Hello again! Here I am, back with the second chapter of Lowlife. The twelfth chapter of Life's A Rodeo should be up sometime tonight as well. Enjoy. : )

"So where are you from?" I grunt into the heated flesh of her neck as I let my lips explore.

"Born in Lima, raised in Marion," Rachel husks out before she fists her hands in my hair to press my face deeper against her skin. "You?"

"Lima, born and raised," I murmur while tugging her shirt up over her head and letting it fall to the dirty tile floor.

The women's bathroom behind the stage was the most private place in the club, and I didn't want anyone else walking in on this moment. I waited through a seven song set for this exact moment… And now that I finally have Rachel pressed up against the blue chipped paint of the bathroom stall door, I know it was worth every second. She gropes at me, her fingers finding purchase on the collar of my shirt and drag my lips back to hers. She's the aggressor in the exchange, and I can't say I've ever been this turned on by anyone.

I bring both my hands up and begin to knead circles into her bra-covered breasts with my palms, causing her to mewl and whine in ecstasy. Rachel's hands are not idle, a fact that I only notice when I feel a gust of air across my lower back. My pants fall to my shins, since there was no way in hell I was taking off my boots in this dump.

"Got any siblings?" I ask as I make quick work of her pink lace bra and let it join her shirt on the floor.

"No!" she cries out when I start to batter her nipples roughly with my tongue. "What… about… you?"

"One adoptive brother, Sam. My parents died in a car accident when I was fifteen, his family took me in," I say around her delectable breast. She tastes so wonderful, and it almost saddens me that this will be a one time occurrence.

"That's… really sad," Rachel pants before I yank her own jeans down her thighs and bury two fingers in her fire engine red lace thong.

"Eh, it's not a big deal," I husk out as I swirl the tip of my tongue around the shell of her ear. Her knees buckle at the sensation, and it's a good thing the stall's door is at her back, because in the state we're in, I'm sure we would have tumbled to the filthy tile.

I take the opportunity to begin working tight, firm circles into her pleasure center, causing her to arch her lithe body into mine as she sought more of my touch. She keens wildly when I use each pass of my digits to dip into her entrance, and finally, Rachel lets her own hand make her way into my boy briefs. But instead of teasing me as I'm doing her, she enters me without preamble, two of her fingers filling me to the hilt.

"God, Rachel," I moan as she thrusts into me, curling her fingers on every upstroke.

My teasing is no longer satisfying me or her, so I envelop my own digits in her velvety heat. Her scream of bliss is deafening, and she starts to pump her own fingers in time with mine. I let my thumb add a firm pressure to her pleasure center, and that combined with my increasingly rapid thrusting has Rachel in a mess of incoherent groans and pleas.

"That's it," I whisper into her ear as she bucks and grinds her hips down against my hand. "Sing for me, beautiful."

My wrist is beginning to ache painfully, and I can't wait to tell Dr. Holliday how I aggravated my carpal tunnel this time. With three more synchronized thrusts, both of our worlds flash white hot, our bodies shuddering violently with the force and the speed at which our release rampages through us. Rachel's small frame bears all my weight in that euphoric moment, and when I finally come back to Earth, she's brushing a strand of hair away from my face and smiling at me tenderly. I'm still a little hazy, but even in my post-orgasmic stupor, I recognize the look in those big brown eyes.

That's the look that every girl gets right before they ask me to spend the night with them, cuddling and kissing and all that other sweet shit. That's the look that every girl gets right before they ask when I'll be in town again, and tell me they'll be there when I am. That's the look every girl gets right before I pull myself away from them and say that I don't plan on ever seeing them again…

Hope.

And in Rachel's eyes, that look flourishes with the innocence of a fangirl who's just fulfilled a dream by having sex with a rodeo star/rock artist… It just kills me to see it.

But I have a job to do and a lifestyle to maintain. A girl like Rachel could never handle being with me the way I am… 'Cause I'm a lowlife. And I don't plan to change that any time soon. My life right now is just too much damn fun.

"Well, " I say as I draw myself to full height and begin to put myself back together. "This was fun. You're an awesome fuck."

I can tell I've really hurt her; her facial expression drops from pleasant to devastated. A pregnant pause falls between us as I shimmy my pants up onto my hips and brush off the grit from the cold tile beneath our feet. Tears form her eyes, but she squares her jaw and slaps me hard across the face before I can see them fall. Part of me feels awful for acting like this, but the other part knows that this is a necessary evil. I've never been one to play games or lead women on. I don't have a girl in every state like most rodeo riders. I just "love it and leave it", as Sam likes to say. It's simple, and it's the path of least resistance.

Still, I do have a heart, and every now and then I find a girl that I know could be good for me. But, out of habit, I fuck her and leave the city, my own personal form of self-sabotage.

"The rumors about you were true," Rachel grumbles while she pulls her own clothes back on roughly. "Your songs are biographies, not anthems. You really are the selfish asshole your lyrics claim you are."

I shoot her a crooked smile and let my index finger drag along her clenched jaw. "Hey, at least I'm consistent, right?"

The look of distain and sadness in Rachel's tearful eyes makes my chest hurt, but nevertheless, I unlock the stall door and push past her into the restroom. I can see her in the dingy mirror in front of me as I wash my hands in the soap scum covered sink. She just standing there, leaning against one of the metal walls and head tilted backward, her eyes glaring at the ceiling. I turn the low pressure faucet off and wipe my dripping hands on my pants.

"See you around, kid," I say before throwing her a noncommittal wave and pressing through the swinging door of the bathroom. I'm immersed in the bustle of the club and the pulsing of the music playing over the sound system, and when I turn around, Rachel's not there.

She's just another notch in the bedpost… And the sad part is, I'll sleep like a baby tonight.