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But they don’t.

This isn’t the first artist who’s gotten stiffed.

Only the first who sent the problem

directly to me.

I’ll head to the office tonight to see what I can find out.

The phone slides out of my hand,

and hits the floor,

sounding louder than it should.

I lean back,

spine to couch,

and stare at the ceiling.

Everything’s crashing down around me.

The label.

My career.

My Boys.

My control.

My heart.

Me.

And I can’t pick up the broken pieces fast enough.

I drop my head into my hands.

Then Little Death creeps in,

a hot pull, a warm ache between my legs.

It doesn’t ask what’s wrong,

doesn’t want to know, doesn’t care.

The habit slides down inside me like?—

you seem tense, Baby. I can fix that.

And my thighs squeeze back,

answering like a slut.

I need one good high.

One orgasm. One release.