AN: And we now meet our lovely douchebag of a leading man.

Thanks to JosieSwan, my beta extroadinaire who convinced me that I could redeem this fucker. We'll see. . .

Edward

Fuck, was there anything better than being a rock star? I glanced down at the woman kneeling at my feet, her hands and her hot, wet mouth wrapped around my cock, and I decided that I couldn't think of a more kick ass profession.

After all, what other job not only allowed a man to act like an immature tool, but encouraged it? Plus, there was a lot to be said for the sheer amount of pussy available to such an irreverent asshole. If I'd just been a man on the street, it wouldn't be nearly this easy. Easy, yes, but not this easy.

The raucous noise of the crowd on the other side of the door faded to a dull roar as she twisted my cock in her hand, her mouth hard and insistent, almost desperate to produce some kind of reaction from me. What the fuck did she expect? I'd been getting head for ten years, and though it felt pretty damn good—because it was head—there wasn't anything that her glitter lip-glossed mouth was doing that I hadn't felt about a million other times before.

She (fuck if I even remembered her name, though she'd breathily whispered it to me only five minutes ago) was really getting into it now, her breathy, fake moans producing an accidental vibration that tightened my balls. Damnit, I wasn't going to come because she was fucking inept and couldn't blowjob her way out of a paper bag.

I looked down at the dark roots mixed with her blond hair, and tried to count back from a hundred, disgusted by my own standards. Just because she'd snuck herself into the green room didn't mean that I'd had to let her untalented mouth near my dick. There'd been a time when I'd had real standards for my groupie fucks, but lately, I'd just been taking whoever threw themselves at me hardest.

This one had been the epitome of pitiful too, her hair brittle and too blond, her makeup thick and greasy and setting into unattractive lines around her mouth and eyes, her shirt cut nearly to her navel, showcasing boobs that had probably been bought by Mick fucking Jagger at least thirty years ago. Twelve months ago, I would have shown her the door, not deeming her worthy to touch me, but tonight I'd been too tired to call Emmett to get her washed-up, fat ass out, and too lazy to find someone who was actually capable of making me come.

The worthless ho groaned around my cock again, and I wanted to tell her to get a different fucking trick, because this one wasn't working, and if she got me off, it would be totally accidental. I looked down her shirt, more because I was bored than because I wanted to see her scarred, plasticky boobs. The sight convinced me once and for all that I'd let my standards slip way past acceptable—I liked my women with big boobs, but I drew the line at bad boob jobs.

"Do you think," I said, conversationally, no hint of the fact that her mouth was currently overworked around my dick, "you could actually do something resembling a blowjob?"

Her eyes flew open, terrified and full of something I recognized as self-esteem hitting rock bottom. "Mhhmmmm arrrrrr ummmmmm," she mumbled, her mouth full of cock.

"Just fucking do something," I hissed, realizing only after I said it that her whole problem had been in the overenthusiastic execution. Fuck.

Her garbled words, however, renewed that burning sensation in my balls, and I almost started counting again, offended that I would even be close to coming with such a fucking amateur, but then her hand ghosted over my thigh, her fingers brushing the raised hairs, and I fucking gave in.

Balls tightening, I refused to give her any kind of warning—if she wasn't adept enough to pick up the signs that I was about to shoot my load down her fucking throat, it was her own damn fault—and I came. Not exactly hard, and not exactly rough, but I did come. She stiffened, her eyes flying up towards mine. I stared down at her, relentless, as I rode out the orgasm. Fucking groupies.

She slumped to the ground, and I turned away, zipping up my much-abused cock in my boxer briefs. I heard her spitting out my come and I rolled my eyes. She couldn't even fucking swallow. What was this? Amateur fucking hour? I was disgusted, more by my own standards than her hopelessly mediocre performance.

I walked towards the bottle of whiskey on the table and didn't even bother with a glass, simply taking off the top and swigging down a good portion of the booze inside. "Fuck," I ground out, finally turning around to face the woman I'd chosen to touch me. If I was being painfully honest, the way the whiskey burned the back of my throat felt better than her mouth had. Which just really said it all.

