Untamed (Thoughtless #4)(2)
Thankfully, I had been blessed with panty-dropping good looks, a smoking physique, more sexual know-how than an A-list hooker, and more talent in my pinkie finger than most possessed in their entire bodies. I was a lucky son of a bitch too, and things had a way of working out for me. I guess I had good karma or some shit, because even bad situations ended up being f*cktastic. Take my childhood. When my mom found out she was pregnant with me, we lived in Wichita. Yep. I was almost born in f*cking Kansas. Kansas! But my dad lost his job and we had to move in with his brother, so I ended up being squeezed out in the Land of Spotlights—Los Angeles. Straight out of the womb, I’d been destined for greatness.
Even at a young age, being a rock star had appealed to me—I dressed up as Gene Simmons for six Halloweens in a row. I think it was the idea of millions of people screaming my name, crying when they saw me, idolizing me. The thought of being put on a pedestal was intoxicating. Who wouldn’t want that? Plus, what profession, outside of porn and prostitution, guaranteed you all the sex you could handle? None that I could think of.
But I supposed Matt was the real reason for my career choice. We’d lived together for the first eight years of our lives, then we’d lived on the same street, then we’d moved out together. Even though we drove each other crazy more often than not, we were almost always around each other. There was no one I liked making fun of more than Matt. And for as long as I could remember, Matt had been obsessed with music. Like, unhealthily obsessed. On-the-verge-of-needing-an-intervention obsessed.
When we were preteens, he used to say shit like, “Music is life,” and “Everything else is just background noise.” I think crap like that was why Matt had been a virgin until he was nineteen. And a half. He’d devoted his entire young life to music, but what he’d failed to realize was that music was just a means to an end. From the beginning of time, music was only designed to do one thing—get people laid. Sex was life…literally…and everything else was just background noise. After Matt’s first time, I think he started to understand that fact. He’d certainly eased off on the “Music fuels the world” comments.
Unlike me, Matt hadn’t really planned on being a rock star though. He’d thought it was a pipe dream, but I’d known it was inevitable. All we had to do was wait for the right moment. Wait for fate to find us. And it had.
After high school, I’d kept my options open. It used to drive my parents crazy that I hadn’t done anything productive after I graduated—by the skin of my teeth. I’d sort of ambled around for a couple years like a lost degenerate. That’s what my sister said anyway, but I’d known what I was doing. Timing was everything, and I couldn’t take the risk of being stuck at some lame-ass job when fate came knocking on my door. It wasn’t laziness, it was preparedness. I needed to be free, to be one with the winds of change, or some poetic shit like that. I had to be ready. And it was a good thing I was too, because if I’d had commitments I couldn’t get out of, Matt and I never would have been able to form a band with Kellan and Evan.
We met them at a strip club. It wasn’t often that I could get my cousin to go out for a little bump and grind with me, but after a few shots at the bar, I could have talked Matt into anything. Fucking lightweight. Matt, as always, was completely uncomfortable being around mostly naked girls. Because I cared about his personal growth, and because it was hilarious to watch him turn bright red, I did what I could to help him with the girls. We were kicked out of the club twenty minutes later. It wasn’t my fault though. I mean, how was I supposed to know that bringing a pogo stick up on stage was frowned upon? In my humble opinion, I thought I was improving the show.
Evan and Kellan had been at the club that night and had found us in the parking lot after we were rudely evicted. As usual, Matt was whining when they’d approached us—something about how much of an idiot I was. I don’t know, I hadn’t really been listening. But after introductions, the conversation had shifted to music, and Matt had finally been in seventh heaven. He was happier discussing music styles with a bunch of dudes than he had been watching silicone jugs jiggling up and down in front of our faces. I’d suspected it for years but had known without a doubt in that moment that Matt was completely out of his mind and would never be right in the head.
The two of us had signed on with Kellan and Evan and—boom!—the D-Bags were born. And I discovered that, as I’d predicted, music was a surefire path to sex. And, oh my God…there was so much sex to be had! Backstage sex. Parking lot sex. Wall sex. Bathroom sex. Whips and chains sex. Cosplay sex. One-night stands. Threesomes. Orgies. And a partridge in a pear tree.
It was a never-ending smorgasbord of carnal delight. All I had to say was, “I’m in a band,” and whatever chick I was talking to was instantly intrigued. It was so easy it was almost too easy. No, not really. It was f*cking amazing and I loved every second of it.
The only thing that put a slight damper on the awesomeness of my life was my inferior position in the band. The guys had no idea what a gift they had in me, and even though I told them repeatedly that I deserved a shot on lead guitar, time and time again, they kept holding me back. That was my only real complaint about being in the band. Oh, that and f*cking Kellan routinely stealing my *! Even when I called dibs! Before he went and got all “domesticated,” that used to really piss me off. And then, to make things even worse, the f*cking thief wouldn’t even share sex stories. If you’re gonna swipe my slit, *, at least have the common courtesy to share the deets!