Fallen Angel Ch 00 Prologue

ALI'S SONG: A ROCK 'N' ROLL STORY ~ Ch. 1

J.B. BACALL'S CLUB

LEXINGTON KENTUCKY

Saturday, 11/29/2015

"Third encore!"

Ali Bryan strapped on her well-worn John Lennon model guitar one more time. Her Hard Rock tee sported darker patches of perspiration; her snug, ripped jeans hung just low enough on her hips to display a flash of her taut belly. Her thick raven hair was just disheveled enough. She caught a glimpse of herself in a full length mirror by the stage door as she headed out, and nodded in satisfaction. She looked great -- just sexy enough without being overtly so.

"One last song, boys - they love us!"

She strode out on stage to raucous applause, followed by lead guitarist Trent Bishop, drummer Ray "Bam Bam" Herndon, and bassist Spike Martin. The others took their positions and waited for her to call off a song

Ali peered through the haze at the crowd. Did everyone in Lexington smoke? Granted, this was Kentucky, the heart of tobacco country, but the swirling clouds in J. B. Bacall's Club could have been the poisonous atmosphere of some inhospitable alien planet. Ah, yes - with the smoke, the sweat, the smell of crappy beer and body odor, the 500-seater rock club had a distinctive bouquet all its own. Another glamorous night in the life of a budding rock star...

'This shit is wrecking my voice - and my lungs!' she thought.

"Take it all off, baby!" a deep, beery voice bellowed from the back. "Take of that shirt 'n' let's see you shake them great big titties! C'mon, cunt!"

That did it! This time she wasn't going to bite her tongue.

"Oh, no way - you'd get whiplash trying to follow 'em, and I can't afford an attorney," she retorted as the crowd erupted in laughter.

She shook her head. A small knot of bikers had grabbed a table near the door. Three of the four had been fine, but the fourth, a huge mountain of muscle wearing a black leather vest and torn blue jeans, had arrived drunk. He'd been heckling her all night, making obscene comments about various parts of her anatomy and her parentage. As she usually did, Ali ignored him. Normally it worked after a while, but this one had kept going all night.

He radiated menace, affecting a stereotypical "Hell's Angels" look. Long blond hair and a matching bushy beard, tattoos, aviator shades, and an outrageous Viking helmet with horns.

And he appeared to be none too happy at the moment.

He was stalking toward the stage, with his friends hurrying after him. The crowd grew silent, and parted in front of him. Trent set his Telecaster down on a guitar stand and stepped protectively in front of Ali as the biker stopped at the edge of the stage and swayed unsteadily.

Where the hell was security?

"So -- you think you're a fuckin' comedian, huh,, cunt?" he snarled. "I'll give you $300 and three seconds to strip off your shirt and bra and shake them great big hooters. If'n you don't...I'll come up there and strip you and shake them myself!"

"Listen, mister..." Bishop began.

"Shut up, frat boy!" the biker roared, roughly shoving the guitarist aside and knocking him off the bandstand. His head thumped heavily on the floor and he moaned in pain

"Trent!" Ali cried.

"You try and stop me and I'll stomp the shit out of you, kid! You'll be a grease spot on the floor!"

Gator tossed the money at Ali's feet and glared malevolently.

"Three seconds, cunt! "

"C'mon, Gator -- leave her alone, man! She's scared to death..."

Gator did not like being interrupted. He swung his huge fist backward and hammered it into the chest of his comrade, who fell back into the crowd.

"Three seconds, cunt! One...two...THREE!!!"

"All right! All right!" Ali's huge, dark eyes brimmed with tears of shame and humiliation as she pulled up the front of her shirt. Gator was delighted to see that Ali was bra-less; her full, rounded breasts bobbled and bounced enticingly as she shook them. Soft nipples hardened into little pink bullets at the sudden temperature change. Gator howled in appreciation. So did most of the rest of the males in the audience, who immortalized the incident - and Ali's incredible breasts - on iPhone videos and still shots, and promptly posted them to Twitter and Facebook.

It was all too much for Gator.

"I gotta squeeze me a handful of them titties!" he snarled.

By this time Bam Bam, who was almost as huge as Gator himself, had managed to extricate himself from behind his drum kit. He lumbered forward to do battle with the biker.

