Death of a Rock Star: A Boy in the Band Novella Read Free

what. I don’t think I will be fucking you.” I say.
    “But…” She looks about ready to rip my head off.
    “But don’t worry. I won’t leave you hanging like this. I’m pretty skilled with these fingers.” I smirk as I slide one inside her.
    I begin to finger fuck her nice and slow, making sure I pay thorough attention to her clit. Her body gives itself over to me, and I sense the subtle changes as she builds towards her climax. Her breathing quickens, and her wetness makes her slicker and slicker, so I finger fuck her rougher and rougher just like she needs it. She’s falling and rising, fucking my hand right back and then clawing at me, pulling me deeper, she comes – hard. Her head crashes back, and it’s like a demon taking hold, she spits out a whole host of expletives. They seem so at odds with that classy face and the ladylike mouth they are spilling from. Fucking like this lets you see right into someone’s soul, their darkest parts. There’s no room for shame. That’s why fucks like this are better off being anonymous.
    I stroke her gently as she comes down, drawing every last sensation from her. She tips her head back forward and meets my gaze.
    “Holy fuck!” She breathes, “If you can do that with your fingers, I’d kill to see what you could do with your cock.”
    I wipe my hand off on my jeans and I cock an eyebrow at her, still smirking. That’s all the cock she’ll be getting tonight from me.
    “Can I have your number?” She asks straightening herself out.
    “Sorry, I don’t make a habit of giving my number out to random people on the street. Never know what kind of crazies you’re dealing with.” I wink at her.
    She gives me a touché kind of smile, but I can tell she’s surprised and a little slighted. I guess she’s not the kind of girl who gets knocked back too often.
    “Well if I ever run into you again I owe you one, and a pretty fucking spectacular one at that.”
    With that, she disappears into the night, not looking back, probably home to a blissfully unsuspecting other half.
     

     
    The heavens open as I make my way through Camden. This place is crazy and beautiful, and even more so on a rain drenched night, gilded by streetlights. It’s where I’d live if I ever moved back to London. Jamie’s house is out on the east side, just off Camden Square. The houses in this part of town are less stoner heaven, more media exec suburbia. It seems far too sedate for one of the most notorious rock star demises in recent times. Mr BBC and Miss Costume Drama are probably at their curtains, twitching away, wondering how the notoriety will affect their house prices.
    The last time I was here was post-Christmas fuck up. Jamie was having a hard time from the label execs over his latest album and going through some pretty fraught shit with his mystery girl. He was in no place to help me, but he gave me somewhere to crash for a couple of nights when I had nowhere else to go. He talked me down from the edge of a complete meltdown and got me into treatment pretty pronto. How fucking ironic then that he was the one who got dragged under a few months later. It could so easily have been me. There but for the grace of God and Jamie Grimes…
    There would be such little fanfare over my death. That’s not the case here though. In spite of the rain, there’s a crowd milling around outside Jamie’s house and a pool of defiant candles casting their golden light into the dark. It looks like someone has scattered stars on the pavement. This is what bereft fans do. In the absence of their Gods, they erect shrines – on their bedroom walls, on a dead man’s doorstep. Someone is playing his music. It rises into the night sky like a mournful offering, an appeasement to the rock gods. Those gods are so fucking brutal. It seems they always take the best of us far too soon.
    As I stand at the furthest edge of this strange spontaneous wake, watching, wondering what the hell Jamie would make of all