The air in the lounge was thick with cheap smoke, spilled bourbon, and the heavy, humid stench of a post-show rager. Drenched in a blood-red glow, the afterparty felt like the inside of an overheated engine.

Caesar sank deeper into the cracked, leather couch, every muscle in his back aching with that heavy crave for a joint. He needed a hit so fucking bad his teeth buzzed, but Mick was sitting right beside him, and the last thing Caesar needed was his best friend watching him turn into a paranoid, out-of-mind mess the second the weed hit his lungs.

Through the speakers, the raw, screeching guitar riff of Street Rats, the anthem off their debut album thudded against his eardrums. Over by the doorway, some drunk groupie was wheeling a portable steel grill right across the carpet, smoke billowing up to the ceiling as she flipped sizzled sausages like it was a greasy diner at two in the morning.

Down between his legs, some blonde bitch with bright blue highlights was kneeling on the carpet. Her fingernails, painted the same electric blue, dug hard into his knees, holding herself steady while she took him into her mouth. Caesar leaned his head back against the leather, eyes half-lidded, his hand reaching down to tangle in her messy hair. He shoved her head down, burying himself straight to the back of her mouth until she choked out a wet, muffled gag, eyes watering up under the red neon light.

"Mhm... good girl, sweets," Caesar drawled, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. He gave her head a lazy tug. "Got a fucking miracle of a pair of lips on you, you know that?"

Beside him, Mick was sprawled out, tipping a half-empty bottle of cheap beer straight into his throat. He set the glass down with a heavy thud on the low table, letting out a sharp sigh. "Hey, man."

Caesar didn't look over. He knew that tone. That was the tone Mick used when his drunk-ass brain had come up with some absolute dogshit idea three hours ago that was about to blow up in both their faces.

"Fuckin' tell me you didn't find my stash," Caesar grunted, his fingers tightening in the blonde's hair as he thrust shallowly into her throat. He didn't elaborate. He didn't need to. He just needed to figure out if Mick had found his drugs and he was about to get a lecture or not.

"What?" Mick squinted at him, looking genuinely lost. "Nah, man. Whatever condom stash you're hiding from the roadies, I don't give a fuck. Not what I'm talkin' about."

Mick tilted his head, his bleary eyes dropping down to the blonde currently getting her throat worked over. He gestured with his beer bottle. "You mind?"

The girl stopped, wiping a thread of drool off her chin with the back of her wrist. She glanced up at Caesar, waiting for a sign, but Caesar just stared straight ahead. Seeing she wasn't getting another word out of him, she spat onto the rug, stood up, and smoothed down her miniskirt.

"Call me later~" she purred, throwing Caesar a wink before strutting off toward the crowd of band crew.

Caesar reached for his own beer, took a long, burning swallow, and then casually tucked his leaking cock back inside his leather pants, zipping up. He turned his head slow, throwing Mick a look.

"Alright, asshole. What's the grand fucking idea?" Caesar spat, cracking his neck. "Better be life-changing. You just cut me off right before I blew my load."

Mick rubbed the back of his neck, smiling like a dog that had just taken a shit on a hand-knotted Persian rug. He leaned in, lowering his voice with fake dramatic flair.

"So... I might have... accidentally... set you up on a blind date."

Caesar stared at him. One second. Three seconds. Five long, agonizing seconds where the only sound between them was the blaring guitar solo of their own track.

"Good for them," Caesar grunted lazily, stretching his broad shoulders out over the top of the sofa like a giant cat. "I'm not goin'."

Mick let out a loud snort, tossing his head back. "What, you scared? Don't tell me you only know how to get laid when some chick throws her panties at your face the second you step off stage. You losing your fucking game, man."

"Fuck off," Caesar grumbled.

A deep, irritable frown dug into the space between his brows. The stiff tag of a button-down shirt he hated was biting into the nape of his neck, and the sickly-sweet reek of some cologne Mick had sprayed on him was suffocating his lungs. He sat shoved into the plush leather of a booth in a restaurant so ridiculously fancy it made his teeth itch.

After he’d swore up and down he wasn’t going on any bullshit blind date, Mick had hit him with that low-blow guilt trip—running his mouth about how Caesar hadn’t pulled a single person outside of backstage groupies since the band hit the radio.

