Saving Abel (Rocker Series) (4 page)

Still in a fog, I stood up from my solid cherry-wood desk, pushed back my leather wheeled chair—and was hit from behind with the force of an NFL fullback. I lost my balance, catching myself awkwardly on my file cabinet. I steadied myself and whirled around to give Cindy a what-the-fuck look.

“You’ve got to be fucking shitting me?” Grabbing my arm mightily, she nearly yanked it free from its socket.

“We need to talk. Bathroom. Now!” she huffed. I acknowledged her by ripping my arm back.

“Pipe down, you twat. Just wait a goddamn minute and stop making a fucking scene—jackass.” I rolled my eyes hard while massaging my injured arm. What the fuck. Apparently we were still practicing grade-school etiquette when it came to boys.

“What the fuck ever, G. Let’s go now, before Mr. I’m-gonna-hump-you-where-you-stand comes back.” She manacled my arm—
again
. But this time I went with her theatrics. I needed to break this shit down, second by second, to see if we both came up with the same plausible theories. He
wanted
me. Sure as fuck: he
wanted
me. I was 100% clear on that shit. Unless it was my deluded mind again, seeing what it wanted to see. My mind had this shit down-pat: it fed my sickness, and shoveled mental acid to this day-tripper. Damn. I didn’t know what the fuck had just happened.

“Christ, Cindy. What the fuck, chick!” I pushed the heavy massive bathroom door, stepping into a space that looked like something out of Versailles. I huffed, ejecting my arm from her clutches—again.

“You’re playing a very dangerous game, babe.” She raised her designer brow, nodding.

“And? Your point being?” I turned around, squatting to see if all the stalls were empty. This place employed some nosey fuckers.

“Hello? Am I addressing the living?” She clucked her tongue, then turned to the mirror to blot her lipstick. Sheesh. The bathroom had a décor rich in deep ebony and cream with flecks of gold immersed within the marble. An elaborate chandelier suspended from the ceiling gave all of Mr. Gunner’s well-off clients the feeling of being at home. The extravagant mirrors with intricate woodwork adorned the walls artfully, continuing the main theme of exclusivity—of belonging.

“Well, I snuck a quickie peek of your rocker’s personal file. And it seems an old flame or conquest is threatening to expose his sexual preferences to the public. Which I don’t have to be a public relations expert to tell you: this will be very damaging to Abel, his family, and of course the band. Total nightmare. Why do you think he’s here at 9 a.m. on a Friday morning taking a meeting with his dad and manager?” All this she said in one long breath. Yeah, I had already known that.

My lips curved into a big toothy smile and I nodded knowingly.

“What kind of sexual preferences? My sexual preference is often,” I laughed. I felt her give pause. Oh, here comes the motherfucking karma police. Even though Cindy’s sexual prowess preceded
her
at times, she suffered from some kind of trauma in her past that she flat-out refused to speak of. She didn’t like overly dominant men—at all. Yeah, she talked the talk, but walked closer to vanilla then her lascivious mouth.

On the other hand, I was fearless … at least that’s what I projected. I got down with all that alpha male shit. I had never experienced a true BDSM Dom. I had had a couple of jealous boyfriends, but I had mistaken their insecurities and possessiveness for love. I had even gone as far as to allow one dude to tie me up. Nothing on a Mr. Grey level—but was there really even a Mr. Grey? Or was that just the fabrication of a horny homemaker with a nonexistent sex life? Lord, just talking about being bound had me all—
tied up
. A thousand tiny fires broke out across my skin, causing a heated sweat.

“Snap out of it!” She snapped her nimble fingers across my eyes. I blinked rapidly, dispelling another daydream.

“Okay, relax. We don’t even know if he wants to go out with me—yet.”

I excused myself to pee. I turned and headed for the handicapped stall. I needed to think for a minute in a stall that was a little bigger—more spacious. Quite a few people had a real problem with a non-disabled person using those facilities. Fuck ‘em. I had a handicapped grandmother with polio and the way I figured it, I had just as much right to be in there as a handicapped person. Christ, Cindy was a pain in my ass. Talk about giving someone a Cinderella complex. Well, fuck—I owned Cinderella.

Dislodging my belt, I lowered my pants and sat down, relishing the moment of silence. As I extended my hearing range wider, for a moment I could still hear Cindy barking and growling about
isn’t it obvious this, and moth to a flame that.
Shaking my head, I let my mind drift until I came to my floaty, peaceful place. Letting out a sigh of relief, I wondered how I had gotten to this state. Was I really going to latch onto a guy duplicitously to further my station?

My father had always had
great
taste in women. He had married a beauty—my mother. And he had always hired exquisite-looking help with rocking bodies, too. I wondered if the old man had hit Gia up yet.
Fucker!

