letting the notes echo and ricochet around my skull until I feel like I'm going to throw up. After the whole fiasco with the guns, and the red faces, the mumbled apologies, I even excused myself to the bathroom for a little friendly play session with Ms. Clit.
Did. Not. Help.
I sniffle and dig into my pocket for another one of my infamous mini vodka bottles. Can never have enough of those. I collect these like teenage boys collect porn. Before anyone can see me, I unscrew the top and finish off my drink of choice. Does it taste and smell like nail polish remover? Sure, it does, but it's my baby, and I ain't never gonna leave it. Besides, I was in there with Ronnie for less than a half hour and I'm having trouble walking. He's huge, a lot bigger than I remembered from our utility closet visit. Definitely bigger than that fat, stubby chode lover, Cohen. That, and he's a crazy animal. My ass and back are still aching from the rug burns.
“And I'd kill for another taste,” I whisper against the glass, sliding my finger along the edge and wishing we could've just gotten back to it. Unfortunately, Ronnie's manager exploded into that room like a concerned father and herded us out like cattle. On the road we go! I sigh and turn around, slumping back and waiting for the rest of the group to get their asses down here. I'm not climbing onto that van until everyone's here. We're all familiar with Turner Campbell, and his ways. I've spent more hours on this tour waiting around for him than I have onstage.
“You look like shit,” Joel says, skipping out of the hotel like he's on a crazy acid trip. Probably is, anyway. Who am I kidding? I light up a smoke and sit there with one arm over my stomach, the elbow of the other resting on my hand.
“Thanks,” I respond caustically, pursing my lips so tight, the smoke gets caught inside my mouth and floats there. I blow it out in a rush. “Me and Lady Blue Balls are hanging out today. She makes for piss poor company.”
“Eh, that's not so bad,” Joel says, running his hand over his shaved head. “I thought you got a slap on the wrist from the boss or something. That'd be a bad day, man.”
I drop my cigarette to the cement near my feet. Thank God I'm wearing my shades or Joel would see the look of stricken terror in my eyes. I was so shocked by Ronnie coming after me like that, that I forgot I was looking for him in the first place. My hormones kicked my moral crisis to the back burner. What kind of monster am I?
Joel adjusts the bandage on his arm, the one he uses to hide his shitty prison tattoo, and stares at my smoldering cigarette. He's not very perceptive, so I doubt he notices the slight shake in my hands and the tremble of my lips.
“And, uh, if you ever need help with those blue balls, I know all the colors of the rainbow.” Fucker follows this up with a sleazy wink.
“Righto,” I say, wondering what I should do now. Do I tell Ronnie? After that, I just kind of have to, don't I? Unless, of course, I decide to write that off as business. I swallow a lump in my throat, trying my best to keep my voice even. Joel is one of Mr. Rutledge's lapdogs, loves the man like he's God. “I'll keep that in mind in case we ever end up in an apocalypse – one without any other men, women, or plastic kitchen utensils. Frankly mate, you'd be my absolute last choice.” I smash my discarded cigarette with my heel and start off towards the doors to the hotel. Before I can even get there, Ronnie comes out holding his daughter, the little girl with the red curls. Turner Campbell's on one side, and that spiky haired shithead Treyjan Charell's on the other. Fuck me swingin', now what? I wonder as I wring my hands and wait for them to come closer to me.
Already, Ronnie's eyes are on me. Well, at least I think they're on me. He's wearing a set of shades, too. It's kind of a thing on this tour. Lots of secrets to hide, I guess. But I can feel something, some sort of sharpness digging into my
Did. Not. Help.
I sniffle and dig into my pocket for another one of my infamous mini vodka bottles. Can never have enough of those. I collect these like teenage boys collect porn. Before anyone can see me, I unscrew the top and finish off my drink of choice. Does it taste and smell like nail polish remover? Sure, it does, but it's my baby, and I ain't never gonna leave it. Besides, I was in there with Ronnie for less than a half hour and I'm having trouble walking. He's huge, a lot bigger than I remembered from our utility closet visit. Definitely bigger than that fat, stubby chode lover, Cohen. That, and he's a crazy animal. My ass and back are still aching from the rug burns.
“And I'd kill for another taste,” I whisper against the glass, sliding my finger along the edge and wishing we could've just gotten back to it. Unfortunately, Ronnie's manager exploded into that room like a concerned father and herded us out like cattle. On the road we go! I sigh and turn around, slumping back and waiting for the rest of the group to get their asses down here. I'm not climbing onto that van until everyone's here. We're all familiar with Turner Campbell, and his ways. I've spent more hours on this tour waiting around for him than I have onstage.
“You look like shit,” Joel says, skipping out of the hotel like he's on a crazy acid trip. Probably is, anyway. Who am I kidding? I light up a smoke and sit there with one arm over my stomach, the elbow of the other resting on my hand.
“Thanks,” I respond caustically, pursing my lips so tight, the smoke gets caught inside my mouth and floats there. I blow it out in a rush. “Me and Lady Blue Balls are hanging out today. She makes for piss poor company.”
“Eh, that's not so bad,” Joel says, running his hand over his shaved head. “I thought you got a slap on the wrist from the boss or something. That'd be a bad day, man.”
I drop my cigarette to the cement near my feet. Thank God I'm wearing my shades or Joel would see the look of stricken terror in my eyes. I was so shocked by Ronnie coming after me like that, that I forgot I was looking for him in the first place. My hormones kicked my moral crisis to the back burner. What kind of monster am I?
Joel adjusts the bandage on his arm, the one he uses to hide his shitty prison tattoo, and stares at my smoldering cigarette. He's not very perceptive, so I doubt he notices the slight shake in my hands and the tremble of my lips.
“And, uh, if you ever need help with those blue balls, I know all the colors of the rainbow.” Fucker follows this up with a sleazy wink.
“Righto,” I say, wondering what I should do now. Do I tell Ronnie? After that, I just kind of have to, don't I? Unless, of course, I decide to write that off as business. I swallow a lump in my throat, trying my best to keep my voice even. Joel is one of Mr. Rutledge's lapdogs, loves the man like he's God. “I'll keep that in mind in case we ever end up in an apocalypse – one without any other men, women, or plastic kitchen utensils. Frankly mate, you'd be my absolute last choice.” I smash my discarded cigarette with my heel and start off towards the doors to the hotel. Before I can even get there, Ronnie comes out holding his daughter, the little girl with the red curls. Turner Campbell's on one side, and that spiky haired shithead Treyjan Charell's on the other. Fuck me swingin', now what? I wonder as I wring my hands and wait for them to come closer to me.
Already, Ronnie's eyes are on me. Well, at least I think they're on me. He's wearing a set of shades, too. It's kind of a thing on this tour. Lots of secrets to hide, I guess. But I can feel something, some sort of sharpness digging into my
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