I took another swig of whiskey and eyed her warily, wondering what she was waiting for. Why didn't she just fucking get a clue and leave? Surely she didn't expect me to reward that exceptionally shitty bj with some sort of reciprocation? I decided that weirder things had happened, and my head beginning to buzz with the whiskey I'd just inhaled, I looked at her with more kindness than I had the entire space of our acquaintance—which was now nearing ten minutes.

"Time for me to get ready," I said, and I swore her mouth went into the most pitiful ass downward pout I'd ever seen. The only woman who could honestly pull that shit off was Angelina Jolie, and if she was here, I wouldn't be going on stage only partially satisfied, that's for damn sure.

"Are you sure?" she asked, her eyes disappointed and needy. Just what I needed, another fucking obsessed freak with stalkerish tendencies. I was going to have to pull Emmett aside and make sure he nipped this shit in the bud.

I nodded, deciding that conversation was the best way for her to get attached. Maybe if I didn't speak, we could forget what had just transpired. God knew, I was doing my best to do just that.

Shoulder slumped, she actually walked over to me and tried to kiss me. My wide-eyed horror must have given away what a totally fucking wrong decision that was because she backed away suddenly, mumbling her apologies. That was damn right, I thought as the door finally shut behind her fat ass, she better be sorry for the piss poor orgasm she'd just wrung from me. When a man isn't even fucking willing to come, that's a sad state of affairs.

I'd just taken down another slug of whiskey, the bottle half gone now, my buzz settling nicely into my stomach, and had walked over to the row of guitars, when the door flew open again. "Damnnit, Emmett," I growled, not even bothering to turn around to face the shitty excuse for a groupie who'd I'd nearly had to shove out the door the first time, "get her ass out of here."

"And whose ass would that be, Edward?" Rosalie's frosty bitch tone echoed through the nearly-empty green room.

"Well, fuck." My mood had just gone from pretty crappy to total shit. "I thought you were meeting me in Boston." I turned to face Rose, her face perfect and so icy that it could probably fucking cut the diamonds she wore on her ears.

Rose ignored my comment and swept into the room, her model-thin body flawlessly encased in skinny black jeans and a strategically torn Athair t-shirt. Her four inch black stilettos brought her blue, ice chip eyes nearly equal to my own and I inwardly groaned. The only thing worse than a shitty blow job was a Rosalie Hale confrontation. I lifted the bottle I held to my lips and let more whiskey slide down my throat. If I was going to do this, I was going to do it as drunk as humanely possible.

"I knew it," she crowed almost triumphantly. "I knew you'd fuck a groupie the second I turned my back."

"On the contrary, I don't care if your back is turned or not. I'd do it in fucking front of you if I wanted to."

Her face crumpled with disgust and the barest hint of rock bottom self-worth that had filled the groupie's eyes. And didn't that just take the cake, I thought with growing glee, I'd brought the Rosalie Hale to her fucking knees. Who knew that the Princess would love slumming it quite so much?

"I can't believe you. She just left didn't she? And did you fuck her? It smells like sex in here."

Wrong. It didn't smell like sex, because I'd have to have been a lot drunker than this to fuck that ho's diseased pussy. It actually smelled like my come and her saliva, which was probably lying on the floor in the corner, like a bad surprise. "You shouldn't be all that shocked," I said shortly. "I never told you that I'd be faithful. It's not in my DNA. And even if it was, I wouldn't be. I do whatever I fucking want." I was only vaguely aware that I sounded like a spoiled brat—the whiskey was a conflagration in my stomach now and anger at Rose for trying to turn me into something I wasn't was flaming out of control. And fuck, besides all that, I needed to find my fucking band and get ready for the show that we were about to play.

"This isn't what I signed up for," Rose sneered, tossing her blond extensions. At least these, unlike that ho bag's, were expensive, bought and paid for by her hotel baron father, and didn't feel like horse hair. I knew from personal experience, because Rosalie and I had been fucking for the last three months. At least we had when I'd felt like it. She was so damn sure she could tame me, but it was never going to happen, no matter how many times I told her. I'd even been up front that being an asshat was ingrained in me, but she'd just tossed that blond hair of hers and smiled knowingly, as if one taste of her pussy could change everything.

It hadn't.

"I don't want to do this right now. I have a show." I slumped down on a chair and began tuning the guitar, even the whiskey unable to dull my hearing as I tuned it precisely. I'd never been drunk enough that I couldn't tune my own instruments and I wasn't about to start now, even if Rose was throwing a fucking shit fit.

