1. Marley

CHAPTER 1

Marley

I wake up with what I can describe as an energy drain. This always happens the morning after a show. Onstage, my fragile mind stops being consumed by a paralyzing sense of dread. When I'm playing the keys with thousands of cheering fans, a euphoric rush courses through my veins, filling my brain with a boost of serotonin. There, under the glaring spotlight, I'm offered a small reprieve from my constant pain and bathe in the momentary joy and vitality. I would do anything to prolong the technicolor in my mind. A much-needed respite from the usual fog that imprisons me.

"Morning, big bro." My sister's jovial voice booms through the cell phone. Monica doesn't have an annoying voice, but at ten a.m. she may as well sound like nails dragged across a chalkboard. "Hello? Marley, you there?"

I hate how the pitch of her voice changes from happy-go-lucky to freaking out in less than sixty seconds. Monica's been on edge and worrying about me since she was fourteen years old. No matter what she's doing or who she's with, she calls me every morning. One time I didn't answer her call because I lost my phone, so she flew out that same day to come see me. She got an eyeful when she caught me in the middle of an orgy. She told me I was disgusting but she was glad I was breathing. A week later, she emailed me the bill from her therapist with a cute note attached.

Marley,

I needed extensive brain rewiring done after seeing my big brother fucking all those people. Can you believe they don't make brain bleach? How do I know, you may ask? Because I went looking after I saw your weird human pretzel sandwich. Someone should come up with that. Brain bleach. I'm sure the kid sisters of rock stars would keep them in business. Please use protection. Actually, use protection and then Saran wrap that shit. Do they make penis bleach? If they do, get some. I love you.

Mon

I suppose it's nice to discover that amidst the apathy in the world, there's one person who genuinely cares whether I live or die.

"Yeah. I'm here, Mon. I just woke up. Give a guy a second, okay? You think there's any way we can have these calls later in the day?"

"Nope. The early bird gets the worm, or better mental health," Monica says. "So, how are you feeling today?"

"Great," I sigh into the phone. "I'm fuckin' great. I'm rich, I'm hot, I can get all the pussy I could ask for. Life's good."

I say the same rehearsed lines every morning. My ass should've been an actor, not a musician, with how much passion I put into the words I spew to my kid sister, praising my indulgent rockstar lifestyle. Rolling over, I grab the dented pack of Marlboros and light one. I inhale the toxins deep into my lungs, wishing cigarettes functioned as a numbing agent. My hands shake with hesitancy as I nervously trace the piano keys etched into my skin, a reminder of why my sister calls me daily.

"Ewww, I don't want to hear about your sex life. What city are you in?" she asks.

My sister always starts the conversation by asking about the tour or my music. Monica once told me I'm happiest after I finish a set and walk off the stage. She's right. I'm confident that if Monica could keep me on the road for the rest of my life, she would. She understands it's the only place where I'm not fuckin' drowning. While I stand on that stage, I'm rewarded with a sea of people who don't think I'm a useless piece of shit.

When touring, I'm too busy to think while I'm playing show after show. There are no still moments, times when I'm trapped with the voices that suffocate me. What I despise is the suffocating emptiness that engulfs me when I wake the following morning.

"Chicago, I think."

"You think," Monica echoes. "How do you not know where you are?"

"Dude, I don't know. We play a show and then get on a bus and shuffle off somewhere."

Last night we landed on the steps of another posh hotel and I barely registered anything. I grabbed a blonde chick and marched to my room. I stumbled into the room, made the chick put on a shirt that belonged to another man, along with a gas mask, and then I fucked her until we both passed out. Seems like all I do now is fuck these girls in order to run away from a night that should never have happened with my best friend.

I smack the side table and grab the menu, hoping it will tell me which city I'm in. Waldorf Astoria, Chicago. "I'm in Chicago."

"Another wild night, bro," Monica states. She tries to keep the worry out of her voice and even laughs, but the chuckle is nervous-sounding .

"You know how us rock stars roll," I say, keeping my voice light.

There is a silence, not an uncomfortable one, but a stillness of being. "I want you to know that I love you."