Before the altercation could get any uglier, however, another biker smashed a leaded blackjack against the back of Gator's skull. The room seemed to shake when he hit the floor to a round of applause from the relieved concert goers.

"Jesus, Mudpuppy -- I think you killed him!" the fourth biker exclaimed.

"Nah -- his skull's too thick."

Mudpuppy wiped blood off his blackjack with his shirt and thrust the weapon in his jeans pocket. He removed his cowboy hat and placed it over his chest as he approached Ali. She pulled her shirt down and wiped away tears.

"I'm sorry about this, miss," Mudpuppy said. "Only way I know of t' stop him. Gator's as sweet as yer old granny until he gets drunk. Then he gets mean. If he sees a supermodel beautiful girl like you he's uncontrollable. I'd be obliged if you'd put that money in your tip jar for your trouble if you would, please. We'll get him out of here."

"Thank you," Ali replied nervously as she stuffed the bills into the jar where they joined a respectable collection of portraits of dead presidents.

"Uhhh...what are you going to do with him?" Bishop asked, slowly rising to his feet as he rubbed the back of his head. "He obviously can't drive his motorcycle."

Mudpuppy grinned, showing broken yellow teeth.

"Flapjack has a sidecar attached to his Harley. We just belt Gator in there and let him sleep it off. He never remembers anything in the morning."

"Guess not -- if you whack him over the head like that," Bishop muttered under his breath.

"Does this happen very often?" Ali asked.

"Oh...just about every night. Good night, miss."

"Night," Ali replied dubiously.

The three bikers dragged their unconscious friend from the club with the aid of two bouncers. A smattering of applause greeted their exit.

Bishop turned to Ali.

"You okay?" he asked.

"I'll be fine," she replied with a shaky smile."How 'bout you?"

"I'm okay" he said. "I saw stars for a minute and got a little bump on my head, but that's it. What do you want to do?"

"Let's just play -- that will take care of the jitters."

She approached the mic and the crowd began to chant, "Al-I! Al-I! Al-i!"

"Well!" she exclaimed. "You got more of a show than you bargained for, no extra charge. Hope you boys enjoyed the scenery!"

"Some of us girls did, too!" a feminine voice squealed.

The crowd roared in approval as Ali counted off the bawdy "I Need A Lover, Not A Daddy," her biggest hit so far, which she had been saving for the very end. Herndon demolished his snare with the downbeat, and the band kicked into the song as the crowd roared. Ali prowled the stage, her right arm churning through the song's chord changes.

She was exhausted; more, she was unnerved from her encounter with Gator, but no one in the audience would have guessed. Ali was a pro. She belted out the chorus, leaping around energetically, her arm windmilling like a manic female Pete Townshend. Her thick black hair whipped from side to side. All eyes were on the beautiful, lithe-limbed singer as she kicked and whirled about the footlights.

Then it was over.

They bowed together and left the stage as the house lights came up. After the applause finally died down and the crowd filed out, Ali collapsed in a folding chair backstage, dripping with perspiration. Trent Bishop handed her a bottle of ice water. She pressed it against her forehead before she opened it and drank gratefully.

She smiled at him.

Trent was handsome in a GQ sort of way, clean-cut and shaven, with brown hair and soft brown eyes -- the antithesis of a typical rock guitar shredder. He took care of her; he was like her big brother. He wanted to be much more than that, she knew, but - reluctantly - he was wise enough to realize it wouldn't be good for the band.

"Kick back," he said. "You've been through the mill. I'll take care of your gear."

Ali shook her head.

"Give me a minute," she rasped. "Until we can afford roadies, we all share the load -- even me. I'm still a little shook up from that business with the biker. I'll pull my weight."

"Not tonight," he said. "Why don't you go collect our pay? It won't take us long."

He turned to his exhausted band mates.

"Okay, guys -- we play for free. This is what we get paid for."

Ali finished off her water. She shuffled wearily into the manager's office and found him seated behind his desk. The room stank of marijuana; he unabashedly toked on a joint and blew out a cloud of gray smoke.

