Rush (Pandemic Sorrow #2) (6 page)

I wanted to watch her face, so I methodically flipped her back over. Her face scrunched up. Her full, fake breasts rose, her hardened nipples staring at me with each quick draw of breath.

Locking my stare on her, I grunted, “This pussy is mine. I own this pussy right now because I’m in it, and because I paid for it.”

A whimper flew from her mouth, then her thighs clenched around my waist, pulling me deep into her as her muscles spasmed around my cock. I rubbed against her, pushed harder into her, and that whimper transformed into a moan, then to panting, then to a soft cry, and finally a scream as her fingernails tore into my ass. Her grip was so tight I could feel her nails slicing through my flesh, and that sting felt great. It meant I had accomplished my goal.

“You gotta give me a minute,” she pleaded.

I clenched my jaw, talking through my gritted teeth, I said, “Not a chance. I told you, I fucking own your pussy right now.” The sensation of her still pulsing around me finally forced heat to prick its way over my skin, flushing my entire body in a sick euphoria. I crumpled over, my leg jerking as that feeling consumed me. And then, that fast, it was all over.

Soon enough that weightless feeling of an orgasm was replaced by guilt, and a twinge of shame. I mean, hell, regardless of whether I’d made her feel like she wasn’t one, my cock was still clamped down inside a prostitute.

She laid there panting. A look of absolute shock crossed her face when I pulled myself out. Yanking the condom off, I didn’t bother to make it to the bathroom, I just tossed it into the trash can by the table. I walked over to the dresser and picked up the envelope. I had to bring her back to the moment and remind her what this had really been.

“Thanks, babe. You’ve got some good pussy. And there’s an extra thousand dollars in there so you don’t mention this to anyone. Nobody needs to know about this part of my life. Got it?” I handed the envelope to her. “Paparazzi would have a field day with this shit, but is bragging about this really worth going to jail?” She slowly reached for it, and all expression washed from her face.

I knew sex was my outlet. The thing that made no sense to me when I really thought about it was that I could fuck any girl I wanted, but what
really
did it for me was this, was paying for it. I couldn’t decide if it was the immoral aspect of it that made it so pleasurable. I mean, I was buying pussy, and when you buy something, you don’t have to worry about anything, really. It’s yours, fair and square.

Or maybe it was the fact that I was the one seeking it out. I had grown so used to girls throwing themselves at me, so used to the fact that I knew all it took was eye contact to get their panties off of them—maybe it was the fact that a prostitute was the only person I felt I could
make
want me. They intended to do a job, possibly enjoy it a little, but they never intended to want the sleazy guy paying them to actually
fuck
them. And that’s what I did, I made them want it.

It was the aspect of being able to
make
someone want me, not
have
someone want me that really got to me, I think. Because honestly, I knew that I would most likely never find anyone who really cared about me. How could I ever know if the reason someone said they wanted me was because of my fame, or my money, or because they wanted to use me as a stepping stone…girls were much more likely to pretend to love me when really, they loved anything
but
me. They just loved my image, the perks and amenities I could provide. Shitheads like me didn’t deserve real love. I just deserved sex.

She took the money and left the room, leaving me alone. I stared at the ceiling, still naked, my dick still coated in the lubrication from the condom. I had just paid for sex with a high-end whore, but the thought of Jules fucking a guy she was once in love with seemed so much dirtier than that. And I couldn’t get that thought out of my head.

I tried to figure out what it was about Jules that got to me, but I couldn’t. Yeah, she was hot. She had a killer athletic body. But it was something deeper than that. Something about her struck me, made me fucking stupid and nervous, and I couldn’t wrap my head around that. And damn if she wasn’t a fan-fucking-tastic liar. She could probably lie her way into heaven, and I was pretty sure she’d almost convinced herself she really didn’t want anything to do with me. And at times, I hated her because of that.

