Her grin grew only wider. “Oh, I think I can handle that.”
It was Friday —theFriday. Actually, a very late afternoon ontheFriday, and I was still sprawled on the couch, popcorn wedged in the valley of my breasts, a few cans ofPepsi Maxsweating on the coffee table next to an empty pizza box while I was watching reruns of Full House.
The clock kept ticking, and I genuinely considered remaining where I was because Milo Cross had pissed me the fuck off the night before. It had been a pre-show party that he’d attended — and I had skipped because I wasn’t feeling it — and which had put him in a rather precarious spot between a brunette and a redhead. How did I fucking know that? He’d posted it on hisInstagramstories, the fucking dumbass.
I remembered launching a lamp at his head the moment he came back smelling like a whole liquor factory.
He’d managed to dodge it — it was still on the ground, next to the dent in the wall where it had hit. It had been heavy, too. Andthenhe’d had the audacity to laugh about it.
“It’s PR, Mary. Jesus Christ.”
“PR my ass,” I’d shot back, picking up some award from a shelf, ready to launch it, too.
“Mary—” his voice had gone serious. “You put down that fucking Grammy!”
Oh, I had put it down, alright. By chucking it at him. Unfortunately, he’d managed to catch it. “They’re fucking models! The label set it up for promo shots.”
“Then why’s the redhead’s hand on your dick?”
He’d gone quiet at that. Because yeah — even through the grainy Instagram quality, you could see her fingers pressed against his thigh, dangerously close to territory that was supposed to be mine.
We’d gone to bed angry. Well, I’d gone to bed angry. He’d tried to touch me, tried to smooth it over with kisses and whispered apologies, but I’d turned away and pulled the blanket over my head. Fuck him.
This morning he’d left early for soundcheck without waking me.
Now it was almost six PM, and I was supposed to be getting ready. Hair, makeup, the works. Dahlia had texted three times asking what I was wearing. Burgundy sent a selfie of her outfit — a leather mini dress and some studded denim vest over it.
I reached for another handful of popcorn and shoved it in my mouth.
My phone buzzed. Milo’s name lit up the screen.
I slurped thePepsi.
He called again.
I decided I would let him sweat for a bit. For another episode or two, while I drooled all over Uncle Jesse. It didn’t fucking help that Milo actually had similar features to John Stamos.
The phone buzzed again. Then again. I ignored it, watching DJ Tanner navigate some teen drama that felt refreshingly simple compared to my current bullshit.
By the fourth buzz, I caved and looked.
Milo:Baby please
Then, a few seconds later, a notification from my bank app: +$20,000.00
I stared at the notification for a breath before I started laughing. The man did, indeed, know me. Now, how could I say no to that? Twenty grand felt real heartfelt to me.
I grinned, fished out the popcorn from in between my breasts, and headed for the shower.
The hot water felt good, washing away the pizza grease and the sticky residue of anger that had clung to me all day. I took my time — shaved everything, deep conditioned my hair, did the whole routine. If I was going to show up to his concert, I was going to look so fucking good he’d regret every second of that photo op.
By the time I stepped out, wrapped in a towel, I had decided. I’d film the OnlyFans video at the venue. Yep. I’d make him fuck me while the whole arena was screaming for an encore.
I dried off and started the process. Foundation, contour, highlight. I put on my pink wig, styled it in loose waves, and walked to the closet. I decided against a dress, instead reaching for a crop top and some fishnets — I figured they would look good on camera when Milo would rip them — and hopped into the tightest leather skirt I owned. The thigh-high boots I put on added an extra six inches to me, but I wasn’t complaining. If they weren’t inside me, I’ll take them in the shape of a chunky heel.
The venue wasn’t too far from his place, but it was rush hour, so… safe to say I was fashionably late, which meant I wasn’t late at all but rather on time. Some smaller band was opening for them, warming up the crowd — I could hear it well outside the venue.
Security waved me through the moment they saw my face — apparently, Milo had put me on some VIP list. I walked past the merch tables, past the clusters of fans clutching drinks and wearing Black Psalm t-shirts, and headed toward the backstage entrance.