"Edward," Rosalie nearly growled, the fire of her temper finally breaking through all that ice she surrounded herself with. I loved to wrench away the self-control that she'd spent her entire life honing, and though it was easiest to do it with sex, it was also fun to do with anger. Besides, the last thing I felt like doing right now was fucking Rose. Even my cock, usually up for her sleek, slim, overly tanned body, refused to stir in my jeans. Clearly that groupie had sucked away every single sexual impulse it had right now. Which was fine, I decided, as I drank more whiskey. I felt more like getting wasted than dealing with all of Rosie's daddy issues.

"I'm busy," I told her bluntly. "Come back when I have more time, and I'll fuck you then. Maybe after the concert. Except that we're going out to some club after, and I'll probably get too wasted. How about Boston?"

I saw the temper flash across Rose's face, but I wasn't drunk enough to see the hesitation. Of course, I wasn't surprised. She still wanted me. And who I was to deny her?

"Don't even bother arguing," I interrupted her. "Just say yes."

She deflated in front of my eyes, her face going all swoony and ridiculous. And a terrible thought crossed my mind—what if she'd decided to fall in love with me? That was just bad all around. I drank more whiskey. I was going to have to get Emmett on this situation, stat. He still got a little star struck around Little Miss Princess, but a good fuck would cure that shit fast.

"Maybe," she said, and I knew this was as good as I was going to get. She was kind of annoying, but she was good in bed—more than most groupies I knew—and I couldn't deny I liked the attention that she brought with her. My sales had gone through the roof since rumors had started swirling of me and her dating, and I wasn't about to cut that shit off before Athair could really benefit.

"Come here and give me a kiss," I ordered. I had to play nice if I was going to get her to stick around for the next album release. After the disaster of the fifth album, Carlisle had said we could really use the publicity that she brought in.

And idiot that she was, she walked right over and wrapped her arms around me. The guitar between us protected her from finding out that I wasn't even close to being turned on, but I made a good show of kissing her like I wanted to fuck her—fast and hot and deep. I even relented and cupped her skinny ass in my hands, pinching her hard enough that it would probably leave a bruise.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity of her fucking sucking my face off, she slid off me, her blue eyes all soft and coy, and I internally swore again. I would talk to Emmett tonight. I couldn't risk fucking her in Boston, not with the way she was looking at me right now. She'd even forgiven me for the groupie, and I knew that didn't bode well.

"I'll see you later," she said, slinkily mincing to the doorway in her high heels. She looked over her shoulder, her face a mask of sexual desire. "I can't wait until Boston."

I bet she couldn't. Wait until she got a load of how good Emmett was in the sack. No, he wasn't a rock star and she couldn't read about her and him in US Weekly, but he'd rock her world. I'd make certain of that.

Turning back to the guitar in my lap, I continued tuning, my attention totally absorbed by the Fender in front of me. Every time I thought sex was the best reason for becoming a rock star, I touched one of my guitars, and the music came rushing back to me, a cascade of notes and chords and snippets of the songs that I'd forged from nothing but silence.

I stroked the neck of the Fender I was cradling, the music washing over me. I liked the calm before the storm of the concert almost best of all.

"Don't let your girls see you do that, they might get jealous." Emmett stepped into the room, a cocky grin on his face. "Especially Rosie. She seemed a bit. . .upset as she was leaving."

I grimaced. "She knows how I am. She just doesn't want to see it."

Emmett leaned against the scarred and pitted concrete wall, crossing his bulky arms over his huge chest and eyed me with concern, looking like an odd cross between Rambo and Dr. Phil. "One of these days she's going to get smart and ditch you."

"We both know that you're waiting for that moment with baited breath. And like I've been telling you for weeks now, go for it. I don't care."

Emmett shook his head, acceptance and disgust on his face. I knew better than to take it personally. Unlike me, Emmett was a good man—and unlike me, he actually cared about Rosalie. "She wants you. Though god knows why."

I shrugged. "It's the rock star thing. Or the bad boy thing. But I've been meaning to tell you—I think her determination is reaching. . .unhealthy . . .levels. You need to do something. And this isn't a suggestion, it's an order."

