But they don’t.
This isn’t the first artist who’s gotten stiffed.
Only the first who sent the problem
directly to me.
I’ll head to the office tonight to see what I can find out.
The phone slides out of my hand,
and hits the floor,
sounding louder than it should.
I lean back,
spine to couch,
and stare at the ceiling.
Everything’s crashing down around me.
The label.
My career.
My Boys.
My control.
My heart.
Me.
And I can’t pick up the broken pieces fast enough.
I drop my head into my hands.
Then Little Death creeps in,
a hot pull, a warm ache between my legs.
It doesn’t ask what’s wrong,
doesn’t want to know, doesn’t care.
The habit slides down inside me like?—
you seem tense, Baby. I can fix that.
And my thighs squeeze back,
answering like a slut.
I need one good high.
One orgasm. One release.
