ROCKSTAR

     “I’m not a brat.” She struggled to get the sentence out, still trying to recover from that unexpected burn. Jesus, how did people just drink alcohol straight? She was definitely meant to be a casual cocktail sipper. She wanted to be a brat, but the way his voice changed, the words good girl sounding like a damned reward and she hadn’t even done anything, had an uncomfortable heat rising in her body. Or was that the whiskey? Whatever the case she suddenly found herself wanting this man’s attention.

     He looked like a hot mess, outward appearance representing what she felt on a good day. Despite that appearance, there was still something about him that Frankie was drawn to. By whatever power or false confidence this one drink had given her, she turned her attention back to him, cheeks still burning despite herself, and placed a hand against his thigh. It was meant to be nonchalant, as if she was doing nothing more than balancing herself as she leaned in towards him.

     “what do you want me to be?” What was she getting herself into?

James grinned at that, the set of of his mouth wide. No, he didn’t suppose she was a brat, not with this sweet of a demeanor. It damn near wafted off her, the subtle need for approval, the way she looked at him -- unsure. James was the exact sort of man good girls like her were better off staying away from. But, that didn’t stop James. No, if she wanted to get burned by him, he was more than happy to light the match. 

She leaned in towards him then, hand coming to rest on his thigh, a gentle weight, a warm one. It was an invitation.  

What do you want me to be? 

James chuckled darkly at that. He wanted her to be lots of things. Naked, for one, spread open on his fingers, twitching as she attempted to stifle her moans. He wanted to see her eyes bright with tears, wanted to hold her down and press inside her with punishing force just to hear her gasp. 

He wanted to make her beg, wanted her to call him Sir and mean it. 

He was healing or some shit. 

Anyway, the bastard had managed to get him here, sober, and then texted him that Dallas -- who the fuck even was that? -- had some school emergency and he had to reschedule, sorry. 

Which was why James was leaned up against the entranceway doorway, pissed, smoking to take the edge off how being sober made him feel. He’d bummed two off some girl who’d looked startled when he’d asked her for one, blushed, and ended up giving him more than he asked for. 

Which.

Suited him just fine. 

He was just finishing off the first one, the itch and crawl of sobriety thrumming beneath his veins, when some guy approached, footsteps even, measured, a dog in tow. James exhaled, feeling confrontational. “Nice dog,” he said, mouth curling upwards at the edges into an almost-snarl. “They allow those here?” 

He ashed the cigarette, not caring where the ashes fell. 

He remember stumbling into a liquor store right when it opened. One of the sketchy ones, that sold him his Tennessee Whiskey without asking many questions, if any at all. 

Then he’d wandered into the park. There were children here. He was sure the moms were gossiping about him. So he grinned and gave them a two fingered wave, probably more action than they’d seen in the last five years of their miserable marriages. 

A shadow fell over him then. He snorted, not bothering to look and see who it was. “You’re blockin’ my sun,” he slurred. “Can’t you see I’m workin’ on my tan?” 

But. Whatever. 

James had more important things to worry about. Like how fucking soft she was, how he kinda wanted to get her breasts in his mouth, wanted to feel how wet she was, wanted to bite into her skin until he tasted blood. 

He forced her up against the hallway wall, the picture frames rattling, one falling, shattering. He didn’t give a fuck, just kept kissing her, large hand slipping beneath her shirt, fondling her without care. “Wanna just fuck here?” he asked her, breathless, words rough against her lips as he chuckled, not pausing to wonder why he wasn’t yet hard. 

He was drunk. They’d get there. Maybe he’d make her suck his dick first, too. Yeah. That sounded nice. He kissed down her neck, nipping at the junction of her neck and shoulder. “Or you want me to finger you open on the bed first? Lady’s choice.” 

Which was how James found himself at Nightingale again. How he hadn’t been permaban was beyond him. But, he did take all of his reckless fighting to the parking lot, at least. What he wasn’t an animal, no matter what the tabloids said. He had a code of ethics. 

Mostly. 

But, tonight, it seemed, he wasn’t the problem. Nah, it was some douche-canoe with reeboks on, of all things. 

James helped his happy self to the drama, swinging his arm around the submissive and pulling her in tight against him. “No means no, buddy,” he said, crooked smile mean, eyes narrowed, but demeanor relaxed enough. “Move along.” 

