Hot damn, the #WritingWenches three way is back! It’s been a while, eh? Er, seven months, but who the hell is counting? Okay, yeah, me, but that is entirely beside the point. Let’s talk three ways, shall we?
So here’s the deal – our three-way involves authors who each write a scene from a different character’s point of view in an ongoing story. The old adage goes that every character is the star of their own story–so we’re making that happen.
Maria, the physical therapist
Savior, the rock star who dated Maria before making it big
Serenity, the groupie girlfriend
So, here’s what you need to do, whether as a refresher or because this is the first time you’ve checked out the three-way: read the previous posts. They aren’t long, but they are FUN. And funny, sexy, crazy, heart-thumping, enticing… Can I come up with seventeen more exciting adjectives? (There’s one more…)
Got it? Ready? Okay, good. Here’s the next installment, from Maria’s point of view….
“Baby, that was amazing. You’re amazing. Best lay I’ve ever had…”
The bed shifts as I roll away from him, leaving him sprawled on his back, his limp, sticky, latex-covered dick draped over his leg. Another nameless fuck in a string that needs to be snipped.
Oh, the irony.
For the first time in my life, I’m rebelling, acting out, being a deviant, and I sure am doing it with aplomb.
And I hate myself. I hate this guy, now snoring quietly in his hotel room bed. I hate how dirty I feel, and I didn’t even get off. I hate Serenity, that smug, pregnant little groupie. But most of all, I hate Savior.
“Call me Gabriel,” he’d insisted earlier tonight, when we exited the stage after our fourth encore. “Like it used to be between us.” Now that I no longer want him—or at least am doing a damn fine job of pretending as such—he wants me with an urgency we hadn’t even experienced back in the day, when we could have given the Energizer Bunny a run for his money.
I’d jerked my arm from his grip and grabbed the nearest guy, the one whose bed I am now sliding out of, and wrapped myself around him like a knock-off fur coat. Totally fake. All of it. Including the orgasm I’d professed to have with my latest mistake.
The worst part of all is that, on the surface, this isn’t even Savior’s fault. He hadn’t knocked up Serenity, because he couldn’t. “I haven’t shot real bullets in years,” he’d told me after Serenity dropped her bombshell, in the form of a cute, round belly that only continues to expand.
And that is exactly why I blame him, why I refuse to even acknowledge him except when we are on stage, performing our sexually-charged show for the thousands of fans who can’t seem to get enough of our tortured, public relationship. The tour was supposed to end months ago, but we continue to sell out arenas all over the country. Our manager is negotiating with a few of the big festivals in Europe, even though I haven’t yet committed to going. Another thing I refuse to give Savior; my commitment to the rest of the tour, to the band. Even though I haven’t left, I let him believe it could happen at any minute.
He’s shooting blanks. My domestic fantasy with its white picket fence didn’t just disintegrate; Savior took an ax to it, destroying it, demolishing it, each splintered piece stabbing a hole in my lonely, desperate, miserable heart.
“I can get it reversed,” he’d told me just the day before, another desperate bid to convince me to jump into his bed. At least, I assume that’s what he wants. Now that I’m unattainable, suddenly I’m the most desirable thing he’s ever experienced. He must have me, at any cost.
And I continue to refuse him. Why should I bother going back to what I’ve craved since he left me, all those years ago? It can’t lead to anything, at least not anything meaningful, fulfilling.
I want kids. And Savior can’t give them to me. So what’s the point? If I give in and climb into his bed, he will be just like the others, and so will I. Okay, maybe not just like. I am certain—as I’ve already been down that road—that being with him will be nothing like what I’ve experienced with anyone else. For one thing, I’d likely have not one but multiple orgasms. Every time. Gabriel knew my body like Savior knows his guitars. He knows just the right strings to pluck to pull out the desired effect. I haven’t changed, not in that respect.
These melancholy thoughts are getting me nowhere but down, and when I get too down, I do stupid things, like hooking up with guys who can’t last more than five minutes from sliding the keycard through the magnetic lock to falling into the bed together. I really need to adjust my standards.
Grabbing my discarded dress and panties, I head into the bathroom to set myself to rights. At least I don’t have to work my legs into these over-the-knee boots, since I never took them off in the first place. Guys and their shoe fetishes. Maybe that’s my problem. If I take the boots off, maybe my partner will last another couple minutes. Not that it would be enough. It’s never enough, because it isn’t Savior.
“God, I’m pathetic.”
I don’t even bother to try to be quiet as I make my way out of the hotel room. With a miserable little sigh, I rake my hands through my not-quite-thoroughly-fucked hair and head down the hall to my own hotel room.
“He’s not nearly as good as Savior, is he?”
I whip around at the sound of the voice I dread. There’s Serenity, lounging against the wall in the vending alcove, hands resting on her burgeoning belly. She’s wearing her jean shorts tucked under the roundness, and her tank barely reaches the middle of the bulge, showing off a belly button that’s not quite popped. But it will be. Soon.
When I don’t respond, she says, “So this is your answer to your woes? Screwing every guy with something hanging between his legs? Excuse me, everyone except Savior.”
“That was your advice, wasn’t it?” I can’t help tossing it in her face, even though that’s not the reason I’m doing it. Okay, maybe that’s what provoked me to sleep with the gray haired producer—who, by the way, lasted a hell of a lot longer than these rock stars and groupies I keep hooking up with—but since then, it’s been a combination of need mixed with desperation, with a heavy dose of feeling sorry for myself.
I really should go back home, re-open my PT practice. My life may have been boring, but I was happy. Mostly.
“As if you’d ever listen to anything I tell you.”
But I have. Many times over. My wardrobe. My hair. My attitude. My moves on stage. Serenity may be a lousy girlfriend, but she’d make a damn fine band manager. Not that I’d ever tell her as much.
“And besides, he wants you now. Trips over his own damn dick trying to get your attention, convince you to choose him.”
“Yeah, well, a little too little too late and all that.”
I roll my eyes. She thinks this is about her baby’s paternity. But I know better. Savior hasn’t told her yet that he could not have possibly impregnated her. I don’t know why. Probably his sick sense of humor. Maybe he likes the way the other two potential candidates start sweating every time they bump into him, which happens a lot, since we’re all still touring together. Who the hell knows with Savior.
“I gotta go. I need a few hours sleep before the photo shoot tomorrow morning.” I glance at my phone. “Today.” I continue down the hall.
“I have a proposal for you.”
Not another harebrained idea. Serenity’s full of them. Sometimes they’re worthwhile, sometimes not. Mostly, it irks me that Savior still lets her tell her piece, considers every damn idea she has. I want him to hate her, and I’m starting to believe that will never happen. They haven’t been together in half a year and I’m still insanely jealous of what they had. What they still, apparently, have.
“I’m really not in the mood, Serenity. Maybe some—”
“How about I give you my kid?”