Chapter 9

The next morning we were on our way back to LA, and I was more than ready to be out of that cramped bus. The constant pissing contest between Jag and Pax was wearing on my nerves and I was out of Xanax, which made me irritable as fuck.

Jules came out of the bathroom, holding onto the hallway to steady herself as she walked toward the front of the bus.

I picked over the strings of my bass. Glaring at her, I snarled, “You’re walking like you finally let someone tear into that dusty pussy of yours.”

She wouldn’t even look at me.

Jag laughed, stretching out on the couch so she couldn’t sit next to him. “Who the fuck would want to stick their dick in something that’s most likely cold and filled with barbed wire?” His eyes shot over at me and his lips twisted up. “Except you, Rush. But then again, there’s not really a pussy you wouldn’t tear into, is there?”

Jules ignored him and asked, “Where are the other two dipshits?” right as she plopped down on top of Jag’s feet.

He yanked them out from under her and sat up. “I don’t want your ass touching me, Tink.”

“The other two fuckers are still asleep,” I said, still eyeing her.

Jag stood up and fished in his pocket as he looked over at me. “Man, you want some blow?”

I shook my head, and he shrugged. “Suit yourself. I’m fucking beat. Just need a pick-me-up, you know?” he mumbled, making his way over to the table to cut some lines.

I hopped up and sat next to Jules, then leaned over to her and donned my best Venezuelan accent. “’Ello, my name is Rrrronan, but you can call me Rrrron.” She huffed, scooting away from me as I continued to mock that piece of shit. “I promise you, five minutes with my small, inadequate penis shall make you feel empty and hollow inside.”

About that time, Stone came stumbling up to the front, laughing. “You know bitches love accents, bro.”

Jag snickered as he snorted back another line. Their laughter combined with the angry glare Jules was giving me did nothing but egg me on. “Oh, I have a small penis and I stick it in every woman possible, but Jules, she likes to lick their pussy juice rrrrright off of my flaccid cock.” I couldn’t stop laughing, and I leaned closer to her to continue tastelessly mocking the situation.

I arched a brow at her and traced my finger over her arm. “You let Rrrrronan rrrram his wrrrinkled cock in you last night?”

Her face grew candy-apple red and her lips tightened. Just as I was about to roll out a few more “r’s,” she slapped me.
Literally
slapped me across the face.

The loud clap of her hand slamming over my face echoed in the bus.

“Ohhhh, damn!” Jag bellowed.

I was stunned.

Stone’s eyes flew opened and he quickly covered his mouth with his hand, turning to face out the window to hide his laughter.

My eyes widened and I reached up to soothe the sting on my cheek. Jules looked shocked as hell that she’d just done that. And it had not only pissed me off, but also embarrassed the fuck out of me.

“Oh, my God. I’m so sorry,” she gasped, reaching to touch the rising whelp on my cheek.

I jerked away. “Did you really just fucking slap me?” I asked, leaping up, anger bubbling inside my body.

“You just don’t know when to shut the hell up…”

My chest inflated and I let my arm drop to my side. “I was fucking with you. Take a damn joke.”

I turned to walk back to the bunks but stopped. I’d already pissed her off, why not just really lay into her? “You know, I don’t get you. That guy is an ass. He treated you like shit. He hurt you. Any time you talked about him for the year after that, you almost cried. It was so bad that I wanted to hunt the motherfucker down to punch him. And then you just run into him and fuck him? Give me a break, Jules. You’re not that fucking stupid, are you?”

The red that had been fading from her face quickly reappeared, and she crossed her arms in front of her. “What do you care? It’s
none
of your business.”

I tilted my head back, running both hands down the sides of my face. “Yeah, you’re right. It’s not.” I went down the hallway, grabbing the walls to steady myself as the bus barreled over a few potholes. “Because you won’t let it be,” I muttered.

“Just let it go, Rush. It was a mistake.”

As I crawled into my bunk, I couldn’t help but wonder which one of us she was referring to as a mistake, me, that “r”-rolling bastard, or both of us.