Eldon Fraser smelled. He was fat, greasy and unkempt; his stringy hair was combed back off his balding forehead and tied in a ponytail. His worn denim shirt hadn't been washed in a couple of weeks and was half tucked into baggy jeans in a half-assed attempt to be "cool." Watery, red-rimmed blue eyes, the eyes of a predator, stared lasciviously at her. He'd been drinking, too, and reeked of bourbon, weed, and body odor.

Middle age had left him ravaged.

Ali shuddered. She hadn't liked the way he'd been looking at her since they'd arrived. To say that he'd been undressing her with his eyes was an understatement. His alcohol-fueled imagination had taken him way beyond the undressing stage.

Maybe she should've had Trent come in with her...

As she moved deeper into the office, Ali realized with horrified disgust that Fraser was jacking off to the "Honey of the Month" centerfold of a Hustler magazine. He grunted and came; his semen arced into the air like threads of Christmas tinsel and splattered on the picture of the naked, spread-legged blonde bimbo.

A shameless Fraser didn't miss a beat. He made a big production out of thoroughly washing and drying his hands. He counted out $2800 in hundred dollar bills and laid them on his desk, fanning them out like a deck of cards.

"I like to pay in cash," he mumbled. "Why give the IRS any more than we already do?"

He turned and locked the door and laid the key on his desk. Ali could feel her stomach tighten as he walked up behind her and kneaded her shoulders. He was really creeping her out; she shuddered at his touch.

"I bet you can do incredible things with that pretty, pouty little mouth, baby," he hissed, brushing her lips with a fat, grubby finger. "Suck me off with it and I'll double your pay."

He stuffed another $2800 down the front of her tee shirt between the cleft of her full breasts. Where was he getting all this cash? Ali knew he ran a couple of other clubs, but there were also rumors that he was heavily involved in the drug trade.

"You're such a pretty girl. Spread open your legs for me and I'll triple your money - we can fuck right here on my desk."

He shoved yet another $2800 in one of her back pockets, and deposited another wad of bills in her other pocket.

"Another $2800 if you let me crack open your tight little pink asshole!"

Then he reached up and squeezed her breasts from behind.

With a howl of rage, Ali spun and tried to smash her knee into his crotch, but he was too quick for her. He backhanded her and slammed her into a file cabinet. A stunned Ali slid to the floor into a sitting position.

Fraser had his dick out in an instant and forced it all the way down her throat. His penis was long and thick, and a dazed Ali gagged helplessly on its girth and the rancid taste of unwashed cock. He came within seconds; Eldon Fraser had a hair trigger problem, and the sensation of Ali's luscious mouth engulfing his dick was too much for him. He seemed to come forever, and the sour taste made her gag again. He stroked her throat with his fingertips, and she swallowed his slimy load reflexively.

Fraser wiped his sticky cock all over her face and cleaned it with her long black hair, then stepped back, a blissful smile on his face. Ali slowly came around. Gritting her teeth in rage, she viciously slammed her fist up behind his scrotum. Fraser howled in pain and went down, grunting, doubled up in a fetal position. Ali scooped the money and the key to the locked door off his desk.

"You c-cunt!" he gasped. "Y-you'll never play here again! Give me back th-that Goddamned m-money!"

"This money keeps me from calling the cops! You push it and I'll tell them how you assaulted and raped me, you bastard!" She pointed to her mouth. "Because THIS is rape, too! And hitting a woman and bouncing her off a file cabinet...that's assault and battery!"

"Now wait a m-minute!" Fraser wheezed. Realization that he had gone way too far over the line penetrated the drug and alcohol haze in his brain. "I didn't mean anything by it, baby!"

"No, of course you didn't -- you just shoved money between my boobs and squeezed them like I was a cheap hooker, and then came in my mouth and forced me to swallow a load of your cum! Fuck you!"

Ali stormed out the door and violently slammed it behind her, startling her band mates, grabbing her jacket on the run. She couldn't let them know that Fraser had mouth-fucked her. Trent would want to kill him.

"Get this fuckin' shit out of here!" she cried. "I'm going to the van."

The others stared at Bishop, who shrugged.

"I'll see what it is." He picked up his own coat and stepped out into the cold night air.

Ali was leaning against the van, weeping quietly. Her lower lip trembled; her breath condensed into puffs of vapor as she sobbed. She stood hugging herself in the chill November night, looking like a lost little girl.