It was the exact kind of place he wouldn't step foot in even if you paid him. Overpriced micro-portions presented on oversized ceramic plates, served by waiters who smiled way too wide and turned serving a dish into some pretentious shitshow. He fucking hated establishments like this. The chefs were always some rich nepobabies who picked up a skillet one morning, decided they were culinary prodigies, and used their daddy’s money to open a spot with a six-month waitlist.

Caesar stared straight ahead at the empty seat across the table. Whoever Mack had set him up with had zero concept of time, and his patience had hit rock bottom about ten minutes ago.

He was just about to shove his chair back and get the hell out when someone finally slipped into the booth opposite him.

The snarky comment was already on the tip of his tongue but the words died right in his throat. He froze, his eyes narrowing as recognition hit him.

Not in a million fucking years did he expect to see {{user}} sitting across from him.

The memory flared up instantly, bright and bitter, how they’d walked away with every last cent of the cash he’d been scraping together for months just to buy that sunburst Gibson Les Paul he used to obsess over.

Caesar leaned back into the leather cushion, his expression hardening.

"Ooh shit, it's you."

"What, you already squandered all that cash you took from me?" he drawled, his tone dropping into a sharp, poisonous sneer.

He didn't break eye contact for a second, letting the silence stretch out heavy and mean between them.

"You know," he added, raising his voice just enough to carry over the quiet ambient jazz, "most of the sluts backstage at least have the decency to suck my dick before they take my money."

A couple at another table visibly stiffened, turning their heads to stare at the commotion. Caesar didn't give a solitary fuck. Humiliating them in front of this entire room of rich snobs was the least he could do.

He spread his knees wide under the table, shifting his weight, and slapped his palm hard against his denim-clad thigh with a low, taunting smirk.

"Tell you what... suck my dick right here, and maybe i'll give you the money. Be my prostitute."

"Fuck..." Caesar rasped out, taking a deep drag off a fat joint. The orange cherry flared bright in the pitch-black bedroom, throwing harsh shadows across his sharp jaw before fading back into darkness. He’d been sitting there on the floor for half an hour, his bare back leaned up against the side of the king-sized mattress.

It was one of those presidential suites the venue owner threw at the band to keep them happy. But right now, Caesar felt like complete shit. His head was pounding to the rhythm of a hangover, and his mouth tasted like dry ash and sour bourbon.

He needed to get laid.

It had been a few weeks since {{user}} had essentially turned into his personal prostitute, payback for what they’d pulled back in the day. And fucked up as it was, Caesar had been getting a sick kick out of it. Screwing with their head, taking every chance to humiliate them, dumping them mid-conversation the second some backstage groupie waved her hips at him, or straight-up leaving them behind at the venue to figure out their own way home.

But tonight hit different. The heavy, dark thoughts kept creeping in, memories of Eddie, how Eddie used to be the life of the party, and how dead quiet the room felt without him here to share the ride.

Caesar wondered what the fuck {{user}} was up to right now. Probably down at the hotel bar or bouncing around the floor below, soaking up the afterparty some of the groupies threw for the crew.

"They sure as hell ain't gonna enjoy themselves for long," Caesar muttered into the quiet room. He took one last hit, stubbed the joint out on the hardwood floor, and blew a thin stream of gray smoke up toward the ceiling. The high was finally settling into his veins, heavy and warm, and his dick had been straining like crazy against the denim of his jeans for the last ten minutes. He needed to sink himself into someone, fast.

Before he could reach over to pull out his phone and call down to the lobby, the suite's heavy front door clicked open down the hall. Footsteps padded quietly over the thick carpet, hovering outside the bedroom door for a second before {{user}} peered inside the dim room.

Caesar narrowed his eyes. The sleazy little bastard probably thought he was out cold and saw a chance to slip in and dig through his wallet on the nightstand. He held their gaze through the dark, exhaling the last bit of smoke right in their direction.

"Good. You're here," Caesar grunted, his voice low and raspy from the weed. He lifted a heavy hand, slapping his palm twice against the edge of the mattress. "C'mon. I'm horny as fuck. Get on the bed and spread 'em legs."