Emmett looked vaguely amused. "I'm your security, not your slave. You can order me to take a bullet for you, to beat the shit out of anyone you want, but you can't order me to fuck your ex."

"Rose isn't my ex," I pointed out, my hand fisted around the neck of the whiskey bottle. The few inches of amber liquid in the bottom sloshed around in the bottle. "She's just some girl I fuck sometimes. And I've told you a million times, you're welcome to her. I've never really wanted her."

He snorted. "You don't want Rosalie Hale. I've thought you were crazy plenty of times, but this clinches it. You're fucking insane, man."

"Women are all replaceable anyway. Even Rosalie. No—especially Rosalie."

A small bark of incredulous laughter escaped from Emmett's lips and he pushed himself off the wall. "You about ready, champ?"

"Yeah, let the guys know that I'll be there in a minute. Just gotta finish tuning my baby here."

"Good, the crowd's getting a touch rowdy, and I don't want to fight my way out of mob tonight."

"I'll calm 'em down." I grinned and strummed the Fender. "Give me five minutes and I'll have 'em eating out of my hand."

Even though I'd switched to beer during the show, by the time I reached the party I could feel the combination of leftover adrenaline and all the whiskey I'd drunk making me higher than a fucking kite. And if I had anything to say about it, this was only the beginning. It'd been a good show, partly because I'd been riding that hard line of anger and resentment and whiskey and it had given an edge to even our softer songs. The crowd had eaten it up, and there was nothing like good old fashioned adulation to make a man feel fucking awesome.

Screw James Cameron, I was the king of the fucking world.

I moved into the club, flanked by Emmett and some of my bandmates. "VIP?" Emmett asked, as we were almost immediately mobbed by a whole group of young, hot blondes.

"Fuck no," I told Emmett. "We're staying right here." I slung an arm casually around the hottest of the women, and leaned down. "And what's your name, darlin'?"

"You're Edward Cullen, aren't you?" she asked breathlessly, biting a full lip with her even white teeth. "I'm such a fan."

"Guilty as charged," I grinned. "And I can see you're a real fan." I slid my hand from her shoulder, curling it around her waist until it was resting on the bare toned flesh of her stomach, right under the cut-off t-shirt emblazoned with the Athair logo. Checking her out from head to toe, I decided she was a definitely an upgrade from both the women I'd been saddled with earlier today.

"I am," she nodded eagerly, and started to gush about the last album. I tuned her out, and turned towards Emmett. "I'm not too cool to party with the little people, once in awhile."

Emmett laughed, the sound booming out over the loud music and dull roar of the crowd. "You're such an egotistic bastard, Cullen. Alright, I'll let the manager know that we're staying down here."

Twenty minutes and three shots later, the blonde –I'd never gotten her name, and it didn't matter cause I would have forgotten it anyway—was on my lap, nuzzling my neck and the hand that wasn't holding another bottle of whiskey was making its way up her skirt. Life, I thought through the muddy haze of booze clouding my system, was fuckawesome.

"Oy! Billy, you wanker. Where the fuck have you been, mate?" The voice echoed throughout the spacious club, every single word slicing through my buzz like a knife. Fuck, what was a fucking Brit doing here? I felt my hands tighten and dig into the blond's thigh. She squealed and I gripped harder, the whiskey in my system burning like an incandescent flame. God damn fucking limey bastard.

Each word echoed through my mind, repeating until I couldn't even separate the syllables. And every word resurrected a memory that sliced me down deep, in a place that I purposefully tried to forget. I gripped the whiskey bottle and felt the liquid slide down my throat. I set it down deliberately and pushed blondie off my lap. "I have to go," I slurred, "and take care of some important business."

"What?" she spluttered, vaguely aware through the haze of booze clouding her blue eyes that something on the gravy train she'd attached herself to had gone horribly wrong. "What's going on?"

I dumped her rather unceremoniously on the ground when she didn't vacate my lap nearly soon enough.

Dominic Monaghan hit the edge of my vision and everything went blurred and red—I wasn't sure if it was the whiskey or the irrational anger that shot through me at the sound of his fucking voice. And it didn't even have to be him, it could have been anyone. I was just lucky he'd stumbled in just when I was spoiling for a fight.

