CHAPTER THREE

JAGGER

I glare at my booking agent with near fury.

“The fucking Glass Monkeys?”

He throws his hands in the air. “We didn’t have many options, Jagger. You did this.”

So I fucked the little sister of Asylum’s lead singer. Big fucking deal. How was I to know he’d find out and quit the goddamn tour? It’s fucking sex. I fuck a lot of women, and I do not ask them if they are affiliated with our opening band in any way. I do find out if they are legal, but that’s the end of the question and answer session.

“What is your problem with them?”

I throw myself on the red couch in my dressing room that travels with me everywhere. It’s my favorite. It’s made of crushed velvet and is comfortable. Most musicians have snacks and alcohol on their rider, this is my number one item. I don’t give a fuck about peanut M&Ms or vodka. Okay, I do also have the vodka on my list of must haves, but my sofa comes with me too. I like to have comfort from home.

“He’s a douchebag.”

Throwing my hands in the air, I mock him, “It’s Erik with a K.”

That’s not really what bugs me about him. I don’t give a fuck how he spells his name. He’s an asshole to everyone. We are the headliner, and always have been when they open for us. Yet, he walks around like king shit and treats our guys like garbage. More than once he’s roughed up the groupies, and I don’t like that one bit. I’m an asshole, but I don’t beat women.

“What about The Brothers?”

Allen chuckles as he shakes his head at me, something I’m accustomed to.

“Soundcheck is in an hour. It’s one night.”

I sigh audibly. “Fine. I want Amber and Ashley in here after we’re done.”

He rolls his eyes. “That’s Jimmy’s job, not mine. Where is he?”

Stretching my arms behind me, I sit on the couch like it’s my throne. My life doesn’t suck. Quite the opposite. I have everything I have ever wanted and more. Jimmy walks in with two employees from the venue. A pretty set of brunettes place vodka on the glass coffee table in front of me, before blushing and leaving. I stare at Jimmy and chuckle inwardly, because he and Allen are polar opposites. Jimmy has long blonde hair, and looks like he missed his chance to join Poison in the eighties. Allen has short dark hair and sports the corporate America look, down to the black suit he is wearing.

I glance at my booking agent and chuckle.

“Do you sleep in a suit?”

He smirks at me while I pour myself a glass of vodka.

“I don’t.”

Jimmy interrupts my questioning.

“You have an interview tomorrow at ten.”

I glare at him. “In the fucking morning?”

He chuckles as he answers, “Yes, in the morning, Jagger. With Entertainment Tonight. ”

Jimmy holds his hands up, signaling me not to scream at him.

“It wasn’t my choice.”

I never start my day before noon. Rockstars don’t do fucking mornings and I am a rockstar. Yet, we both know I’ll do the goddamn interview because if I don’t, our label head will be all over me. Why it’s only me who is forced to do these things, I don’t understand. There are four of us, but it’s only ever my ugly mug shown on the damn television. I never got into music to be famous. Sure, there are perks, but it was always about the music. Nobody is mentally equipped to handle that level of attention. At times, it becomes too much. Yes, I also know, without all this attention, I’d still be playing in dive bars, so I always try to be polite to my fans, as well as the press. Without their interest, I’d be nothing.

As if I summoned them, my bandmates walk into my dressing room.

Hendrix, our drummer, chuckles as he raises his hands in the air.

“There he is. The bad boy of rock and roll. The Rock God himself.”

I reach into the bowl of random candy sitting beside my alcohol, and grab a handful and chuck it at him. “Asshole.”

I fucking hate both names the media gave me. Okay, I don’t hate it when chicks call me a God. But the media? Yeah, I fucking hate that shit. One picture leaks of you snorting coke off a woman’s ass, and suddenly you’re the bad boy of rock. It’s ridiculous because there are far worse behaved musicians than me. Even in this band.

Jett, and Jake have short dark hair. Jake has more piercings than I can count, but Jett only has his eyebrow pierced. Hendrix has long blonde hair and, as much as people say they hate the man bun, they don’t. The women lose their shit over him.

Jake raises his pierced brow. “The Glass Monkeys are out there.”

I glance at Allen, who holds his hands up in defense.

“If Jagger could keep it in his pants, they wouldn’t be here. I don’t want any more fucking complaints. Do your jobs and I’ll do mine.”

We all have our vices. Jett’s is drugs, Jake’s is alcohol, mine is pussy, and Hendrix prefers a combination of all three.

I toss back my vodka while he storms out like an angry child. Hendrix glares at me. “Come on, bad boy. Or do you prefer Rock God?”

We walk through the backstage area of the auditorium while the guys continue fucking with me. They are a touring band, so we don’t always see each other a lot, except when we’re on the road. In the studio, I record everything myself with the occasional exception. Jett has been itching to get in on the songwriting as well as recording. I agree, if he gets clean, but I’m still waiting for that to happen.

Hendrix asks, “Any changes to the setlist?”

It’s not that I don’t hear him, or simply don’t want to answer him, I’m unable to. I stop in my tracks as I stare at pure, fucking beauty. A brunette I’ve never seen before sits at the catering table with a bottle of water in her hand. She tears at the label like she’s uncomfortable, or stressed about something. I’m an asshole, so of course I’m imagining what she’ll sound like screaming my name. Will it be loud or quiet and breathy? Would she claw at the sheets, or bite her lip to try to suppress her pleasure?

Long dark hair past her shoulders, and the perfect hourglass figure. I can’t see her eyes because she’s looking down, and appears a little lost. She sits with a blonde at the table that most men would probably find gorgeous, but she has nothing on the brunette. The blonde is too fucking thin, but this girl is just right. I’m pretty sure the friend is Mia Montgomery, the model Jett has been fixated on for years, but this girl I don’t know, but I fucking want to.

I can’t stop staring at her and I don’t think I ever want to.

One look at her and I know I don’t want Amber and Ashley tonight.

I want her.

“I’m gonna marry that girl.”

“Too bad she’s not available for the rock god,” Jake laughs from beside me.

“Why?”

He laughs like he’s enjoying this a little too much. “She’s with the douchebag. She’s his girlfriend.”

How the fuck did that asshole get a woman like this?

She looks like a goddamn angel, so how did she end up with the fucking devil himself? I know enough about him to know he doesn’t treat her right. Everybody is nothing more than either a stepping stone for Erik, or something for him to use and throw away when he’s done. Most of my information is secondhand information. Groupies talk. For the last year, The Dildos have been performing on a much smaller circuit, but a lot of groupies are into their drummer. I’ve heard the chatter and I don’t fucking like it. They call me a womanizer and I suppose I am. I fuck a lot of women, but I’m not cruel. Every woman I’ve fucked has known what she was signing up for. This douchebag is entirely different.

“Can we do soundcheck now?” Hendrix asks with irritation laced in his tone.