NOCTURNES contains 511 F-bombs, 81 well-endowed male chickens, 65 girl kitties, 58 Richard the Lessers, 10 C-U-Next-Tuesdays, and a plethora of other colorful words and phrases that would deafen your virginal mother's ears and make her bust out her “Shame on you!” finger. If you've been tuned in since the beginning of the Hard Rock Harlots series, you know the drill. The sex is extreme, the language is graphic, and the story is over the top. Prudes and under 18s need not apply.
WARNING: NOCTURNES addresses serious topics such as alcoholism, prostitution, and cheating. If you're looking for a barrel of laughs or sunshine and rainbows, this is NOT the book for you.
Rax Wrathbone is the dirty rock star you love to hate. The filthy fantasy slithering through your bed sheets. The serpent in your lady garden. The snake bite in your panties that keeps you sweating all night. He. Is. Sex.
And he's no good. For anyone.
After a nasty breakup with his best friend and their band's drummer, Rax is flying solo for the first time in years. Who needs the drama of commitment when the line for your humping booth spans three city blocks? No, groupies and liquor are far finer company than relationships, and they don't leave bruises after they've had their way with you. At least not lasting ones.
Rax's new adventures as an alcoholic, guitar-slashing one-man show are going along swimmingly until the only woman who's ever brought him to his knees shimmies down a pole back into his life. Eve doesn't abide excessive drinking, she has sex with strangers for a living, and she can't remember Rax's name to save her life.
She's perfect in every way.
Now, if he could just get sober long enough to forget his past and convince Eve he's worthy of her future ...
Release date: November 30, 2013
Publisher: Howling Mad Press LLC
Print pages: 284
Content advisory: NSFW
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Side A (Rax's Mix Tape): "One Bourbon, One Scotch, One Beer"
Tuesday, March 4 – Mardi Gras, New Orleans, Louisiana
The blond stripper onstage is hot. I like the way her hair fans out with her jerky dance moves. Wearing a crisp white men’s button-down dress shirt with a tie loose around her neck, stuffed animal dangling from the tips of her fingers, she’s got a young Britney Spears thing going on. I wouldn’t mind stealing her teddy bear and making it watch while I fuck her with a Blow Pop.
Slapping the bar hard enough to rouse the dazed voyeurs nearby, I laugh at myself and scoop up the next shot from the line before me. I dedicated the first two to Jinx and Toombs. Who should I toast next? I know …
I hold the glass high and say to no one in particular, “Here’s to you, Letty Dillinger. Thanks for fucking up my life, bitch.”
Pitch. Swallow. Slam. Three down, three more to go.
The dancer makes quick work of her dress casuals. The heavy bass recalibrating human heartbeats via subwoofers hidden in the walls punctuates the slashing of her arms and stomps of her stiletto-strapped feet. Colored lights swirl above, casting mottled patterns across the stage. Psychedelic trailers ignite my already blurred vision.
She licks the length of the tie, meets my eyes, and smiles. Slinks a hand across her bare tits and rubs it down her front to her barely covered crotch. I notch a brow and casually brush my cock. Whistles from across the small round platform draw her attention away. A bunch of guys in polos wave bills in the air and high-five each other.
The music winds down. Lights dim. The topless dancer descends the steps, navigates the wall-to-wall crowd of deodorant-challenged tourists, and heads for the frat boys raising hell on the other side of the dais. Can’t tell if she ignored my “Wanna hump?” signals, or she’s too stupid to have noticed. Or maybe she smelled my nearly empty wallet.
Fuck her. And her bad boob job.
Laughter rises and pops like bubbles as the chick giggles and bounces for the boys falling all over themselves to get close. Fog machines pump out ozone-smelling vapor, mixed with hints of pot and cigarettes. A dull haze dampens the already poor visibility in the club.
My gaze returns to the stage. The steel pole jutting proudly from dead center mocks me. Cold and calculating. Behind it looms a huge purple neon sign that reads Nocturnes.
“What are you lookin’ at, motherfucker?” I say, bringing the next shot to my lips.
The pole doesn’t answer. Tight-lipped cunt.
My hand droops, and the tequila plays nice with gravity, behaving itself, slanting like it’s supposed to, sloshing like an object in motion staying in motion until another force intervenes. Glass. It’s some shit. I laugh again. Stupid as hell.
