How crazy is this? I don’t even know what she looks like or her personality and I can’t stop rubbing my dick to her songs.
In the end, looks never mattered. The heart, the passion, the soul did. The sensations that came from being around someone so captivating, that shit thrilled me, had my cock in my hand unwilling to let go.
And she was fucking talented. She deserved all the money I gave her and more. In fact, she should be on my album singing duets with me, but...
Simone. Simone. With that voice, I would lose control.
It didn’t help that I hadn’t had sex in a year which was damn near biblical for me. Usually, I drowned in women.
I’d been living in this cabin nestled in the mountains of Utah. If one would even call it a cabin. I sat on sixty acres. The place had twelve bedrooms and fourteen bathrooms. I’d bought it at forty-nine million. There was plenty of privacy, an indoor pool, a dining room that seated twenty, a fitness center, library, and a garage that could fill twenty-eight cars.
Besides the house staff, no one else lived with me and I loved the alone time.
And then, I’d heard Simone’s recording and began daydreaming about her strolling through my hallways, letting her voice ride the cool air. For now, the phone calls were enough to feed me and keep me moving forward on my album.
However, there was no doubt in my mind that she was the songwriter I’d been searching for.
Jason would’ve laughed at me if he was here. He would’ve thought I was stupid for not flying her out to my studio by now. We should’ve been working on the album, exchanging each other’s creative energy within the walls of my music lab.
Granted, Jason would’ve also tried to fuck her. With a voice and talent like that, we both would’ve fought over her.
Should I have her come out here? Or can we continue creating over the phone?
I knew the answer. She should be here. I just was too scared to admit it. Death did that to people. It made me fear more, over-analyze every moment of life. Made me try to be more cautious with every step that I took.
Damn you, Jason.
Jason’s overdose had almost killed me.
We’d grown up together, met in an elite private school for celebrity’s kids, and had never left each other’s side. We both loved music, fast cars, and gorgeous women. When I decided to sing, he wrote all my songs. And with each hit, we partied hard, enjoying our success.
Enjoying it too much.
Our lives had been a constant spinning carousel of hedonism. Due to our crazy times, I was sure our souls had shrunken to tiny prunes. However, Jason had been the champion of debauchery, while I was more of a spectator and participant every now and then.
Months before he died, distance started to come between us. I didn’t like the drugs and Jason couldn’t party without them. My addiction was always music. But Jason loved to get high and remained in a perpetual whirlwind of cocaine and vodka. Toward the end, it was hard to watch his downfall.
You never listened. Should I have yelled at you more? Would it have helped?
Some asshole scientist friend had told Jason that creativity peaked around twenty-three and left you forever. That stupid concept remained with him for life. When we both turned twenty-eight, he was convinced he’d lost all his talent. According to him, heroin and cocaine helped him write because he couldn’t naturally come up with lyrics. I ended up becoming his mother and father all rolled into one, constantly reminding him to eat and telling him to bathe when he walked around smelling like sex and alcohol.
After our second Grammy, we bought this huge private jet; a drug-fueled, flying sex den. And Jason loved it trashy. Shag carpeting coated the floor. Leopard print scaled the walls. A thirty-foot-bar stood in the center. Women constantly packed the plane—fans to groupies, singers, and models.
But after a while, it became too much for me. I began to seek silence more than conversation. I started sneaking off and hiding away to write verses instead of diving into the orgies happening all around me.
We should’ve never bought the plane. We did too much. We partied too hard.
By our third Grammy, Jason had the great idea to start shooting heroin. It was like he couldn’t get high enough. By then, life had become too fast, too much. The women and partying started getting in the way of my true passion—music. He barely wanted to be in the studio. All he wanted to do was fuck and get high.
“Come on, Gio! A fourth album? We’ve got more money to spend in two lifetimes,” he’d said. “Why do you want to do another album?”