Jag (Pandemic Sorrow #1) Read online

  Copyright © 2014 by Stevie J. Cole

  All rights reserved

  This book is an original work of fiction. All of the names, characters, sponsors, and events are the product of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously. Any similarities to actual events, incidences, persons, deceased or living, is strictly coincidental.

  Any opinions expressed in this book or solely those of the authors.

  Jag

  Copyright ©2014 by Stevie J. Cole

  Published in the United States of America

  Ebooks are non-transferable. They cannot be sold, shared, or given away. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is a crime punishable by law. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded to or downloaded from file sharing sites, or distributed in any other way via the internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s permission. Criminal copyright infringement including infringement without monetary gain is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of Stevie J. Cole.

  Editing: Ashley Mac Editing Services

  Cover photos: Photographed by Stevie J. Cole

  Photographs for cover design: Male with female hands from Shutterstock, guitar and title picture taken by Stevie J. Cole

  Cover Design: Stevie J. Cole

  Acknowledgements:

  A huge thank you to (insert gasp here) Russell Brand for letting me use him in this book. I could not think of a better person to fill the role he did in here! Russell, you are effin’ amazing and I truly appreciate (along with many others, I am certain) your honesty and advocacy pertaining to alcohol and drug addictions.

  Thanks to Abby, Angie, Tara, and Dawn for being willing to subject themselves to my madness and beta read Jag for me.

  Thanks to all those fuckers and Sarah Jane (this is S.J.’s dream dedication. Let’s just go with it and not question it.)

  Much love to my street team and special thanks to Heather Slayton for the enormous amount of help.

  Simone – I’m bringing you to a rock show. You will respect the rock!

  Love to Ashley Mac for editing and just being plain awesome! (And mainly for not beating me.)

  Dedication:

  To my sister, Eva, the chick that shares my love for rock and collecting swag from shows. I heart you something fierce. One day, boo. One day! Also, to Abby for poking me and making me keep writing. I’m lucky to have you in my life. Both of you! Xx

  Tug Dedication: Tara and Dawn, Jag’s tug is dedicated to the two of you. Tug love. Tug life.

  Donation Information

  A portion of the proceeds from this series is being donated to Shatterproof. Shatterproof is an organization whose plan is committed to: “protecting our children from addiction to alcohol or other drugs and ending the stigma and suffering of those affected by this disease.” http://www.shatterproof.org/

  Although this is a work of fiction, it touches on very serious and very real issues such as addiction and depression. These diseases have most likely touched each of us, forever altering some part of our lives. If you or someone you know is suffering from addiction or depression, please talk with a professional about finding help.

  Quote

  “If I accept you as you are, I will make you worse; however if I treat you as though you are what you are capable of becoming, I help you become that.”

  Johann Wolfgang Von Goethe

  Contents

  Acknowledgements:

  Dedication:

  Donation Information

  Quote

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  About the author:

  Excerpt from Roxy:

  Never Me by Kate Stewart

  Rescue Breathing by Zoe Norman

  under contract by jACQuelyn Ayres

  Chapter 1

  My mouth was dry, like someone had shoved a fistful of cheap off-brand cotton balls in it. I ran my tongue over my teeth in an effort to wipe the film of bourbon off of them. Yawning, I rolled onto my back and stretched out in the king-sized bed before lifting the sheets back over my body. The smell of the detergent floated up to my nose, and my lips curled up. No matter how nice the suite was, the sheets always smelled like that damn hotel laundry detergent. I couldn’t stand that smell.

  I heard someone next to me pull in a deep breath, and then the covers shifted off my body. Seconds later, I felt warm skin against mine, and then a hand wrapped around my stiff-ass dick. Fingers skimmed along its length, stopping to play with the metal bar lodged through the head.

  Slowly, I opened my eyes. The sun was beaming in through one of the windows, and all I could see out of it was an overly crowded skyline. The sun glinted from the windows of the grey concrete skyscrapers competing for space; only a few slivers of blue sky managed to peep between them. I’d almost forgotten that I was in New York City. I couldn’t really recall how she’d ended up with me, and I certainly had no idea what her fucking name was. To the best of my knowledge, I guessed she’d been at the club the night before. It wasn’t out of the usual at all for me to wake up with an unknown woman beside me; it was habitual. One day, I’d probably luck out and bring back a psycho that’d try to off me, but I’d worry about that when it happened. Most of the time the sex was worth that small risk – at least it usually was when I could remember it.

  Do I want to look over and see what she looks like, or not? That’s one of the pluses about not letting them stay with you; you don’t have to look poor judgment in the face.

