Marooned with the Rock Star (A Crazily Sensual Rock Star Romance, with Humor) Read Online Free PDF

crescendoed
through me, rendering my limbs weak and my body hollow – until I
was aching and shuddering and spent.
    God, that was good. I should do this more
often. And I wasn’t exactly having anonymous sex. Strike One in my
favor.
    I didn’t know if Tiza came too, because the
man who greeted us at the back entrance came in. My mind was still
in a blur when I distinctly heard his voice saying:
    “It’s a raid! The cops are here!”
    Shit, I immediately thought. Vice!
    Everyone in the room was scrambling to pluck
their cocks out of wet orifices and their mouths from genitals.
Alex, Steve and Tyler rushed to pick their scattered clothes up.
Everyone was in a frenzy of dressing. I pitied the girls. They
weren’t dressed up that much in the first place and they certainly
weren’t going to pass as nuns with those micro-nano outfits and
nipple pasties they were flaunting.
    “Come on, Kurt,” Steve hissed. “Let’s get out
of here.”
    Right.
    You would think that was the defining moment
– when we got caught, correct? Well, not really.
    I wasn’t that lucky.

KURT
     
    I quickly found my discarded pants, and had
difficulty getting into them because they were so tight. My shirt
was a more difficult prospect to find, but I finally spotted it
being stepped on by someone who was rushing to buckle his belt. I
retrieved it in that pandemonium of stomping feet and hiked
adrenaline.
    I was finally half-dressed when Tyler grabbed
my arm and whirled me out of the door.
    “Cops mean publicity,” he explained. “Not all
publicity is good publicity, especially when you are nommed for a
Grammy.”
    Right. Wouldn’t want to sway the voters in
any way.
    We came up by stairs and so we tumbled down
those stairs again.
    “Where’s Stan?” asked Alex.
    “Probably gone to take a piss,” replied
someone else.
    “We can’t wait,” Alex declared. “Where are
the keys to the van?”
    We didn’t even know where the van was
parked.
    The man who had greeted us handed me a car
key. “Here, take my car. You can return it tomorrow.”
    I grabbed it without further preamble.
“Where’s your car?”
    “It’s the white BMW in the back.”
    It was my turn to take charge and say to the
guys, “OK, come on. Let’s go.”
    We ran into the back alley, where the white
BMW – a seven-series, no less – sat waiting for us like a getaway
car after a bank robbery. Our forlorn black van was parked a little
distance away. I hopped into the driver’s seat and the rest of the
band got into the other seats.
    “I’ll return it tomorrow,” I said to the man
in as low a voice as I could muster to be heard.
    He waved me away and darted back into the
back of the building.
    “Step on it, Kurt,” Alex ordered, as if we
were playing cops and robbers.
    I turned the ignition on and stepped on gas
pedal. The BMW purred to life under my hands and we were off.
    “Don’t drive too fast,” Tyler cautioned. He
smelled of heavy cigarette smoke.
    “Yeah, take it easy. Wouldn’t want to attract
any cops,” said Steve. He smelled of, uh, cunt juice,
unfortunately.
    “Yes, Dad,” I deadpanned.
    The alley was dark and cluttered with garbage
bins and vanishing cats, and so driving fast wasn’t an option. But
once we got out of the alley, the streets of New York were
relatively empty at this time. But driving fast wasn’t an option
either because there were so many pedestrian stops along the
way.
    We could hear the wail of cop cars nearby,
and my nervousness started to tick away like a time bomb. I could
literally hear my heart beating in my ears.
    “Uh, where do we go now, guys?” I said.
    “Take us home, man,” Alex replied.
    Trouble was, I wasn’t sure where his ‘home’
was.
    You see, we always had Stan or someone else
as the designated driver. The drivers changed from time to time,
and they were always hired from limo companies. Sometimes they were
hired by our record company, and other times, by our publicist.
    Because we always had a