⌜

     Frankie wasn’t exactly sure what was more off putting; the fact that he had no qualms about entering her personal space or the way his breath –heavy with what she could only guess was whiskey and her tequila sunrise – was hot against her skin. No, the worst part of it was that she liked it. His words tickled against her skin, a blush creeping to her cheeks. Then what he said hit her, jaw dropping and the pink of her cheeks burned a bright red.

     Oh God. She wanted to die. Yep, the Earth could have opened up and swallowed her whole and that would have been far more welcomed than this. Fingers shot to her face, trying to shield herself from his gaze. “Why would you say that?!”

     The only reprieve came when the bartender delivered another drink, which must have been the one this idiot was waiting for. Without missing a beat, Frankie snatched the drink and downed it in one clear shot, coughing almost instantly as the liquid burned the back of her throat.

Well, well, wasn’t this just darling? James was already well on his way to drunk, but he wasn’t so far gone he missed the faint blush that tinted her cheeks, a tempting shade of red. One she hid behind her hands, clearly embarrassed by his words. It was coy -- James liked coy, coy was malleable, responsive, exactly what he needed. 

His grin only grew into one of the shit-eating variety. “What? It’s not like it ain’t true,” he drawled. “You’re a mother,” he paused to give her a sweeping, appreciative once-over. She really was pretty -- cheek bones for days, bedroom eyes, olive skin, and lips he wished to taste. He popped another cracker into his mouth, still grinning as he chewed before swallowing and continuing, “And I’d like to fuck you.” 

@tennesseex​ (location nightingale/it’s outside)

⌜​

     “You’re aware that’s my drink, right?” She eyed the man, who she could only guess was not sober – or maybe he was just extra. Her mother had taken the kids so she could enjoy a night of just being a twenty-something at a bar. It had been enjoyable, save for the drink she’d been waiting ten minutes for being snatched by the former Rockstar. She’d read enough articles, and maybe even written the odd one, to know about him. At least, know what was presented to the public. 

     Maybe the articles had been more than idle gossip. Her now empty drink proof of such exploits. “And my sons crackers.” She pointed towards the broken pieces that had tumbled from her purse. “It’s fine, you shouldn’t die. They’re only like… two months old.”

///

James wasn’t, in fact, aware that it wasn’t his drink. Nor did he really care. The bartender was taking too damn long with his and his buzz was starting to fade. Which didn’t exactly bode well for his night. A sober James was not where he wanted to be. He needed his thoughts dull, needed the rough scraping of nails, the soft press of a body beneath him, under his control. 

“Right. You really expect me to remember five names from this shithole? Should I be faltered or concerned you think I give that much of a shit?” 

“Why don’t you buy me a bottle of Whiskey, let me drink it, and we’ll find out?” 

“You’re joking right?” Nevada eyed the man behind the counter after being told he’ll have to wait for a drip coffee. That, he figured was a joke, but no – the look he received in turn was rather serious. “Can’t I get a regular coffee? Just black, plain coffee.” Turns out - no, he can’t, they can’t make it.

“That’s ridiculous.” Nevada muttered under his breath as he sat on one of the empty tables, the southern twang softening his words. 

@silvercreekstarters​

Was James drunk before ten AM? It was likely. He was also sporting a ridiculously expensive set of shades, under which he hid an impressive shiner. A tell-tale sign he did not, in fact, have his shit together. 

When he’d received Nevada’s text, he’d been surprised, seeing as the last he checked, they hadn’t been on speaking terms. But, it figured Nevada would be in town chasing tail. 