  Her grip tightened, and she gently stroked me in her hand. “Good morning,” she whispered.

  I grunted and closed my eyes again. I hated when they ended up staying the night. That was never the plan because it was so fucking awkward the next morning when I was sober and trying to piece together what all we’d done. I hated having to talk to them; having to listen to them go on and on about what a big fan they are, how this is the most amazing thing that’s ever happened to them; and, worst of all, having them ask me if they can post the pictures from last night on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram. Fangirls, they’re just dying to brag about having been bent over backwards and rammed by me, and rig
htfully so. It was quite the achievement.

  Peeping through one halfway-opened eye, I saw a woman. Okay. Well, at least I got that right despite being completely wasted. She looked to be about twenty-four. And thank God. She’s legal. Her platinum blonde hair stuck up in all directions, and black rings of mascara were smudged underneath her eyes. This girl was an absolute mess. It was obvious I’d been there and had a good time marking my territory.

  She wasn’t bad looking, but she was absolutely no different than the rest of the other privileged rich girls whose daddies bought their horny daughters’ way into the VIP areas. When she smiled, nothing on her face moved. When she abruptly sat up and slid her way down to my dick, her unnaturally round tits didn’t budge either. It was evident she’d already started with the plastic surgery addiction. This was the kind of girl I was used to: fake, horny, and willing to do anything for a brush with fame.

  A slight giggle bounced from her lips as she tugged the covers off my naked body, and then her warm, slimy tongue, coated with morning breath germs, traced up my shaft. The sensation sent a small tingle shooting up from my groin. I looked down to find her staring up at me, her eyes locked intimately on mine as she sucked half of me back into her throat.

  Letting out a short sigh, I leaned back and shut my eyes, no hint of a smile on my face. The way she was wrapping her tongue around me felt damn good, and even though I really had no interest in her being there, I wasn’t going to deprive her of the joy she’d get from watching me get off one more time. I tried not to be selfish with that privilege.

  After just a few minutes of her head bobbing up and down, her hand twisting at just the right moments, and her choking on my length a few times, I felt my body relax. My legs stiffened up, and then my entire body heated from the overwhelming rush of endorphins coursing through me. It’s amazing how quickly orgasms come when you’re not strung out on coke, or a bottle of oxycodone, or speed. Quicker, but weak compared to the euphoria that drugs granted me.

  When that initial warm and fuzzy feeling wore off, I was ready to get her the hell out of my hotel room. Sitting up, I said, “Thanks for the great blow job. Pretty sure the door’s still unlocked,” and I flung my naked ass back down across the bed.

  I watched her blink a couple of times, shocked at how rude I was being. I mean, she had just given me the gift of oral pleasure, and who knows what I told her the night before. I may have promised her she could go on tour with us. She narrowed her eyes. Here comes the ‘OMG, I can’t believe what a bastard he is’ huff that chicks are so good at in 3, 2, 1…

  A loud breath escaped her, and the springs of the mattress bounced as she hopped up. She mumbled to herself while gathering her things. I just laid there, staring up at the ceiling.

  I tapped my finger in beat with her heels as they clicked across the tiled floors, and then they stopped.

  Raising my head from the pillow, I glanced up at her, arching one brow in disinterest. The girl, whose name I’d never bothered to ask for, glared at me for a minute before a smile inched across her face.

  “I can’t believe this!” She fell silent and shook her head, then covered her mouth with her hand. “I’m,” she paused. “Getting kicked out of Jag Steele’s hotel room. OMG! This. Is. Amazing!” she squealed, and pulled her phone to her face, her fingers typing furiously and the grin growing wider by the second. I guess she had to check in on Foursquare and let everyone know she’d just become the one-thousand, five hundred and sixty-seventh woman to have her tonsils rammed by me – or some number close to that, because I sure as hell didn’t try to keep count anymore.

  Her eyes darted up at me, and I could tell she was considering something. I caught her pointer finger creeping down the side of her phone, and I cleared my throat. “If you take a photo of me like this and post it, my lawyers will be in touch with you.” I shot the biggest, most asshole smile I could shape over at her. “Got that, princess?”

  Her excited expression relaxed and her jaw dangled open. She managed to huff out a dejected, “Uh, yeah,” as she lowered her phone and dropped it in her purse. And there she stood, frozen, by the door.

  Still nude, I rose and brushed past her, opening the door and circling my finger in the air before pointing directly out into the hallway. “Enjoy the rest of your day,” I said.