"I know, Mon. I love you too."

"Have a good show tonight."

I disconnect the cell and toss it on the bed, ignoring the bleached blonde in my bed, and puff on my cigarette. I must've been high out of my skull to let her crash in my hotel room.

There's no joy in fucking groupies anymore. My lackluster desire for them has gotten so bad that I only fuck them in the ass, force them to wear his t-shirt, and only call out his name while I'm balls deep in them. The only plus in this situation is that wearing clothes belonging to members of Gutless Void is a turn-on for them. They even get a kick out of wearing the mask when I ask. Sometimes they get upset about anal, but that's rare. When they complain, I send them packing .

"Five more minutes," the girl mumbles as she rolls away from my touch.

What the fuck was her name again? Jenny? Joanie?

"Wake up, Jenny," I say, gently, as I nudge her. "It's time for you to get going."

Jenny's eyes shoot open and she stares at me with wide blue eyes. "It's early."

"Yeah, well, I've got shit to do."

I grab her clothes off the floor and toss them to her after ripping the blanket off her body. She says nothing as she gets her clothes on. I like Jenny. She doesn't overstay her welcome. Maybe I'll call her up when we're in Chicago again. I pull out my wallet from the nightstand and pull out a hundred-dollar bill before waving it toward her.

Jenny sneers at me, her eyes slanting as if she's looking at the most disgusting rodent. "What the fuck is that for?"

"A cab. Maybe some breakfast. "

Jenny smiles before stepping up to me and places her hand on the balaclava covering my face. "I know I fucked a guy in a mask because he's a member of my favorite band. But I'm not a hooker. I can pay for my cab and buy my own bacon and eggs." Jenny laughs before pulling out a card from her wallet and shoving it at me. My eyes glance down at the vanilla-colored business card. Dr. Jenny Spencer, M.D. "We aren't the same girls from the sixties. Women like to fuck, and many of us want nothing other than a wonderful orgasm."

With that, she flips her long hair and storms out of my hotel room.

As soon as Jenny leaves, I plop my ass on the bed and rip off the mask, rubbing the five-o'clock shadow along my jaw.

Ten more hours until I'm on that stage. Ten more hours until I feel peace. The issue is, what the fuck am I supposed to do to calm my fragmented brain until then? But with the thought of the blissfulness I'll soon feel onstage, the worry creeps in, contemplating about what will happen after. When I see him .

My hands grip the left side of my chest, and my breathing quickens. I worry about the racing of my heart, the thought leaping into my mind. My eyes scan the room. A lamp, the television, and a dresser. I close my eyes and listen. Car horns, the radio, and my breathing. I crack my neck, get up, and fist my hands.

Tonight we'll travel on the bus. Once, the tour bus was a source of excitement, but now it induces waves of anxiety and sends shivers down my spine. The small space didn't suffocate me. It was the opposite. The tour bus was a place of comfort. Now that feeling is the opposite. That's probably why I've been hosting girls on the tour bus every night. Partying keeps the fuckin' intrusive thoughts at bay. Thoughts that make me stare at my best friend like he's my salvation in my dark, dystopian demonic hellscape.

Every time I see Iggy naked, I fiercely battle against my destructive desires. At first, the longing urges were in passing. I chalked them up to being turned on by the naked bodies and lude sexual acts. Iggy is a good-looking guy, and just like I'd watch a porn star fucking and get a hard-on, it'd make sense it would happen with him, too. But one night a few months ago, things got out of hand, and now I'm plagued by an insatiable need to have him writhe under me as he calls out my name in pure lust.

" T his is some bullshit," Iggy said.

"If Cain and Lars do stupid shit, then it's basically a green light for you. Those two are the levelheaded members of the band." Kaye stepped closer to Iggy and jabbed a finger to his chest. "My ass is still buying you, a grown-ass man, his condoms. I'm not taking any chances and I sure as hell don't want to spend my days cleaning up stories hitting the tabloids."

