High (2 page)

“Firstly, it’s ten thirty.”

“Case in point. Do not expect me to look like anything other than absolute fucking shit before midday.”

“Secondly, who’s the guy? He sounds hot.”

 “He actually is. Shocker. And how many times Milly? Do not let me wander off with strangers!”  

“Unless they’re hot.” She corrects.

I glance at him. “Eh, the hot ones give you the clap.” She snorts and his lips twitch in just a hint of a smile as his eyes lock with mine. Damn he’s intense in a ‘my vagina feels like a tsunami just hit home’ kind of way.

“Hurry up, bring coffee, and then tell me all.” She hangs up.

I groan and throw the phone down on the bed before sitting up. “I need to borrow a shirt.”

Five minutes later and I’ve managed to sort of make myself look okay. I have one of hot guy’s shirts on and have tied one of his belts around my waist. Dress shirt and stilettos, fuck it.

I rummage in the bottom of my clutch until I find what I’m looking for, a small, clear plastic bag with a tiny amount of white powder in the bottom. The world’s best hangover cure. I check that the bathroom door is still closed before I pour it onto the bedside table. I can hear the shower running, and I can practically see the water cascading over those muscles now. The thought has me clenching my thighs together.

I take out my driver’s license and a note, cutting the coke and then inhaling the small line. The effect is almost instant, like a shot of adrenaline ripping through my veins. I close my eyes, a small smile pulling at my lips as I relish in the beautiful burn.

When I open them, hot guy is standing in the doorway, covered in nothing but a towel and a few stray droplets of water which are tracking down his chest, into the gutter that lays between his abs.

I stand, putting my card and money back in my clutch. “Well, thanks for the shirt, and…” I flash him a smile. “Other stuff.”

His eyes narrow and his lips pull into a wry smile that makes my heart splutter like a blushing school girl, and trust me, those days are long gone. I move past him and he grabs me by the arm before he yanks me forward, pulling me flush against his hot body as he slams his lips over mine. I never believe in that bullshit where people say a kiss is amazing. To me, a kiss is just a sloppy, drunken dance floor prequel to a dirty fuck in a bathroom or the ever classy one-night stand. An orgasm can make you see fireworks, but a kiss, never. Until now.

He kisses me like he’s fucking my mouth, controlling it, manipulating it. Manipulating me. I feel weak, and before I know what I’m doing, my hands are cupping his face, my nails scratching over his stubble. His hands roam my body, pushing under the short hem of his shirt and squeezing my arse as he slides his thigh between my legs, pressing it against my barely covered pussy. I whimper against his lips like a desperate slut, probably because I’d give my left tit for a bit more friction right now.

I never fuck a one-night stand more than once, usually because they’re so fucking awful I question how the fuck I ever got inebriated enough to find them remotely attractive. This one, though, he looks like something out of GQ magazine, and I could take a crack at that all day long.

He kisses me until I feel like I can’t breathe, and then he pulls away. “Goodbye, Duchess.”

I smile. “Bye, hot guy.”

I stagger out of the hotel room and want to scream because I’m now so sexually frustrated I could hump the fucking wall.

For once, I wish I could remember last night. I’m pretty sure that would have been at least a years’ worth of spank bank material.

I catch a taxi to the address Milly gave me. It’s in Brooklyn, in some warehouse, loft thing.

Some hippie looking dude opens the door. He looks like he needs a good wash and a haircut. Holy shit, I sound like my mother, and that is never a good thing.

“The wanderer returns.” Milly shouts, and it echoes off the empty space. “What are you wearing? I can see your nipples.” She eyes my shirt with a cocked eyebrow as she approaches. Milan Morgan is my best friend. Crazy, bossy, loyal. I adore her. She places a hand on her hip, tossing her long dark hair over her shoulder. I smirk as I glance down at her sky scraper heels. It should be noted that she’s also wearing trackies. She’s short, it’s her thing. No matter what the outfit.

“The shirt is hot guys. And my nipples want to be seen.” I hand her the coffee I picked up on the way over.

She laughs. “You don’t know his name?” She asks incredulously.

“Don’t sound shocked.”

Hippie guy moves next to Milly, throwing an arm around her shoulder. “Oh, Blake, this is Noah.” I roll my eyes. Milly has the worst taste in men, artists, musicians, writers, you name it and she’s on it. This one looks stoned out of his face. Not that I’m one to talk, I’m still a little buzzed from the blow I took this morning.

“Hey, so what shots do you want?”

“I’m an erotic artist.” He drawls slowly. “But, my art work is very exclusive…”

I smile. “Oh. Don’t worry about that. In fact, there are a couple of magazines in England that would probably pay you good money for the shots.”

“More than a couple.” Milly mumbles. I laugh, imagining my father’s puce face as he looks at his naked daughter’s picture slapped all over some tabloid. Gold.

I do the shoot for Noah. I look like shit, but that seems to be the look he wants. Milly back brushes my hair and smudges my eye makeup. Apparently the look they’re going for is desperately troubled…and naked.

When we’re done, Milly kisses him goodbye.