Chapter 10

I’d been home for a few days and already caught hell in the media for my on stage make-out sessions. Manwhore. That’s what they had dubbed me.

Funny how the tabloids only want to pursue the shit that makes you look bad. Smack a senator’s daughter across the forehead with your dick, front page on every magazine. Buy a family who lost their house in a fire a new home, honorable mention in the entertainment section of a local newspaper.

Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t really care that any charity work I did wasn’t mentioned, but I cared that all Hollywood wanted to do was ruin my image.

Was I a whore? Yes.

Did I use more drugs than the Mexican cartel? Probably.

But was I as bad as the media portrayed me? No.

That was all part of it, and sometimes I was convinced that the label paid the media to publicize some of the crazy shit we did just to reinforce our bad-boy images.

*****

The doors to the elevator opened and the security guard stepped out in front of me, then motioned me out.

“Is this really necessary? I mean, I’m not the President or nothing.”

The shorter guard looked at me, placing his hand on his pistol. “We have to ensure your safety. Hospital policy. We just want to make this as easy for you and as enjoyable for the patients as we can.”

I nodded and we stopped outside two large automatic doors. Both guards placed their hands underneath the hand sanitizer, and a puddle of foam shot out into their hands, so I did the same.

The doors opened and that sterile hospital smell slapped me in the face.

“You been here before?” one of the men asked as he badged us through another set of doors.

“No. I’ve been to the camps they have, but never up to the actual hospital.”

“Well, stuff like this,” he smiled and rested his hand on my shoulder, “really lights up their day.”

I’d gone to camps for kids with cancer for the past two summers, but since we’d be on tour this summer and I couldn’t go to the camp, I wanted to go up to the hospital.

The thought of it made me nervous. The kids I’d seen at the camps were all in remission; these kids were sick.
Really sick
. And honestly, I was terrified I wouldn’t be able to handle it.

We came to a circular desk area cluttered with nurses. They glanced up and smiled, some stared…but to my shock, none of them asked for my autograph.

I must have had a confused look on my face because one of the guards snickered. “Don’t worry. They know who you are. But they’ll get fired if the take a picture of you or bother you,” he said as he collected a set of pale yellow gowns, masks, and gloves.

“Seems harsh.”

He shrugged and handed the items to me. “We can’t have pandemonium up here just because a celebrity’s walking around. Now, the only room you’ll need to wear this getup in is 702. That’s the first one you’ll go to. We’ll stand outside the door, just make sure you take everything off and put it in the bin
before
you leave the room, okay?”

I nodded, swallowing back the fear that was rapidly mounting in my chest. “Why do I need this?”

“It’s for the kid’s protection, not yours, really.”

I glanced up at the room number. “This one?”

“Yep.”

I slid my arms through the gown, slipped on the gloves, and laced the mask behind my ears. “Do I knock?”

“Yep.” The guard laughed a little.

“What’s their name?”

He glanced down at the paper folded in his hands. “Cody.”

I drew in a powder-scented breath from the mask and tried to calm my nerves.
He’s gonna look sick; pale, no hair, fragile. Don’t look shocked or scared.

I knocked and a woman’s voice called, “Come in.”

The door slowly opened. The lights were off, but the vertical blinds covering the large floor to ceiling window were wide open and sunlight had flooded the room. Things were beeping and dripping, and the kid, who looked like he was more of a teenager than a child, was sitting up in the bed playing a video game.

As soon as he looked over at me, he narrowed his eyes; then a large grin brightened his face, making his sunken-in cheeks less noticeable.

“Rush Wilder?” His voice was hoarse and coated in excitement.

“Last I checked.” I adjusted my mask and said, “You’re Cody, right?”

He nodded and turned to his mom. “Hey, Mom, turn that off, would you? And would you bring me my guitar?”

His attention turned back to me. “You can play regular guitar too, right?”

“Yeah, sure can.”

“Would you play something for me? Anything?” He forced himself up a little more in the bed. “I can’t play it anymore, but I keep it up here, just in case.”