“No, you’re fixin’ to be drunk as hell,” I tell myself and swallow down Jose Cuervo’s next ejaculation of golden jizz. “Ahh … better than cum.” I flip the glass on its mouth and caress its ass end after it hits the table.
The guy sitting next to me flings a sideways glance, gets up, and leaves.
“The fuck, man?” I gesture to the stage. “It’s free pussy. And ass. And tits. I mean after you pay cover and stuff some bills in their snatches.” I shake my head. The dude clearly has no taste. And if he knew he was sitting next to Rax Wrathbone of Killer Buzz Float, that dickhead would probably be under the bar, blowing me right now.
I flip out a poorly executed bird with my sobriety-challenged middle finger and flick it like a booger at his back. “There. That’s for being a pussy with your motherfucking tweed-ass jacket and skinny fucking jeans on Mardi fucking Gras.” Worst fashion sense ever.
I scowl and face the stage again. Damn pole is still staring me down. I point a finger at it. Raise a brow. Wait for it to say something. Come at me. Try to buttfuck me. “I triple dog dare you.”
The pole remains as stoic as ever.
When the next song starts, a body intervenes. Hands, arms, and elbows molest the metal. Choke it like a thick cock. Flesh and fabric. “Porn Star Dancing” by My Darkest Days rapes the speakers, prompting the rusty gears in my head to grind and squeal. The new girl is another blond. She climbs the metal, mounts it near the peak, and spirals down in a blur of controlled rhythm. The damn pole is unshakeable. It gives nothing. It fears nothing. It cares for nothing.
Like my dick would be if I weren’t … “So fucking drunk,” I shout.
Goddamn Toombs. Goddamn Jinx.
Why’d they have to …?
Ah, fuck the pity party. I slap the bar before me, and the stripper struts over wearing six-inch trash-walkers, nearly impaling my finger with a spiked heel. She shakes her thonged ass in my face. When the cash remains safely tucked inside my pocket, she drifts away in search of more loaded prospects in Greek-lettered ball caps and sensible khakis.
Enough with the self-imposed abstinence. I need to get laid tonight.
It’s been ages since I last spoke to Toombs. He wants nothing to do with me. Jinx tried to strike up a conversation the other day, but I’m done with her. Fucking bitch turned my best friend since childhood against me. My tag-team buddy. My rock.
I thumb the tender bruise under my eye, suppress a fury-filled expletive, and grab my next drink, swallowing it without a thought. My head tips left. The room is spinning real good now. I straighten, aligning myself vertically with that godforsaken pole. The annoying dancer covers the metal with her limber flesh, shimmying up as if it takes no more effort than breathing.
The truth is, climbing up is harder than shit. Going down is easier than drunk Killer Buzz Float groupies.
Down, down, down. Taking the easy way out. Just like me. Because pulling myself out of this addictive, swirling clusterfuck requires more effort, motivation, and willpower than I’ve got. So I’ll just keep falling and let gravity do all the work. Maybe I’ll hit the bottom soon. Or maybe I’ll fall so far and so deep, no one will ever find me.
“Fuck you, Toombs. I don’t need you.” I’ve got my guitar and this here tequila. They’re far better company than Toombs.
I make eye contact with the stripper taming the pole and ease my tongue across my lips. A slight dip of her jaw tells me she gets the message. I shove a hand into my pocket and feel around for more bills. I’m down to my last hundred bucks. Thank fuck I already paid for the tequila.
The dancer kicks out a hip my way as her gaze falls to the green. She moseys over, bends down, and says in my ear without touching me, “You looking to get up close and personal, hon?” She cups the tits overflowing the banks of her silver-studded bra and makes fleshy waves with a twitch of her wrists.
“You looking to have your world turned upside down?” I squeeze my flaccid cock.
“Dancing only, Romeo. But if you’ve got sixty bucks, I’ll give you a private show you’ll never forget.” The cloying scent of Juicy Fruit holds my nose hostage. Not my favorite, but I’m pretty sure I can talk her into blowing me. Then her breath will smell like Rax’s Juicy Cum.
“I’ve got forty.” My tongue isn’t working properly. I may have slurred. “But I’m not paying. If anything, you should pay me.”
Her expression turns cold, and she backs away. “You’re in the wrong club, sugar.”