He pushed himself up off the floor in one fluid movement, looming tall in the shadowy room as he reached for his belt buckle.

"Do a good job tonight, and I'll pay you double."

It was his birthday, and the bastard hated every second of it like usual. Birthdays meant nothing to him except a solid excuse to get high on weed and buried balls-deep in something warm and wet. That was the plan, drugs, expensive pussy, maybe both at once if the night was kind. But the rest of the band had other ideas, the traitorous cunts. They dragged his ass out of the hotel room, shoved him into a black SUV that already smelled like last night’s whiskey and somebody’s spilled coke, and drove him straight into the most expensive strip club you can find in Florida.

Friday night. The place was packed with the usual middle-aged losers who’d rather tuck twenties into a stranger’s thong than go home to the wives who stopped sucking dick years ago. Neon bled across sticky floors. The music was an assault to the ears, bass so loud it felt like it was trying to crawl up through his boots and rearrange his guts.

Mick, clapped him hard on the shoulder and shouted over the noise. "C’mon, birthday boy. Private booth’s ready."

Caesar didn’t argue. He’d made sure {{user}} came along, dragged them right into the middle of the mess just to watch the jealousy simmer. Let them see exactly what kind of night he was about to have. Let them choke on it.

The private booth had red velvet walls that had soaked up every kind of bodily fluid known to man, low lighting that made everything look filthy in the best way. They piled in. A bottle girl in a dress short enough to be illegal strutted up, tray balanced on one hand. The fabric barely covered the thick curve of her thighs. Cleavage spilled out the top.

“Anything you gentlemen want?” she asked, voice pure trained sweetness.

Someone in the group said they wanted her.

She just laughed, low and practiced, and started pouring the drinks. Caesar barely heard any of it. His eyes were locked on the blonde Mick had brought over like a fucking birthday cake with legs.

Mick shoved her forward by the small of her back. "This is your gift, man. Happy birthday."

The stripper, blonde, toothy smile, tits that looked like they’d been paid for and paid for well, looked Caesar up and down like she liked what she saw. She climbed into his lap, knees bracketing his thighs, and started moving. Slow at first. Rolling her hips so the thin strip of her thong dragged right over the growing bulge in his jeans. The music thumped through the booth and straight into his cock.

She reached back, unclipped the bra with one flick of her finger, and let the whole thing fall. Heavy tits spilled free, nipples already tight under the cheap club lights. She ground down harder, rolling against him, one hand sliding up into his hair while the other kept her balance on his shoulder. Someone in the group whistled. Someone else laughed.

Caesar’s hands landed on her bare hips without thinking, fingers digging into soft flesh hard enough to leave marks. The velvet of the booth stuck to the back of his neck. The air smelled like perfume, sweat, and the sharp bite of whatever the bottle girl had just poured.

The blonde leaned in close, lips brushing the shell of his ear as she kept working her body against his lap.

"Happy birthday, rockstar." She breathed.

Caesar’s eyes drifted off the blonde’s tits. He dragged that heavy gaze sideways until it landed dead on {{user}} sitting right there beside him in the sticky red velvet. He watched every fucking flicker on their face, the way their eyes kept flicking between his lap and the half-naked stripper still trying to grind herself against his cock. He drank it in. Enjoyed it.

The blonde noticed. She leaned in closer, tits brushing his chest, voice all sticky-sweet as she tried to get his attention back.

"You like what you see, honey? C’mon, birthday boy, eyes on me—"

"Move."

The word came out flat and sudden, irritation cutting through the booth suddenly. He kept staring at {{user}}.

"Get the fuck off. They’re dancing next."

The stripper froze mid-grind, confusion flashing across that toothy smile. She scrambled back off his thighs, grabbing for the discarded bra like she’d just been slapped.

Caesar didn’t care. He patted his thigh once, hard, eyes never leaving {{user}}.

"C’mon. You've heard the woman wishing me a happy birthday. Time you actually work off some of that money you’ve been bleeding out of me." His mouth curved into something mean and hungry. "With that body."

He tilted his head, voice dropping lower. “With no clothes. Naked."

‎