“Thanks, Blake.” He grins. “Don’t ever let it be said that you British girls don’t know how to have fun.”

I laugh. “We
redefine
the word.” 

 “So, where are we going tonight?” I ask Milly as soon as we get in the back of the town car.

“Oh, tonight is going to be amazing. Stone invited me to their gig.”

I wait, but she says nothing. “Okay, who is Stone, and what gig?”

“I swear you listen to nothing I say. Stone, the guitarist from Pandemic Sorrow.” I don’t listen because she dates a lot of weird men.

“Nope and nope. Between, Noah the hippie, Julian the poet, and god knows who else I can’t keep up.”

“Pandemic. Sorrow. Big rock band. They’re playing at Madison Square Garden.” Okay, never heard of them, but they must be a big deal if they’re playing Madison.

“How do you know him?”

She shrugs, a small smile playing over her lips. “I met him back at that gig in Miami. Remember, Note? The live music bar?” I frown because no, I do not remember. “You went off with that surfer guy for like three days after…”

“Oh, yeah. Bahamas, a fuck load of shrooms. Good times.” She sighs. “So you met him in Miami. And why are you now seeing him in New York?”

She shrugs, grinning. “We connected. He liked my accent, I liked his pierced dick and the rest is history.”

“Ah, I haven’t done pierced dick since that time I had my tongue pierced and got it stuck on Cam Robinson’s Prince Albert.”

She snorts. It was awful. I had to go to A&E, and really what can you say to explain what was possibly in your mouth that could rip your fucking tongue piercing out? I thought I was going to look like one of those freaky people with forked tongues and tattooed eyeballs.

“Anyway, the rocker…You haven’t seen him since Miami?” I ask. “Just checking, seeing as you’re making this sound like some love story.”

She rolls her eyes. “Once. When he’s in town, I see him, and when he’s not, I see Noah and Julian.”

“And every other emotionally damaged weirdo you can find.” I add, checking my phone.

“Life is a party…”

“Just keep dancing. Or fucking. Whichever.”

“Tomato, Tomato.” She grins and tosses her long, dark hair over her shoulder before sliding her enormous sun glasses onto her face.

I would never tell her, but her rock star parties are my favourite. Sex, drugs and rock ‘n roll. What’s not to love?

I watch from behind the metal railings, right in front of the stage, as the lead singer practically fucks his fans with his voice. What is it about rock stars? It must be the arrogant bad boy thing. I’m not into the groupie thing, and yet he has even me ready to throw my knickers at him.

The crowd goes wild, crushing us against the railings as they press forward, probably hoping to catch a drop of his sweat. Milly informed me that this pussy magnet is, in fact, Jag Steele, and Stone is his brother.

They’re on their last song when Milly starts dragging me through the crowd, which pretty much becomes a full contact sport as I have to elbow my way through people. The security guard lets us back stage with barely a glance. And as soon as we set foot in the back stage area I feel positively over dressed, a fucking achievement let me tell you.

“Jesus, these bitches make me look like a fucking nun.” Okay, I’ll rephrase. I’m practically dressed like a nun compared to them.

Milly laughs. “Welcome to rock groupies. They come pre-stripped, and they’ll get on their knees for a signed tit.” She says in a sing song voice.

“Hey, I’ve been known to get on my knees for a signed tit.”

“My signed tit, your knees, it’s different.”

“Uh-huh.” And for a certain Irish actor, I would get on my knees again, as long as he talks dirty to me in that accent.

The band comes off stage, and I wait for Milly to do her thing. The way Stone says her name, ‘Milan’, it’s like he’s rubbing his dick all over it.

The singer walks straight out the back, ignoring everyone, and the bassist…the bassist saunters past me like he owns me, dragging his eyes over every inch of my body until I feel like he’s stripped me naked and came on my tits. It’s quite a skill.

“Blake, this is Stone.” Milly introduces us, eyeing me in warning.

I’ll give it to the Steele boys, the family has good genes,
really
good genes. He watches me through dark eyes rimmed with eyeliner. I’m not a fan of the emo look, but on him, it works. He has that brooding, misunderstood musician thing going on. Just how Milly likes them.

 
His hair is damp with sweat and sticking to his forehead, just like his sweaty t-shirt is sticking to his body in all the right places.

“Hey.” He gives me the obligatory chin lift and then proceeds to shove his tongue down my bestie’s throat. And that’s my cue to leave.

Rock music blasts around the back stage area. Various people are scattered over sofas, leaning against the bar, but wherever you look, there are half naked girls. I get a double vodka from the bar and pop a couple of pills, necking my drink with them.

“My kind of girl.” I turn around and come face to face with the bassist.

“I’m sorry. Do I know you?”

He smirks, stepping into my personal space. “I’m Rush Wilder, you sweet thing. Everyone knows me.”

“You or your dick?”

“Well.” He laughs. “You’re welcome to get acquainted. Cushion?” He holds out a cushion with the band logo on it. “Wouldn’t want you to hurt your knees.”

I laugh, and for some reason, I like him. He’s shameless, and shameless is my language. “See how drunk you can get me, and ask me again.” I tease.