The American Tragedy
Everyone:
Harvey-Selene Brianne Radtke (AKA Bree) OC
Lila Elizabeth Radtke OC
Jordon Terrell: Charlie Scene
Dylan Alvarez: Funnyman
Matthew St. Claire: Da Kurlzz
Jorel Decker: J-Dog
George Ragan: J3T (Johnny Three Tears)
Daniel Murrilo: Danny
..HU.
"J-jordon!" The girl beneath him gave a hiss, her skinny legs tightening around his waist as he shovelled himself inside of that tiny, wet pussy. He hadn't fucked a girl like this one - she was just so...tiny.
Typically, he loved the girls who spent all that money on those big, fake titties. The ones that possessed these glorious breasts were usually loose and almost veterans to being banged into some surface. This one...he wasn't sure.
"You like that?" He groaned into her ear, "you like this?"
She let out a cry, letting those thin fingers grab at his short brown hair. On a usual night, he'd snap at her and push her hands away.
This was a usual night, however. He wasn't entirely sure what was so different. He threw a few back before the show and chatted with the people who were backstage for the show with those special passes.
Annoying little fucks with cancer that held it over people to get what they wanted, the overly obsessive fangirl that just wanted to grab balls, the I-want-to-be-in-your-band-so-I'm-backstage-so-you-can-see-how-fucking-retarded-I-am guys and...Bree.
Well, Bree and her annoying sister Lila.
She'd been a fan for years and today was her twenty-first birthday. He'd seen plenty of drunk women before and she was no different, boozed up on her big day.
"Fuck, Jordon!" Her body clamped onto his, inside and out as she was hitting her climax. Jordon had never felt a vice on his gentleman's sword before this and gave a startled attempt to pull himself from the tremmoring walls milking his own orgasm from him.
The man hunched his shoulders, letting himself go and a bellow of a sound came from his mouth. The pink, wet, squeezing walls seemed to suck the semen out of him, drawing it all into the gasping girl below him.
And that was only the begining of the mess.
..HU.
Jordon, known also as Charlie Scene, rolled over in his bed to answer the phone that was perched on the nightstand. It was letting out the now-obnoxious screech of some fucking song.
Jizz in my pants or whatever the fuck Dylan changed it to. He didn't even bother checking the caller ID.
"'lo?"
"Uhm," a female's voice came out unsurely, "Jordon?"
"...yeah?"
"It's Bree, from the uhm..concert, like a week ago."
"Oh..." he scratched his head for a moment to recall who the fuck Bree was, before it came back to him in a near-slap kind of rush, "what's up?"
"You remember what went down backstage right?"
He snickered softly, "yeah, I remember."
"Well.." she sighed over the phone, "I'm pregnant."
The world seemed to stop and Jordon heard absolutely nothing. He didn't hear the cars honking outside in the streets, didn't catch the people yelling on sidewalks. The man sat very still as he remembered to breathe, inhaling sharply.
What the fuck was he supposed to say?
"Jordon..?"
"What?"
"I just wanted to make sure you were still there," she sounded tired, "so, you're the last guy I slept with."
"You're sure?"
"I was tested at the doctor's, he said I had a bun in the oven."
He could feel the world surrounding him start to spin and he held his head for a minute to try to register this news and how crudely it'd been broken to him. Why did he give her his number? Why didn't he pull out? Why the fuck didn't he wear a rubber?
About a million different images flew through the musician's mind; the once-sexy woman full of child with stretch marks all over screaming at him for doing this to her, a screaming baby boy laying on a changing table and pissing on one of his hoodies, the paparazzi chasing after him to learn a bit more about this baby, a law suit about custody, child support, having to put down the fuckin' bottle.
Fuck this, he wasn't a role model for a child. He was Charlie Scene, Mr. Bananas, Charlie 40-hands. For the love of God, he partied for a living.
"What do you want?"
"Help," Bree said softly. "I can't do this alone."
"You don't even have to do this, just have it vacuumed out."
"I can't do that," she snapped at him, "that's disgusting!"
"Whatever, fine," he groaned, "what the hell do you want from me?"
"This is your kid," Bree urged, "take care of it."
"Get yourself a boyfriend and he can help you."
"No, this is your problem too." She almost growled, "I can always take a trip to the cops."
"Do you want money or something?"
"Just...meet me at my place."
The phonecall ended maybe thirty seconds after her address was given and he agreed to meet her there. He groaned loudly and rubbed a hand through his hair and down his face.
Jordon rolled out of bed and walked over to his shower numbly, glaring at the ugly shower curtain in the hotel bathroom. As he shed his clothes, he looked down at his flaccid, inactive penis.
"Thanks, buddy." He grumbled and adjusted the shower to scalding hot, trying to maybe punish himself for digging himself a grave. He wasn't really a masochist, but he was pissed. This was going to ruin everything he'd ever set up for himself.
Like partying, having constant, sexy girlfriends, having massive amounts of sex, smoking and drinking 'til his heart's content and smoking weed.
This baby thing just wasn't going to cut it.