His mom rummaged through the piles of suitcases and clothes and pulled out an acoustic, immediately bringing it to me.

“I was in a band. I play bass and guitar, like you.” He adjusted the oxygen in his nose, then continued. “That’s actually what made me go to the doctor, the guitar.” He glanced up at me, aware he hadn’t been very clear. Wiggling his fingers, he explained, “My fingers started bleeding just from picking over the strings. At first I thought I was badass, and just really ripping on it…but then I started bruising everywhere and next thing you know, I found out I have aggressive AML.”

“Leukemia,” his mother whispered, taking a seat back on the sofa beside the window.

What do you say to that? This kid had a terminal illness. God knows how long he’d been laid up in that bed, sick as hell. “Sorry” just didn’t seem like it could touch the tip of what I should say to him, but I had nothing else.

“Sorry.”

He shrugged. “Not your fault my body hates itself. You know that’s what cancer is, your own body turning against you?”

Again, I had nothing to say. I was in awe of this boy. He seemed fine with the fact that he had been cheated of life, and I wasn’t. I felt I was more angry and depressed about it than he was.

“How old are you, Cody?”

“Fifteen. I turn sixteen next month, I guess.”

I nodded and nervously strummed over the guitar. The gloves made it difficult and I missed one of the strings.

“Hey, hey, can you play ‘Never Enough?’ That song is killer. Kinda my anthem for the past year, since I’ve been sick, you know?”

Year? He’s been sick. Like this. For a year?

“Sure thing.” I sat on the rolling stool and strummed out a chord, then tuned the guitar. “I only do backup though, and there’s a reason for that. My voice isn’t exactly Jag’s,” I laughed.

“It’s fine, man. I’ll sing it. I’d love to sing it.” His thin lips curled up and he fiddled with the oxygen again.

I plucked over the strings as this kid belted out the lyrics, and he could fucking sing. He had talent, and it wasn’t fair that he was being robbed of his “what if.”

I lost track of time, only leaving when the nurses came in to change out his chemo.

As I handed his guitar back to his mother, whose eyes were drowning behind tears, Cody said, “Thanks.”

“No problem, dude. So glad I could spend some time with you. You got a stellar set of pipes. When you get better, you’ll have to let me know. We’ll have you up on stage with us. Let you take over for a bit, if you want?”

His bloodshot eyes bulged. “Really?”

I watched the numbers on the monitor rise from his accelerated heartbeat.

“Yeah, man. It would be an honor.” And I’d never meant anything as sincerely as I had that.

He laughed. “Well, you just gave me another good reason to kick cancer’s fucking ass!”

“Cody Williams!” his mother gently scolded.

“Mom, it’s just a word.”

I pulled the gloves off and removed my gown, waving as I headed toward the door. “Thanks for being a fan, man. You are an inspiration.”

Another deep grin shot over his face and I excused myself.

The rest of the afternoon I went from room to room, visiting kids who had way more guts than I could ever hope to have. They laughed despite their illness, they joked, they lived even though they were in pain. They had life, however fleeting, and they were sucking every last drop out of it.

Moments like that made me feel guilty for so haphazardly wandering through my own life, expecting to wake up; for shoving ridiculous amounts of drugs into my body, not once thinking that I could kill myself. Death didn’t seem real to me.

These kids only had life, and little of it at that. Here we all were—me, Jag, Stone, and Pax—with everything money could buy, plus good health, and we still were miserable. That made me feel ashamed. Utterly ashamed.

As I climbed in the limo that had just pulled up in the hospital roundabout, a text came through from Jules.

Jules: Look what your assistant just sent me. Sometimes you make it really hard to not like you. You really are a nice guy, Rush. You really are. Shocks the shit out of me sometimes.

Attached was a screenshot from my twitter account where Cody had tweeted a picture from my visit saying that I had just made his day. I didn’t need the media attention; his acknowledgement was all I needed.