  Ms. No-Name skirted through, taking one last glance at me over her shoulder before I shut the door.

  Rubbing my hands over my face, I made my way to the bathroom. I flipped the light switch and gave my eyes a minute to adjust to the artificial light. Sometimes I felt guilty after I kicked a girl out like that. I didn’t used to be such a jackass. And during my fleeting moments of sobriety, I could recall that I used to actually be really nice, sometimes even shy. Funny how well-rehearsed you can become at being who everyone thinks you should be. There was no doubt that I was a different guy.

  At this point, life just annoyed the shit out of me.

  A few hours later I was leaning against a doorway, watching the interns scamper around with lattes and double shot espressos. My eyes traced over the black cords running from the cameras, and then up at the canned lights hanging from the ceiling. The bustling New York City crowd was visible through the large window at the far end of the room, constant movement of people going through their mundane daily routines. Every so often someone would stop, cup their hands around their face, and peer into the studio.

  Two more hours until I had to be in front of those cameras, and my nerves were already tightly bundled up, my stomach uneasy; all I could think about was running to the bathroom and snorting a few lines real quick. The only problem with that was I didn’t have any coke – oh, and I was supposed to be clean.

  I hated being interviewed, especially when it would require me to rehash all the ridiculous shit that had happened over the past few years. Really, the biggest problem I had at that moment was my sobriety. I’d never done an interview sober, and I doubted that I could make it through this one.

  “Excuse me, Jag.” One of the hipster interns attempted to get my attention.

  Turning, and not saying a word, I faced him.

  The intern didn’t glance up from his pad as he continued. “They need you to come back to the dressing room, do some makeup before they start.”

  I pushed myself off of the door frame, then followed him down the slender white hallway.

  He glanced back at me, a slight grin shaping his lips. “Man. I know I’m supposed to act all chill and stuff, but I can’t help it. Pandemic Sorrow is my favorite band. You’re a legend.”

  Shoving my shades up through my hair, I forced my lips to curve up. I’d been told in rehab that I needed to act more appreciative, but when you’re as numb and arrogant as I am, sometimes it’s hard to act thankful about anything.

  I forced out what I’d been told was an appropriate response. “Thanks, man. Really appreciate that.”

  The guy stopped, dropping his clipboard down by his side and staring at me through his thick, black-rimmed Buddy Holly glasses. He shook his head and looked me dead in the eyes. “You guys aren’t really done, are you? Those are just rumors?”

  “Nah. We can’t go nowhere. Music’s all we know.”

  Pleased with that response, he turned and continued to the dressing room.

  About seven months ago I’d almost made my heart explode, or almost overdosed, if you want to get technical with it, but I think the exploding heart thing sounds much better, less accusing. I had been forced into rehab, kicking and screaming, because I didn’t have a fucking problem. I just got a little too excited, a little too carried away, and snorted one too many lines. That’s not a problem, that’s an accident. Right after I finished my treatment and was told I was “cured” from my “habit,” I threatened and swore that I was going to leave Hollywood behind in an effort to stay clean. Of course, when that happened, people thought the band was done for. I hadn’t threatened that because I wanted to stay clean – honestly, it all just sounded like a hassle �
�� but more so that I wanted to get the fuck away and have some privacy. At times, the idea of fading into the background, of having a life where each damn breath I drew wouldn’t be scrutinized and slapped across the front page of every tabloid in existence – well, sometimes that just seemed abso-fucking-lutely amazing.

  We stopped outside the dressing room, and I grabbed the intern’s shoulder before he walked away. “What’s your name?” I asked.

  “Jay.”

  One side of my mouth flipped up in a halfhearted grin, and I said, “Why do you work here, Jay?”

  A ridge formed on his brow as he stared at me, not exactly sure why the hell I was asking him that question.

  “What do you want to get from this place? From working at MTV? Fame? Is that what you’re running after?” I pointed back to the studio. “You want to eventually end up in front of that camera?”

  Nodding, he said, “Well, yeah. I mean, who doesn’t want to be famous?”

  I shook my head in disgust and turned to enter the dressing room as I mumbled, “Yeah. Well, some people that are famous just wish they weren’t.”

  Chapter 2

  The bright-ass lights nearly blinded me when I was seated on the stiff, white sofa. I kept blinking, trying to make my eyes adjust to the intense beams threatening to melt off every bit of the stage makeup they’d spent thirty minutes painting on my face. I heard heels clacking across the concrete floor and glanced up to see the VJ, whose name I’d already forgotten, walking toward the sofa.