Iggy laughed. "Kaye, you're usually there when we bang groupies." He glanced up and tapped his chin. "If I remember correctly, a few weeks ago you were getting eaten out by some chick while I had my dick tearing up her cunt."

Kaye had two sides to her personality. Party girl Kaye that liked to have fun and pantsuit Kaye that gave off the appearance of being a boss. Out of everyone I knew, Kaye was the last person I wanted to step up to. The woman controlled four famous, fucked-up men without a sweat.

Kaye smirked and stepped closer to Iggy. "Partying and sex aren't the problem. As long as it's clean and quiet, everyone can have a grand old time. But the four of you are getting out of hand."

"We haven't even done anything," Iggy said.

"And if I have anything to say about it, you won't be," Kaye replied.

I glanced at Kaye. "It's innocent until proven guilty. You can't put our asses in jail before we even commit a crime."

Kaye laughed. "That you're saying this makes me believe you'll commit the crime." Kaye waved her hands in the air. "You're in a five-star hotel. This place is fifteen hundred a night. It's not like I've put you into a five-by-five cell with a toilet in the corner."

"You've cut off our pussy supply." Iggy grabbed his dick with one hand while pointing to the chef's knife in the butcher block. "Might as well grab that blade and neuter me, Kaye. "

I burst out laughing. That probably seemed like the end of the world for Iggy. I enjoyed fucking as much as he did, but I could've also gone without sex.

Kaye rolled her eyes. "Stop being so dramatic."

"You know, when was the last time I busted a nut in my hand?" Iggy asked.

"Probably this morning when I found that girl basically passed out with your dick still lodged up in her throat. What did she take, 'cause that was a little wild? Who falls asleep with an eight-inch cock down their throat?"

Iggy stepped up to Kaye, rubbing up against her, and winked. "You've noticed. I'm flattered. You know, Kaye, I might change your mind about being a lesbian if you gave me a ride."

She lifted her fist and pulled her arm back. "If you don't want a broken fuckin' nose, you better step back."

Iggy put his hands up in the air and laughed. "I'm sayin' if you wanna choke on a sausage instead of licking up clam, I'm your man. "

For a second I thought Kaye was going to sock him anyway for shits and giggles. I wouldn't blame her. Iggy was a little brat that needed to be put in his place. To be honest, I was too, but I liked to mess with Lars, the band's lead singer. He needed it because, like me, he got in his head so badly that he required to be shaken up.

Kaye turned to me. "I cannot believe I'm saying this, but monitor him."

"Yes, I got him, but sort this shit out, Kaye, because I can't keep Iggy in check for long."

Kaye sauntered over to the modern glass coffee table and picked up the remote control. She flicked through the menu until she landed on what she was looking for. "It's only for a couple of days. This should take care of Iggy's problem."

"Porn, Kaye," Iggy said, a hint of outrage in his voice. "I'm a bona fide rock star. Not a twelve-year-old who gets excited by the first set of tits he's ever seen."

I slapped Iggy on the back. "Beggars can't be choosers, and right now you're a pauper, my friend. "

Kaye turned on her heel and walked toward the door. "I will check in with the two of you later, after I deal with my other two children and their new pet."

"Jesus, porn," Iggy mused. "That's what my life has come down to, porn and my right hand."

I couldn't help but laugh. That was the beauty of Iggy. He brought a sense of wide-eyed wonder into my life. For someone who has never really had a carefree childhood, Iggy was an anomaly. He had this ability to create an environment that was so carefree and light that you couldn't help but want to remain trapped in his orbit forever.

I stared at him from the corner of my eye as he flipped through the adult movies available to him. His face was so serious, as if picking the right skin flick could solve all the wonders of the universe.

"Oh, this one," he said before he clicked the remote. "Twenty bucks for porn. I'm a dirty old man paying for it." Iggy chuckled, eyes forming into saucers. "Yes, especially with this flick. I'm definitely a dirty old man."

My gaze moved to the film titled Bisexual Cum Lovers Orgy.

Watching porn with Iggy shouldn't have fazed me, but suddenly I was warm and my chest pounded frantically as a sense of unease washed over me.