to steal a yacht

for: @tennesseex​

He hijacked a yacht once. Off the French Riviera. In Cannes. There was this smokey night club at the end of the palm beach and, on one annual trip to the South of France, Dominic had stumbled drunk on the French shore, nearly walked right into the water, before hauling himself on-board one of the yachts parked along the waterline. He’d found the keys right near the Captain’s chair and had managed to guess at enough buttons to start them into the water. Now here Dominic was, years later, recreating the memory under similar circumstances. Except, now, switch out the French Riviera for the Silvercreek Riviera ( ha! ); switch out a rebellious teenager with a buck-wild impulses with an adult who just been dared that he couldn’t; and switch out the motivation of drunken pride with … ugh, well, no. If he was being truly honest with himself ( something he granted himself more than others would give him credit for ) this was drunken pride as well. He really couldn’t really say no to a challenge could he? A couple of friends were visiting from Manhattan - college friends that would coalesce only for a moment in time before scattering to the wind - and the night had gotten out of hand. They’d all decided to participate in this little race, their drunken impulses fueled with privilege and recklessness. They had decided they were going to steal yachts. All of them. For guts. For glory. For old-times sakes. And goddamn Dominic’s need to win, because he had decided as soon as the clock had started that he was going to win. 

Dominic is all limbs as he pull himself of over the sleek white railing of the darkened yacht. Lacrosse had never encouraged elegance and neither did cross country while he’d participated in school, so he lets out small “Fuck!” of success as his feet land on the lacquered wood flooring. He’s a man on a mission and if this anything like Cannes 2011, the hardest part is over. It’s smooth sailing ( God, he thinks to himself, he’s fucking hilarious ) from here. He’ll find the helm station, he’ll push off the from the dock, and he’ll get to the second buoy out there on the horizon. 

He can’t help though, pausing for a moment by the railing to admire the view. Of the still water and the dark sky. How the fuck did this place wind up being his home once more? The ladder of success had seemed so easy to climb in New York and in D.C. - but here, in Silvercreek, almost everything felt like a dead fucking end. Yeah, the last thing he could do was fail this stupid race. He had to push - to prove that this place hadn’t gotten to him.

He doesn’t get to dwell. As it turns out, he’s not alone. There’s movement behind him and Dominic spins around … and then he has the audacity to scoff.  And really, what else is he supposed to do? He takes one look at this man that’s appeared and he makes a snap judgement. Dominic looks at the other’s threads, they’re far from fresh (or at the very least not this season), and in his drunkenness that measures up to only one thing.

“Hey, hey. Fuck you buddy.” Dominic says smoothly, far too casual considering the circumstances. He’s wearing a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, all teeth like a shark because he’ll easily look for blood if he needs to.  “Find your own yacht to steal, I don’t see your name on this one.”

///

Well, wasn’t this just fuckin’ sad.

James had to wonder if he’d finally reached the lowest point in his life because this sure as shit felt like it. What else could anyone call being drunk at three in the morning, dressed only in black boxers, a loose fitting Hawaiian t-shirt he’d gotten on one of his many stints in Hawaii left unbuttoned, and threads that had certainly seen better days. 

To round it off, he was alone on his second-hand yacht, the one he’d renamed after his mother (and wasn’t that just sentimental of him?), thinking about shit that didn’t even matter anymore. He had money, fame, but little else. 

He wondered if his mother would be proud of him. James laughed, the sound bitter, and took another swing from his already nearly empty bottle of whiskey. She wouldn’t. She’d have that same look in her eye Nevada always did -- disa-fucking-pointed. Would she hate him, too, for refusing to attend his father’s funeral? 

Really, nowadays, he had to wonder who he hated more: his father or himself? 

He knew which Nevada despised more. 

James’ hand twitched, head a mess, emotions worse, the need to just control something rising into his chest, the weight of it suffocating. He wanted to hurt someone, wanted to do to them what he wanted to do to himself, wanted the release, the comfort of please, and more, sighs of pleasure and wet cheeks he could comfort, heal. 

But such thoughts were interrupted when he heard a ruckus and the hell, maybe he wasn’t as alone as he thought he was. Further investigation brought him face to face with some tall, lanky, and posh looking asshole. He had dark hair, fine features, and eyes that held more challenge within that the lofty accusations that come pouring out of his mouth.

He should be alarmed, angry, even, but never let it be said that James wasn’t opportunistic. It was perfect, is what it was, some rich brat trying to steal his yacht. His mouth slipped into a grin that could only be described as arrogant, all teeth.  

“What,” he drawled. “Don’t think Alice suits me?” 

He stepped towards the man then, a perfect stranger, and placed his hand on the overhead beam, holding onto it as he leaned forward into the other’s space without a lick of hesitation. “Ask nicely and maybe I’ll show you how to start this thing up.”