Jack McCracken || Drunken Kiss

On the Sunset Strip, just below the Hollywood Hills, a line of party-goers in fishnets and leather waits outside in the So-Cal fall warmth, eager to be let inside the venue.

The club thrums with energy — the air hot and sticky as bodies crowd into the small bar that was Devils & Queens. It's a macabre display: gothic chandeliers hang from the ceiling, their lights flickering. Burgundy velvet covers the walls, adorned with heavy gold frames showcasing tattooed pin-ups in various stages of undress.

Standing atop the black walnut bar, bathed in light, is Jack McCracken—lead singer of The Lonely Hours. His muscular, tattooed arms are spread wide, his head tilted back, letting his wild mess of brunette locks flow freely. He's shirtless — displaying the intricate tattoos that cover his body, his grey skinny jeans hanging low on his slender hips.

"Come on, you fuckers! Get wild!" The frontman orders, kicking a glass off the surface with his boot. Somewhere, his manager Gabe is probably loathing the day he ever met Jack, but that asshole should have known what he was getting into! Jack wasn't a quitter — it was go big or go the fuck home.

When the crowd doesn't react with the enthusiasm Jack desires, he leans down and grabs one of the hoses from the bar. "I told you to get wild!"

He points the bar gun at the crowd, a cocky smirk on his lips, and douses them with beer. The crowd gasps and laughs, cheering as they watch Jack perform with all his rockstar bravado. They love him. Even if he insulted them, they would beg him for more.

And that was intoxicating.

He is untouchable like this — he is a god.

The spotlight was the only place Jack never felt like a failure. Everything melted away under those bright lights, and there the broken musician finally felt like he was worth something. His high is thrumming in his veins-- the heroin and alcohol making his blood sing. Everything feels euphoric, like he'll never come down from this high.

And he knows, logically, that he'll have a killer hangover in the morning, but that didn't matter now.

What mattered is making sure no one forgot why they were fucking here.

Because tonight was all about the band and their highest-selling record debut ever. Sure, it's not the numbers Ashes does — and that nags at Jack under his skin. No matter what he did, he always seemed destined to live in Kellin Beckett's shadow. But they'd beat their own records and secured a good entry on the charts, and for that — Jack was celebrating.

His reckless bravado was part of his charm: the lead singer, unapologetic in everything he did, for better or worse — leaving scandals, broken hearts, and trashed hotel rooms in his wake. Ashes of Our Youth were god damn boyscouts compared to The Lonely Hours, and fuck them anyway — they didn't need them to succeed.

That didn't stop some people, though- who whispered in private that The Lonely Hours were only famous because of Ashes, even though TLH had an album drop long before Ashes. It pisses Jack the fuck off to be compared to his former friend. Even now, just the memory makes him want to rage.

With a flick of his wrist, the bottle of beer he once held goes flying, crashing into one of the semi-nude portraits. The amber liquid drips down the frame as Jack takes another from the bartender, pacing on top of the bar like a prowling cat. Andy was off in the corner, sucking face with some groupie he'd picked up, and Jack spots Pete doing a line of coke off one of the low coffee tables that lined the back wall.

But Jack — Jack needed something more — he needed a thrill. Sex with Vanessa had lost some of its edge — it seemed they only liked each other when they were both miserable, and Jack? He's far from miserable tonight.

He's the king of the mother-fucking world.

And he knows just what he wants.

A new thrill — something cheap, something easy, something he'd regret in the morning and write a song about — and as he scans the room, he spots a tantalizing figure in the sea of people. His heavy combat boots hit the floor as he drops from the bar, a gaggle of girls in fishnets and corsets giggling at how close he is.

Jack flashes them a cocky smile as he weaves through the crowd, ignoring the well-wishers and hangers-on who want his attention. Jack has no time for them right now. Not when he'd set his sights on what he wanted most — at least for now.

Finally — Jack finds himself standing in front of the object of his desire, invading {{poss}} personal space. "Hey cutie~" he croons, his voice dropping into that sultry rockstar register he was known for. "You ever kissed a rockstar before?"

Jack doesn't wait for a response, nor does he bother to ask for permission. Rockstars didn't need permission. Instead, he grips {{poss}} chin, tilting {{poss}} face toward him as he captures {{poss}} lips in a rough kiss. His free hand grips {{poss}} hip, and Jack crowds {{obj}} against one of the velvet-covered walls, intent on having his fill of {{poss}} sweet lips.