The coffee table, my cigarettes, the wingback chair. The girl moaning on the screen, Iggy's breathing, his hands rubbing up and down his jeans. I tapped my fingers on my pants, moved my leg. Shit, it wasn't working. I jumped off the sofa and sprinted to one of the three bedrooms the suite had.

"Where are you going?" Iggy called after me.

"Umm, I just think…" I was stuttering. "I think I'll give you some privacy."

"Shut up and sit back down," Iggy said as the porn started with a plumber ringing the door to a couple's house. "Why are you being weird? We've banged women together before. To be honest, I can't remember the last time I've banged a chick without you there fucking her with me. "

My palms were slick and my heart pounded in an intense rhythm as my breathing quickened. The last time that happened, they rushed me to the hospital, wondering if I was in the middle of a heart attack.

Logic would've told me to go into the bedroom and deal with my shit, but my feet remained frozen in place as if I were sinking in quicksand. Why the fuck was I unable to leave?

I flinched as warm hands grabbed my frigid fingers. "Just breathe, man. It's only some dick and pussy. Nothing we haven't seen together in the past." Iggy stood in front of me, his face earnest, and his vibrant blue eyes gazed at me with unmatched intensity. When people spoke about the beauty of blue depths, they tried to describe eyes like his. The color was so breathtaking that I wasn't sure I could ever articulate anything of true value about them to capture the magnitude of their exquisite and captivating beauty.

"Give me a second," I said, pulling my hand away from his touch and instantly being confronted with a pang in my gut .

Iggy nodded, stepping back and allowing me the opportunity to escape.

In the hotel room, I shuffled through my suitcase and the agony in my body subsided as soon as my hand connected with the small cylinder. I pulled up the bottle and the rattling noise it made immediately comforted my mind. Flipping the cap, I removed the medication, the small capsule that released calm, that allowed me to delude myself into thinking everything would be okay. I popped the pellet into my mouth and swallowed it without the aid of water.

Iggy pounded on the door. "Yo, you okay? You've been in there for fifteen minutes."

I wasn't sure if I could get up. The haze cloud forming in my mind was comforting. The confusion, self-doubt, and terror were tucked away; the crippling fear now hidden behind the wall. Life was good. I was good. Everything would be okay. The heated marble floors were a warm hug against my feet. The hardness of stone melted into pillowy clouds. I took one controlled step, then another until my hand was on the doorknob. My fingers twisted the cold metal and I opened the door, revealing Iggy peering on the other side .

"Whatcha take?" he asked.

"Ativan," I whispered, before pushing past him.

"Fuck, bro, learn to share. I would have taken that instead of popping Molly."

Iggy and I were both dependent on chemicals to alter the way we perceived the world. I took drugs because I desperately needed to silence the cacophony of my mind, meanwhile Iggy got high because he thrived on the turbulence of chaos. We were a fucking match made in purgatory.

I stepped out of the bedroom and walked over to the sofa. Fuck, I loved Ativan. Heavy steps that felt like lead only twenty moments ago became weightless and light.

I plopped down on the sofa and grabbed the pack of smokes on the side table and lit a cigarette. Benzodiazepines and nicotine, not much in life was better. My eyes fixated on the screen displaying a woman being caressed by four hands belonging to two men.

Iggy sat beside me and chuckled as he rubbed the back of his neck. "You should've taken Molly, in case shit gets weird. "

I placed my feet on the glass coffee table and tilted my head back, exhaling the smoke. The stark white ceiling was getting a pretty accent, with the gray smoke leaving my lips. Ativan was the perfect drug. It took all the hard edges of the world and turned them round and soft. "What would Molly have done?"

I wasn't sure how long we sat there in silence, but based on the ashtray, I'd at least finished two cigarettes while Iggy and I sat on a sofa in some rich person's hotel listening to the exaggerated sex sounds of porn stars.

Iggy cleared his throat. "Don't get weirded out if I jerk it."

I lit another smoke, toking on the filter. "You act like I've never seen your dick before."

Iggy shrugged and rubbed the back of his neck. Something I've discovered was some sort of nervous tic. "Yeah, well, not like this. With girls and at parties. It's different, you know?"