"I fucking can't do this anymore, Trent," she quavered. "Five more shows, and it will be the end of the year - and this leg of the tour is over. I'm not signing papers for a spring and summer tour. I've had it! I'm finished with this shit! I go back to modeling - I make a hell of a lot more money with a lot less wear and tear on me and my nerves."

Bishop was stunned.

"Ali -- music is your dream! I can't believe..."

"My 'dream' doesn't include having a fat, greasy, creepy fifty year old offer to quadruple our pay if I blow him, fuck him, and let him ass-fuck me -- and that's not the first time this has happened. I'm sick of the fucking road, sick of the lousy fucking food, sick of the fucking roach-infested hotels -- when we're not sleeping in the fucking van on the roadside. And mostly I am sick to death of all the sleazoids who could give a damn about my music and just want to fuck me! Being on the road was supposed to be glamorous and cool - a big adventure. And it's been nothing but five years of fucking shit. I'm sorry. I...just...can't...fucking...do this...anymore!

He frowned. He had never seen her this upset; she rarely swore, and hardly ever dropped the "F" bomb unless she was really stirred up.

She clenched her fists at her sides and started sobbing uncontrollably. Bishop took her in his arms, and she sagged against his chest.

"I...I'm so t-tired," she sniffed. "All F-Fraser wanted was sex. God, he kept pulling wads of cash out of a desk drawer. He put $2800 on the table, shoved $2800 down between my tits and stuck another $5600 in my back pockets - and then he grabbed my boobs! And don't worry, I didn't fuck him. I kept the money and threatened to call the cops for attempted rape - serves him right. Why won't they just let me make it with my music?"

"But you have made it just on your music - at least this far."

"And just how far is that? We're really going in style, aren't we? Most of the time it's little podunk towns in a van that's on its last legs. This is the biggest city we've played in weeks, and then we get booked into this rat hole."

She wearily scrubbed her eyes with the back of hand.

"Maybe I'm on to something," she grated, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "We made over eleven grand tonight. I should just add a rider to our contracts - for four times your money you can fuck Ali Bryan. That's all you really want anyway, isn't it? Might as well become a true whore and sell my body. I've been doing this all wrong! Well, I can't! I quit!"

"Please don't give up."

Something in his plaintive tone made her glance up at his face through her tears. His eyes pleaded with her, too.

Ali realized then that it wasn't just about her. These three guys had followed her out into the indie music wilderness and were still with her, despite it all.

They were counting on her. She cupped his face in her hands and gave him a quick kiss.

"Trent...I think you're the only guy I've ever met who has never treated me like I was three holes to fuck. I don't know what I'd do without you."

She was silent a long, long time, standing with her eyes closed, lost in thought. Then she drew a deep, shuddering breath.

"All right. Against my better judgment, I'll sign up for a summer tour. Money's usually better then anyway. But if things don't really shake loose big time by Labor Day, I'm finished."

His face lit up, and he hugged her fiercely.

"Fair enough. You won't regret it. You'll make it; you'll see!"

"Right." She smiled sadly. "What else would I be doing at this time in my life, anyway - except maybe going to college and planning a real career?"

Herndon and Martin rolled the last of their gear out of the club and loaded it on the van. They gazed expectantly at her, waiting for instructions.

'Time for me to be captain again,' she thought.

"Bam Bam, you drive first shift," she said. "We've got some extra money tonight; bigger payday, and we're going to the Holiday Inn in Barbourville. Should be there in about an hour, straight down I-75. We've got hot showers, our own rooms, and hot food tonight!"

Her band mates let out a ragged cheer. The bulky drummer slid in behind the wheel, and Spike commandeered the front passenger's seat. Ali and Bishop climbed into the bench seat mounted just ahead of the cargo area. She snuggled up against him and rested her head against his chest, and he encircled her comfortingly in his arms.

"Labor Day," she murmured. "Labor Day or I'm outta here..."

She was asleep before the van hit the interstate.

And by the time they reached Barbourville, millions of people all over America knew who Ali Bryan was, thanks to the magic of the internet...

NEXT - ALI MEETS A ROCK 'N' ROLL LEGEND...