tongue over my lips and smiled up at her as her hips swayed offbeat to the music. She giggled as she placed one knee beside me on the couch. I grabbed her hips to steady her as she straddled me.
“I can’t believe I’m going to fuck Rellik fuckin’ Bentley.” She attempted to take another sip, and I watched as vodka ran down her chin and pooled in her cleavage. Rolling my eyes, I jerked the bottle from her lips with more force than necessary.
“You won’t be if you pass the fuck out on my lap, now, will you?” I snapped.
She frowned as she put her hands on my shoulders and rolled her hips. “I’m sorry, baby,” she purred. “Did I hurt your feelings?” Her fingers trailed along my jaw, and I struggled to not pull back from her touch. Intimacy wasn’t my strong suit.
“Hardly.” I knocked her hand away and rested my head on the back of the couch as the alcohol began to warm my body and quiet the memories.
“Can I kiss it and make it better?” Her lips pressed against my chest, and I let my eyes fall closed.
“If it will shut you up.” I laughed as I slid my fingers into her hair and tightened my grip, guiding her head lower. I didn’t want her mouth on mine. It was a rule that was strictly adhered to.
They were all the same. Mindless whores willing to part their legs like the goddamn Red Sea just to be able to say they fucked a guy in a band. But none of them really knew anything about me and the hell that lived inside my head. The rock star persona was a far cry from the man I really was. It was a shell. We weren’t even fucking famous, but it didn’t stop the local groupies from throwing themselves at us. We had built a steady fan base in New Orleans, and with the constant flow of tourists, our reputation had grown.
“You like that, baby?” The girl ran her tongue over her heavily glossed lower lip as she looked up at me through her fake lashes.
“I’m not your fucking baby. Do what you’re here to do or get the fuck out.”
She groaned and rolled her eyes, but her mouth went back around my dick, and she sucked as if her life depended on it. There was no secret what was happening here. She was using me to feel special, and I needed to forget.
“Fuck,” I mumbled as my fist tightened in her dry, bleached locks. My stomach muscles clenched as her tongue swirled under the head of my cock before my dick hit the back of her throat. She gagged, and the reflex sent me over the edge. I came hard, holding her head in place to make sure she swallowed every last drop. She did so happily, wiping her pink acrylic nail under her mouth as she smiled up at me seductively.
“What about me?” she purred and just like that, the high from coming evaporated, the ever-present memories returned.
“What about you?” My eyes narrowed as I zipped my jeans and ran my hand over my stomach.
“You’re such a jerk,” she snapped as she pushed to her feet and straightened her top.
“You’re just figuring that out? It’s a little late for modesty, don’t you think?” My eyes drifted to her chest as she huffed and stormed off toward the door. “It was a pleasure,” I called after her with a chuckle as it slammed behind her. I didn’t play the game like other guys. I didn’t give a fuck anymore about trying to impress women and get on their good side. There was no point. It wouldn’t lead anywhere because there was nothing more I wanted than a good fuck and to be left alone. There was no challenge in the way they threw themselves at me.
I grabbed the open bottle of Jack from the stand beside the couch and tipped it to my lips, letting the welcomed burn wash away another day. There was a tap at the door, and it squeaked open as Trigger stuck his head inside.
“She didn’t last long.” He smirked as he glanced over his shoulder.
“Neither did I,” I quipped as I tipped the bottle up once more. Trigger shook his head, his caramel-colored hair falling into his eyes as his tongue piercing stuck out between his lips. Trig and I were polar opposites even though physically we could pass for brothers. I didn’t have a single tattoo or piercing. He had more ink than a fucking paperback, but he was one of the few people in the world I would die for, even kill for. He was also the only one who knew what kind of hell I’d been through because he had walked on the embers for most of his life.
“You killed her dreams,” Trig joked as he grabbed the bottle from my hand, laughing as it sloshed onto my stomach. His dog tags clinked as he chuckled, but there was no humor in his expression. Trigger had spent a few years in the army after he became of age, but was honorably discharged after a misunderstanding with his sergeant that they chalked up to PTSD. The real story was something he never talked about, and we all knew better than to bring it up.