I laughed at his nervousness and found it endearing. "If it makes you feel better, blame it on Molly. "

Iggy's words didn't even register. It wasn't like I hadn't been with men before. Both of us viewed sexuality as fluid. We were with women, mostly over men. I never understood why that was. Perhaps it had to do with accessibility. We were on the road a lot and most of the groupies were of the female variety. When we weren't touring, we were recording, and in that time we would dedicate ourselves to creating something greater. When Iggy and I composed or wrote music, we were on another plane of existence. Sex wasn't even something we craved, because the music gave us a high so intense that we'd reject anything and anyone that could interfere with it. Guess one could say that music trumped coming for the both of us. There was this connection when we created a song that was almost otherworldly.

I stared up at the ceiling. The sound of Iggy pulling down the zipper of his pants was so thunderous that it drowned out the loud orgasm noises blaring from the speakers. In my peripheral vision, I watched his large hand grip his shaft as he moved his foreskin back and forth before smearing his pre-cum on the tip of his cock. My eyes took in his thickening dick and the bulbous shape of his cockhead that peeked out every time Iggy moved his foreskin up and down.

Iggy chuckled. "You perving on me?"

I quickly diverted my eyes to the screen where one guy was plowing the other while the girl was rimming his asshole. "I'm a hot-blooded man. It's bound to happen."

Did I admit I was checking out my best friend's dick?

"Fuckin' jerk off with me," Iggy said as his eyes lowered to my crotch. "Based on the heat you're packin', you obviously want to."

There were no words of denial slipping between my lips, instead my hand snaked down my gray joggers as I gripped my cock. My eyes were no longer focusing on the screen. The ostentatious porn with aggressive sex and dirty talk was of little interest. As much as I loved the forceful nature of the sexual acts depicted on the screen, I had zero desire for the participants. My eyes fixated on Iggy's tattooed hand, choking his cock, wondering how his fingers would feel along my dick .

"Did those hurt?"

Iggy's voice snapped me out of my filthy imagination. I gazed up toward his eyes, which were focused intently on my hand, rubbing my dick.

"Yes," I rasped, "but it was worth it."

With one hand, Iggy tore at his t-shirt, lifting it over his head. I held in a gasp when my eyes connected with the lean muscles of his chest and the two silver loops in his nipples, wondering why that was the first time I'd really looked at his naked form.

"Did those hurt?" I asked, nodding to his nipple rings.

"Like hell. I would almost cry like a baby every time I put a shirt on."

Iggy kept his eyes on me as he tweaked his left nipple with one hand and jerked his cock with the other. I realized the porn blasting on the television was no longer holding our interest. A wave of erotic desire and lust created by the other swept the two of us up.

I was so consumed with fervor that I didn't even notice when Iggy's hand came closer to my cock. A hiss tore through me as the tip of his finger brushed along my apadravya.

"I'm sorry," Iggy growled, the husk in his voice both primal and desperate as his fingertip grazed over my flesh.

I met the heat in his blue eyes as I thrust toward him. "Blame it on Molly."

The moment the pad of his thumb contacted the tip of my cock, lightning struck. Heat rolled off my body and the need to be closer to my best friend overrode all the reasons why what we were doing was a disastrous idea.

When I was younger, my mother would reject sweets. She'd say ‘one taste on the lips, forever on the hips.' Eleanor Banks was a woman obsessed with superficiality; the way the world saw her was more important than anything else, including her two children. But at that moment, I completely understood Eleanor. That one moment with Iggy had the capability of devastating my world. For me, there were only three things in life that provided me with stints of joy, and crossing that line with my best friend would leave me devoid of two of them .

I should have stopped it. Stopped us from going too far. But I didn't. Iggy's touch was incomparable to any sexual experience I'd ever had. With Iggy, there wasn't a rush to get off. My mind wasn't in a constant spinning motion of doubt, destruction, and disaster. As he fisted my cock with his firm hand adorned with tattoos, a sense of ease and exhalation overtook me.