Of course, I hadn't known technically, I'd thought that the whiskey and some more hot anonymous blond sex would be enough, but the moment I'd heard the voice, the need to kick some ass sent me over the edge.

As I moved towards the fucker, trying to keep my steps short so that I didn't sway, my last thought before I went ape shit on the asshole was that it was all his fault.

"Edward, I've been really fucking patient, but this shit has got to stop." I pulled away the pack of ice I'd been holding to my blackened face and looked through my one good, unswollen eye at my manager, Carlisle, who looked really fucking angry. I suppose he had the right to be, but I'd never made a single promise that I'd start to monitor my behavior. And well, I'd wanted to kick that guys ass. It didn't matter that I'd only been able to get in one nasty right hook before I'd fallen over—I did whatever I wanted and nobody was going to stop me from doing it.

"Whiskey," I barked to Emmett, who was still chuckling at my total inability to kick the ass of some small, pansy ass Brit. If I'd been sober, they would have been wiping him off the floor, but I was pretty fucking wasted, and it had been me they'd had to wipe up.

"Don't you think you've had enough?" Carlisle asked, the frustration in his voice growing.

"Absolutely not. And," I added as Emmett turned to find some whiskey, "find that blonde again. She was hot and I was just about to make it to second base when I got so rudely interrupted by that fucker."

Carlisle made an incoherently angry noise, his temper clearly escalating beyond his own control, and he slammed the door behind Emmett. Thank god, I thought as the silence in the back room reigned. I'd thought he'd never leave. It was getting harder and harder to bait him into losing his temper—and since it was either prod him into leaving or deal with his stupid lectures, I didn't exactly have a choice.

I gingerly laid the ice back on my face and thanked all the booze I'd already drank because I knew it could have hurt a lot worse. It was late and with the adrenaline burned out of my system, I felt my eyes beginning to droop closed. Damnit, I was young, the night was still young. I wanted to go back out and party—pretend that I hadn't just lost it like that. It had never been that bad before. He hadn't even spoken to me directly, and every good intention—and it wasn't as if I had very many—had just evaporated. I began to doze off, the whiskey leveling out my mood until I wasn't even sure I cared anymore, either about the fight or Carlisle or even the music. All I wanted to do was float away to a place where nothing existed. . .

"Here," Emmett said, and I jerked awake, the ice pack falling to the floor with a mushy plop.

He was holding out an unopened bottle of Jack and a short glass filled with ice in the other. I took the glass and the bottle and poured, refusing to grimace as the bruises on my knuckles began to ache. Self medication, I thought, taking that first wonderful swallow, worked every single damn time.

"What happened to the Jameson," I complained. "You know I don't drink Jack unless I'm desperate."

Emmett collapsed in the chair next to me, his big bulk shaking the wood and the floor and some whiskey sloshed over onto my bloodied knuckles. I hissed at the sharp pain.

"Yeah, funny that. The bar literally sold out after your Jameson-fueled exhibition. Apparently you're a great role model."

"Fuck yes, I am," I said, grinning despite that it hurt like a motherfucker.

Emmett chuckled and then turned to me, and I felt something hard and edgy grow inside me.

"Why'd you go after him? He didn't even talk to you. Is it getting worse?"

This was what happened when you actually confided in the people around you—they brought up all this emotional pansy shit when all you wanted was to be left alone.

"No," I said shortly, drinking more whiskey. "Where's the blond? I told you to bring her."

"I'm having her brought to your hotel. Are you really sure you won't embarrass yourself?"

I glared at him. "I'm going to pretend you didn't say that. I've never had whiskey dick in my whole fucking life. I could get it up if I was half-dead."

Emmett rolled his eyes. "As you decide to demonstrate almost every fucking night. Seriously, Edward, this has got to stop. Or you've got to take it easy, at least. We're all worried."

"I don't need this from you," I told him bitterly. "I get it enough from Carlisle."

"And he's not half-wrong. I mean, we're all a little afraid we're going to find you dead one morning."

"Naw," I said, drinking faster and harder, "there's no fucking way that Carlisle would let his meal ticket die. I'll be fine. More than fine actually." I smiled, the grin of an angel who welcomed the fall into hell. "Let's go, I've got a blonde to fuck."

Minces words, doesn't he?

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