I shifted my chair toward the girls’ table. “Hey, ladies!” I yelled. When they all twisted to look at me, I grabbed my cock and put on a smug smile. “See anything you like?”
They all gave me the look I loved to get from women. It was an expression of horror, disgust, and intrigue. If I was that brazen with my clothes on, what would I do with them off? That curiosity alone had scored me more chicks than I could count. But then their expressions changed. One by one, they glanced from me to the D-Bags shrine, then back to me. Once it clicked who I was, they started shrieking loud enough for every person in the bar to look at them.
“Oh my God! You’re in the band! You’re one of the D-Bags!”
They rushed over to me, faces alight with earnest interest. Slinking back in my chair, I casually raised a hand. “Yeah, I’m with the band.” The band of merry dream-killing assholes. I didn’t mention that though.
The girls circled around me like vultures settling in on their prey. Some kneeled to get down to my level, one made herself at home on my lap. The alcohol brimming through my veins really liked that.
While I soaked in the feminine attention, the girls started asking me questions. When what they were saying sank in, I found their presence less pleasant. “So, you’re around Kellan Kyle all the time…what is he like? Is he really that good looking? Does he ever…play around with other girls beside his wife? Could we get his phone number? Could you give him ours?” The girl on my lap dramatically let her head fall backward. “God that man is gorgeous. I would let him do absolutely anything he wanted to me…” She started running her hands over her breasts, and that was when I had enough. I shoved her off my lap, and she hit the floor with a thud.
All of her friends let out startled gasps, while the guys around me chuckled. The chick I’d dumped glared at me with eyes that were certainly channeling every evil spirit on earth. “What the fuck? Asshole!”
Not in the mood, I held up a hand. “Save your outrage for someone who gives a shit.”
Standing up, she brushed off her short skirt. Her friends swarmed around her, like they were forming a shield. A shield of indignation. “You may be famous and all, but you’re just an asshole jerk, like every other guy out there.”
“Except Kellan, right? You still want me to give him your number?” She hesitated, like she actually thought I was going to do it for her.
Not wanting anything more from these Kellan-worshipping girls, I turned away with a hard laugh. “Don’t worry. I’ll get your number off the stall door,” I sniggered. “You can go.”
Something heavy hit me in the back of the head, and twisting around, I saw the girl clutching her purse to her chest as she shook in rage. She hit me with her purse? That was a new one. “You’re a fucking asshole, and I’m going to let the whole world know it.”
I shrugged, then turned around and ignored her. She could try, but nobody really knew me anyway. Even my short stint as Hand Solo was all but gone. I’d disappeared back into Kellan’s gargantuan shadow, where I was forever destined to stay. Fuck my life.
Numerous regulars went home, but I stayed. I was closing the place down tonight; hadn’t done that in a long time. And I was sloppy drunk too. As the night wore on, my phone buzzed more and more often, but I ignored it. I didn’t want to deal with obligations right now, I just wanted to get fucked up.
Hours later, I was alone at my table, teetering on the edge of vomiting or passing out, when a guy I didn’t know sat across from me. He was wearing a suit, complete with a tie, and looked really out of place here. I tried to tell him to fuck off, but all that came out of my mouth was a weird grunting sound. Maybe if I chucked on his shoes he’d get the message.
With a smile that was way too bright for this late at night, he stretched his hand across the table. “Hi, my name is Harold Berk. You’re Griffin Hancock, correct?”
I stared at his fingers but didn’t touch him. When he realized I wasn’t the handshaking type, he pulled his arm back. “Yeah, that’s me. Who wants to know?”
His brows drew together in concentration, and I knew my speech was coming out so slurred it was like I was speaking another language. I didn’t repeat myself though. Let him figure it out. “Um, like I said, my name is Harold Berk. I represent Iris Production Studios.”
I didn’t know what this guy was talking about, but the instant the word “production” hit my ears, Kellan’s solo offer flashed through my mind. Pointing at the guy, I snarled, “You tell those lamebrain fuckers that you work for that they are…lame…and they don’t know what they’re missing. Kellan has the talent…ha! Kellan has the herpes, that’s what he has! Well, the odds are good anyway…Dude’s a whore.” Wiping some spittle off my lips, I finished with “Battle Robots suck anyway. Thirty-foot-tall robots fighting monsters in the streets…fucking awesome.” I shook my head, making the world dance. “I mean…fucking ridiculous.”
Whatever his name was across from me looked even more confused by my ramblings. “Battle Robots? No, no I’m not talking about that. Or Kellan. I’m here to talk to you.”
Curiosity reached through my hazy brain to flip on a light switch of intrigue. “Who are you again?”
The man sighed. “My name is Harold Berk, for the third time, and I represent Iris Production Studios. I’m here to proposition you.”
I immediately held both of my hands up, accidently hitting my glass and spilling some whiskey on the table. “I don’t do dudes, so you can save the proposition.”