I grab her arm before she can escape. The bouncer who’s been eyeing me from the corner all night starts toward us, and I let go. “Hands off, I got it.”
The guy halts, shaking his head.
I turn to the stripper. “How about we renegotiate? Forty bucks for a five-minute song with you grinding my dick so hard, it takes a crowbar to pry you off?”
“Look around you.” Hips swaying, she gestures to the packed house, folds herself in half, and rolls her body straight up. A dramatic hair flip follows. “It’s Mardi Gras. Guys are throwing around Ben Franklins like it’s the end of the world. And that’s just for regular dances. It’s sixty or you can find yourself another dancer, sweet pea.”
Sixty fucking dollars for a girl to wave her tits in my face for one song. I lean into the plush black chair and prop my elbow on the armrest. “Like I said. You should be paying me. Do you have any idea who I am?”
“No.” Her voice falters as a hint of attraction makes itself known via the twitch in her lip. She studies me for a long moment, her ass still shaking to the bass-thumping tune. Weighing her options, no doubt. I play disinterested and glance at the girl one table over. That always gets ’em.
“Fine. Forty. Meet me in the VIP room after my set.” And she’s gone in a flash, back to her precious pole with its unreasonable demands for climbing and working and … exploiting human flesh like it’s … well … human flesh.
What’s the allure for these women? Lots of effort and very little payoff sometimes. I prefer things easy and cheap and uncomplicated.
I had a willing submissive at my disposal any time I wanted him. When Jinx came along, we had a hot ménage with the potential to become something more permanent. The three of us. Together.
Or maybe just Jinx and me. Or Toombs and me. Hell, any combination of me and them would have been fine.
But unlike the pole, I blew it. All because I lied about some people I fucked. And some deals I made.
I should be more like poles, and just say, “Fuck it. I dare you to defy me and my big steely phallus.”
The dancer blocking my view to the metal cock contorts her body into positions well suited for pornos and freak shows. She’s flexible. I’ll give her that. And pretty, but far from perfect. The scars from her recent boob job haven’t fully healed. A few stray stretch marks line the ass cheeks sneaking out the bottom of her three-sizes-too-small boy shorts. Her blond hair looks good from far away, but up close, it has the texture of dried straw. This girl has a few things going for her, but too many flaws for my taste.
Well, if I’m honest, everyone has too many flaws.
Except Lola. She was unforgettable. A stripper I met in Jacksonville a few months ago, she had black hair like a horse’s—long, jet as night, with a hint of wildness. Her body language bragged of an untamed, unbreakable spirit. Strong.
Pure, pale skin. Tall. Slender. Toned without being overly muscular. Her voice was low and even. When she gripped the pole, she commanded it, owned it, made it her bitch, and she did so effortlessly.
The dancer performing for me now masters every spin, cuts loose admirable flying moves, inverting, corkscrewing …
But she’s too mechanical. Too by-the-book. Too practiced.
Not like wild and free Lola.
Lola is my ideal woman. The fantasy I can always turn to when real life gets to be too much. The one I still jerk off to at least three times a week. The girl who haunts my dreams—both the awake and asleep kinds. In my mindscape’s reality, she caters to my every whim, fucks me on command, and worships me like a rock star should be worshipped. A sub begging me to dominate her in every way.
Sure, it’s empty and futile to wish for things that aren’t yours for the taking. I had something pretty fucking close to perfection with Toombs and Jinx before Letty blabbed to him about my “cheating.” Then Jinx got high and mighty with me about “coming clean” and all the fucking apologies I owe Toombs. He knew what he was in for. He knew I was trolling behind his back. The guy’s not fucking stupid.
Haven’t gotten laid since he and Jinx ditched me a few days ago. Haven’t even popped wood. Though, that could be due to the massive influx of alcohol saturating my system over the last week. It’s certainly not because I give a shit.
I look down to my lap. “Dicks. Who needs ’em?”
The song ends, and the stripper finishes her dance to a round of whoops from the horny frat boys waving dollar bills on the other side of the circular stage. She stabs me with a pointed glare. I pick up my last shot and stand, hoisting the liquid gold in a salute to Betty Bummybritches or whatever the fuck her stripper name is.
The guys sitting on either side give me a quick once-over as I wobble and steady myself with a palm to the bar.