Nevertheless, I needed to play my love life close to the vest. Morgana, my ex, was trying to fuck me and fuck me good and hard. She was pulling some pretty fucked-up shit, trying to turn the vanilla media and public against me. They wouldn’t understand my need to bind, dominate, and fuck women, within an inch of their lives. I had something broken in me—a need, a want I had little control over. I loved brutal sex. Liked it real rough. Bringing a chick pain with a side of pleasure was on the daily specials for Abel’s appetite menu. And I had a very healthy appetite. The more they screamed the harder my dick got—and the harder I came.

Some would say that I’m a sexual deviant. I say why label people and mind your own fuckin’ business. This was how I was born—how I chose to live. How my parents made me. It was in my DNA to be dominant. Spanking a chick till her ass came up a pretty shade of red made me wanna blow my load all over her ass—
mark
her. But, people and their opinions? Did I really care?

That was a loaded question. And the answer was both yes and no. As a rule, I was a private dude. But because I was in the public eye as a performer, I had signed away all rights to privacy. And prying eyes wanted to know what went down behind
my
bedroom door. The cold hard facts were: my family and band would
pay
for my preferences and indiscretions were they to be put on blast. Could it ruin my career, because I preferred to tie women up? I mean, they loved it. Came back for more and shit, screamed my name at the top of their lungs. That had to mean something, right? We were all consenting adults. Most chicks praised our Heavenly Father for the multiple organisms I gave them.

Speaking of coming, I needed to get that little vixen Gia firmly underneath me. My cock had twitched hard while I had chatted with her earlier. Fuck. I was still as hard as stone just thinking about her. I could
go
for working some of my kink on her. My dick throbbed and was fighting my zipper, MMA style. Poor guy wanted out in the worst way.

“Sweet Agony,” one of our most downloaded songs, was written as an homage to my love of BDSM. Its heavy bass laced with my throaty lyrics set it apart from anything those top-40 loving DJ’s were playing on the radio. It was erotic as fuck and every time we preformed it my balls pulled up north, relishing the phantom sensations of sex. Man, I loved to fuck. I needed to get laid. I was not one to rub one out. Don’t get me wrong: if it was absolutely necessary I would. But I preferred a female’s firm fist on my cock. A nice squeeze and a twist on the upstroke. I loved seeing their faces when they got an eyeful of my hardware and tatted dick. Most were awestruck, some were hesitant—no matter how they tried to play it off. Their eyes always gave it away … followed by their mouths forming a perfect O. As in:
O shit, I’m in trouble with this badass.
Some chicks were concerned about hurting me. They didn’t know their way around my hardware. Didn’t understand that if they were blowing me they needed to use some serious spit to work my loops properly. But, there were those few fan-girls who wanted to permanently face-plant there, too. Yeah, my dick had his own groupies—got fan letters and shit. I caught shit from the guys. Fuck it. What did I care? I had a nice wide fatty. Fuck, yeah. It was all part of the scene. Rock and Roll and babes. I was never going to settle down. Well actually, come to think of it, I settled down every night. Ha! Yep, I loved my life.

Christ, where was my father? Why was I always on the back burner? My manager Dave was sitting across from me playing with his fucking new phone. I needed to pace. Being here had me anxious as shit. Between the chick out front and my father’s disapproving eyes my day was going to be hell.

I walked over to the water cooler to quench my thirst. Standing there daydreaming about the festival this weekend, I saw Gia’s smoking reflection. Oh, yeah, it was play time for Abel. I turned and had a nice view of her ass, as she practically ate the file cabinet falling over. She quickly recovered, making sure no one saw her epic fail, but didn’t count on me being at the water cooler. I laughed. Chicks didn’t find that kind of shit funny—they got embarrassed instead. Whatever. I could hear her and Cindy scuffling out there. I decided to go find out what the problem was. But by the time I got there, they were gone. I figured I’d catch up with Cindy later. I wanted to ask her what the deal was with Gia.

The elevator door opened and my prick of a father exited in a huff. I turned ass to have a seat. I sat in the white Queens Ann’s chair next to Dave across from Dad’s desk. His daunting solid mahogany desk fit his persona perfectly. He was an arrogant, wealthy elitist who had grown up with the preverbal silver spoon up his ass. His sense of entitlement was epic. He surrounded himself with like-minded people. His friends, most of whom also came from old money, were successful and full of themselves. A cross between a Viking and a piranha, my father was revered as a counselor. His skill in the courtroom was legendary. And I was grateful he was on my side. Morgana wasn’t too bright going up against me. My father might not agree with my lifestyle, but I was his son, and we were family. Family was everything to my father. At least, that’s the perception he gave. He could be a selfish prick. I’m pretty positive he felt the same about me—especially with this Morgana crap going on.