Watching him with her that night had been the hardest thing I’d ever had to do. Even after, when he’d spread his seed all over her, and I’d carried her into the bathroom and cleaned her up, I knew that a part of her died that night. The weeks after that, I tried to love her through it but it was too late. She started snorting cocaine and would spend her days completely out of it. Until the day she stopped being in pain anymore.

I shook my head, wishing I could scrub my head clean of all of the terrible things I’d seen over the years. It wasn’t possible to rid myself of all of the filth I’d been a part of.

I began writing, the words not able to get down on the paper as fast as I could think them. I tapped my foot, a rhythm coming to life in my head. I remembered a time when sitting in my basement with my friends playing music was the best part of my day, and the dream of somehow ‘making it big’ kept me going. Ah, to be that young and stupid again.

I tapped the pen against my lips. If I could go back in time, would I? Not that there was any sort of fucking time machine or anything, but in the proverbial sense that I could, would I want to? I tell you what I wished for most of all: to be able to change leaving Julia. Despite my parents’ disapproval, had I not wanted to ‘make it big’ in Los Angeles, the rest of the shit would’ve never happened.

Sighing, I threw the pen down on the table and put my arms behind my head. I was tired, but that wasn’t unusual anymore. I made a vow to myself to have less sex and more sleep, then burst out laughing.

“How about more sex, less sleep,” I chuckled to myself. My brain conjured images of Bex, her long, dark hair covering her face as she rode me, as I took her from behind, and as I had her watch in the mirror. I’d slept with countless women in my lifetime, many of those in the last two years. I knew what I was doing, and I accepted it. I had no intention of stopping anytime soon.

But then there was Bex. She and I were explosive. We had more issues together than Starbucks had coffee beans. Just the thought of her was stirring my dick awake.

“You have to move on,” I muttered to myself, looking down at the words I’d written. “She was a hot lay. Maybe even the hottest you’ve ever had. That’s all it can ever be.”

I knew touching her was a bad idea. As combustible as we were before we slept together, during and after was off the charts. I’d never had a woman hate me so much, and it had been a turn on. I wished I could see her perform with Halestorm. Watching that sexy ass move around the stage in her tight dress, or leather shorts, or whatever equally sinful thing she’d be wearing . . .

Sigh. I was hard again.

“I’m heading out,” I called to Cal. He waved, turning back to the customer in front of him. I was headed to another bar in the area to watch a local band that wanted to play at The Outrigger. It was my technical night off, but I’d come in to do my homework on the band.

Their band name was Belles and Lace and had only been playing together just over a year. I liked their sound in the demo they’d uploaded online, but I felt better seeing their vibe in person. At least, that’s what I told myself. They were a country band, which wasn’t usually my style, but they had a rock and roll edge to them. Plus, it was popular in the area, so we had to do what would bring in the money.

It didn’t hurt that the lead singer, Stephanie, was blonde with big tits and a body that wouldn’t quit. The way she filled out a jean skirt and cowboy boots . . . yeah, I had a thing for singers. The entire band was women, none of which I’d throw out of my bed. Tonight, I was going to get lost in one that wouldn’t infiltrate my every thought afterward.

It had been three weeks since the last time I’d seen or talked to Bex. I knew she was headed out next week on tour, and I needed something to stop my brain from thinking about her or wanting to find her. I’d stopped myself so many times from researching to figure out where she lived or where the band was practicing. The main thing that stopped me was what the hell I would say to her once I found her. “Hi, I couldn’t keep my dick—er, my mind off of you, so here I am? Wanna fuck again?” Yeah, somehow I doubted that would get me very far, and then we’d end up in the same awkward place we were on our last day together. It was better to leave well enough alone and chalk our two nights up to the best sex I might ever have.

I hadn’t had sex in three weeks. I thought my dick might shrivel up, but so far he was hanging in there. What I had done is think of Bex often, replaying our nights together over and over in my brain. It had been nothing but my thoughts and my hand keeping me occupied over the last several days, and I was over it. It was time to get buried into some feminine warmth, and tonight.

I revved up my newest addition—a motorcycle. I couldn’t stand that little speck of a car for one more second, and I’d found this custom Harley on a killer deal from an old guy needing his money back after impulsively having it custom made. Gotta love old guys in a mid-life crisis. His wife probably made him get rid of it. I’d always wanted one but hadn’t found it smart in Denver. I had no idea if I was going to go back to Denver or not; I was taking it one week at a time at this point. But Julia said I could keep it here if I did, even if she did beg me daily not to go back. Thankfully, I’d gotten my motorcycle license when I got out of prison so I could eventually buy one of my own.

I’d talked to Al, my parole officer, a few times since I’d been here. He was keeping in contact with my parents about the expunging my record thing. There still wasn’t a hearing date, so I was in a holding pattern. I was still grateful he was allowing me to be in Florida for this amount of time and was okay with me checking in with him. He did say if I moved here I’d have to get a new parole officer. I was hoping that by then my record would be gone and I wouldn’t need a fucking babysitter anymore. I wasn’t a criminal. Okay, I was. But not by choice.

The bike roared down the road, whizzing past the buildings and cars. I could still smell the salt in the air from the beach, no matter how far away I got. I loved that about Florida. The reverberation of the bike under my hands was intoxicating. I could ride forever. It was almost as invigorating as writing and playing music.

Julia asked me almost daily if I’d played on the Gibson. Every time I told her no, that I couldn’t, I’d see that look of disappointment in her eyes. I had pages and pages of lyrics, not that I shared those with Julia. I’d never shared my lyrics with anyone. They were a diary of sorts; a way to get out everything that got all jumbled up in my head.

Much too soon, I pulled into Dixie, where Belles and Lace was playing tonight. Heads turned as the rumble of the motorcycle got their attention. I stepped off, removing the helmet and clipping it to the bike. Looking around, I saw that I was in the minority at this bar. Huge jacked up trucks were much more prevalent than bikes, and most of the patrons wore cowboy boots while I wouldn’t be caught dead in them.

Ignoring the stares, I pulled open the door and stopped, letting my eyes adjust to the dimness in the room. Music pumped through speakers, and the dance floor was packed with people doing some sort of line dance. Kill me now. I hated country music. The things I do for a good lay.

“Hey there, sugar.” I snapped my eyes over to a young girl, who looked barely twenty-one. She was wearing shorts—if you wanted to call them that—and a low cut tank top. “Can I get you a drink?”

“Beer,” I barked out. “Whatever is on tap.” Her smile faltered just slightly before she turned to get my beer. I knew what she probably thought: I was from the wrong side of the tracks, in the wrong bar, and she would take care of me while I was here. Honey, you don’t want any of this.