“Here’s to all the people who keep my life interesting. Toombs the Pussy for ditching me over a woman. Jinx the Village Wench for stealing my best friend. And Lola for pushing me off the deep end and leaving me without a life jacket. If only she were here to catch my fall. Since she’s not …”
Glug, glug, glug …
“Ah …” I wipe my mouth on my leather jacket sleeve and kiss the glass’s gaping whore mouth to the bar. “Long live King Rax and his mighty G-spot detector.” Pelvic thrust.
A roar of cheers wells around me, transporting me to my happy place—onstage with Killer Buzz Float, basking in the glow of hot spotlights and a screaming audience. The room spins. My body tilts. I run a hand down the front of my shirt to squeeze the package below.
“Fuck you, soulless fucks,” I shout into the microphone. “You don’t know jack shit about me or what I been through. It ain’t none of your business anyways.” I slash my guitar to the Village Wench’s drumstick four-count. My vision dissolves into something sub-sensory as a shifting grid manifests before my eyes. A concert unfolds in my aural passageways. My head bangs to the beats, my right arm thrashes, and my fingers work the guitar frets. Then the crowd silences, and the vision clears to reveal …
Oh shit. Big Bouncer Man is heading my way, and this time, he’s not backing down. My brain does the scrambler shuffle.
Killer Buzz Float’s manager Jillian told me if I fuck up one more time, I’m out of the band.
Quick. Act sober.
I straighten and check my breath against my palm. Damn, I need a Tic Tac for real. Done sucking off Jose Cuervo for now, I lean over to the guy sitting nearest to me. “You got some gum or mints, man?”
The dude lifts a smug brow. I consider kicking his chair legs out from under him, but then he reaches into his pocket and produces a pack of Big Red. I snag a piece and pop it in my mouth. The bouncer plants his feet shoulder-width apart right in front of me and crosses his meaty arms over his chest. No shit, his arms look like fucking Popeye’s. Bowling-pin arms. I spit a laugh from between my teeth, nearly losing my gum.
“You got a problem, son?” the big, bald motherfucker says. His eyes are black and beady. Like a Chihuahua’s.
“No, sir, I do not. Do you got a problem,” I inspect his nametag, “Duane?” This time, I don’t even try to contain my laughter. Duane. His parents might as well have named him Dana. Or Teddy.
Such a shame about Duane. Gonna hit ’im with my cane. He ain’t got no brain. Duane, you so lame.
“You’re my only problem at the moment. I think it’s time you left.”
God, stop being a pain, Duane.
I plaster a fake look of outrage across my face and execute a full-body shake. “How dare you,” I say with my best British accent.
“Duane, I got this one.” The stripper marches up and weaves her arm through the crook of my elbow. “Come on, honey.”
“Bitch is outta here if he steps out of line once more,” Duane calls after us.
Fuck that shit. I don’t care how big that motherfucker is. I’ll take his ass out in front of God and everybody. I start to throw Stripper Girl off, but she clutches me tightly. “Calm down.” The words eek through her clenched teeth. “Just come with me, sugar.”
I smear a sweaty lock of hair from my eyes and straighten my shirt. “I can take him.”
“What the hell are you talking about? You can barely stand.” She ushers me through the packed floor to a black curtain in the back of the club. Another Nocturnes sign hangs above the rod. Its neon glow is ominous. Like it knows something I don’t.
I curl my lip at it. Between the stupid signs, the poles, and the toxic number of tequila shots I’ve ingested, I’ve got a weird feeling in the pit of my stomach. “What does ‘Nocturnes’ mean, anyway?”
She faces me and smiles. “Night music. You like music?”
“No. I fucking hate it.”
“Then why are you here? Just looking for a piece of ass? You know you can’t touch the merchandise.” She slides her fingertips over the steam on her décolletage and barely touches them to her lips.
“I’m well aware.” I grin. She has no idea what she’s getting herself into. “Let’s get on with it.” So we can hurry to your place afterward, and I can cut loose.
She studies me for several seconds. “If that’s what you want.”
“Oh yeah.” I send my gaze down to her big knockers and shrug off thoughts of Toombs and Jinx. I’m free of them. And tonight, I’m making up for lost time.
She pushes the curtain aside, takes me by the hand, and leads me into darkness and temptation, the likes from which I hope to never return.
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