Box Of Rocks
Dumber than...
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Chapter 1
Fuck!
Here I was trying to get people out of the house, and this asshole decides to bed down? Seriously? He needs to go, now! Sis just told me the owner sent her a message he was coming home, and the last thing he needed to walk into was a party in progress. Plus, I need to seriously clean this place up!
It was an easy gig, and solved a lot of my problems. I'd just broke up with my lover of seven months, and it wasn't a particularly amicable parting. It was, in fact, a clusterfuck. He caught me in bed with his best friend and lost his shit. This from the guy who had been banging a waitress at a strip joint for five months?
Mud got slung, and it stuck to everybody involved. His friend never once let on he was married. I found out she was back home, finishing out her school year, before coming down to join him. It got particularly ugly when she let me know she'd be naming me in the divorce. When the ex went on his higher moral ground rant, I cut his legs out from under him by throwing his stripper honey in his face.
It couldn't go downhill much farther, but when we hit bottom and the smoke cleared, I was picking up my clothes off the pavement and dumptser diving to find the rest. My sister came to my rescue, after she slapped me and told me to grow the fuck up. She had a friend who needed a housesitter for a few months, and she persuaded him to let me do it. I got a pretty good lecture about not damaging anything, keeping the place clean, and above all not letting other people in the house.
I was a good little girl for the first six weeks, then I had a few of my girlfriends over for a night in. They were really impressed as they wandered around, the place was a nine bedroom mansion on a five acre lot in the middle of the sticks. They found the eight person hot tub and were soon naked and giggling. I tried to get them out, but gave up after a few minutes, stripped off, and joined them.
I regretted inviting them when I had to get up at the crack of noon and clean up after them. I piled bras, panties, a corset, leather boots and a riding crop (?) into a pile. They could sort them out later. I woke the ones who were too trashed to go inside, hoping the summer sun hadn't burned them too badly. After gallons of gourmet coffee the guy had in his pantry, we started sorting out clothes. Arika couldn't find her bra and was freaking out. She was one of the three married ones, and Arika had a very impressive set of mammary glands, 46D. She also had a very jealous husband.
Bonnie stumbled in. "I found your bra, hon."
"Where's it at? Did you bring it?"
"I couldn't. It's up at the top of the flagpole, and somehow we managed to break the rope, so we can't get it down."
That was just before my sister came storming in, screaming at the top of her lungs. We scattered like quail, the girls suddenly finding themselves sober enought to drive, although a few missed the massive drive and cut grooves in the grass. I was left alone to face her wrath, and I bet my ass looked like hamburger after the chewing she gave it.
Then we spent four hours cleaning up. When she saw we'd gotten into the bottles behind the bar in the game room, she went ballistic, pulling empty bottles together and giving me a running total. Apparently the dude had very expensive taste, and we had drunk or spilled about six hundred dollars worth. Over all, it took two grand to replace and repair everything.
That was two grand out of my sister's pocket. The bitch was rich, so I didn't worry about it too much. Alison had always loved music, taking piano lessons from the age of six, learning guitar by eleven, and voice lessons for seven years. Alison could sing opera fairly well, but her heart was in rock.
She was in her first band at fifteen, formed an all girl band at eighteen, and played the bar circuit for a few years,until she got the right combination of talent and a record deal. Rolling Stone called them the twenty-first century Fanny, one of the pioneering all female band from the '60s, and they rode high through three albums. Al partied, but she was smart and half of everything she made went into investments, managed by a top of the line firm.
So when the fall came and they broke up, she was in good shape. It ended bitterly, because the other three women lived the rock and roll lifestyle, spending like mad and depending on the next album to keep them afloat. Al got tired of the constant touring, and wanted to cut back. She was married and wanted to start a family, but when she came off the road her husband filed for a divorce, because he'd been banging a woman on the side for two years, and they decided they were in love. They planned on taking Al to the cleaners, but she had incorporated herself and he'd signed a prenupt. He ended up getting two hundred fifty grand, which nearly killed her to part with, but she had the last laugh. Three months after the lovers married, she left him, and he hadn't signed a prenupt. To top it off she was pregnant and the DNA test proved it was his, so he had to hand her almost all the money he'd gotten off Al, and pay pretty steep child support.
As far as he old band went, they reformed with another singer/guitarist, and toured, singing their old hits. Alison wrote twenty-eight of the thirty-three songs they had recorded, and cowrote three more, so they had to pay her royalties every time they performed one of her songs. As a bonus, she owned the band name, and they had to pay her a fee to use it. She told me once it came to about half of what she made while she was still with the band, all for no effort at all.
Between the band breaking up and her marriage cratering, Alison was a pretty bitter person for a while. It had been eighteen months, and the only musical project she worked on was with an up and coming country star, writing two songs for her. She played on most of the album and was acknowledged as the musical director. So far, two hits had come from the recording, one by Al and the other by a well respected country writer. The first was basically a duet with Al, the second a classic country song that had you dreaming of cheating on your dog and truck. As far as I know she hadn't worked on anything since.
The house I was crashing in belonged to one of her friends in the music business, and she never said who he it was. It didn't matter to me, I had the run of a mansion with all the amenities, and was happy as a pig in slop. It would seem I had a problem with responsibility, content to drift wherever the currents took me. Oddly, I was disciplined enough to graduate college with a degree in multimedia, meaning anything to do with films, television, music, or theater. I landed a pretty good job as a production assistant for a film, but screwed it up when I fucked the costar. When it blew up I was suddenly out in the cold. Loverboy neglected to inform me he was married, or that his older wife was the executive producer.
It wasn't the first time she caught him, but it was the last. He had a little money from his film work, but she was worth tens of millions, had a pretty good prenupt, and he went from living in a mansion to a two bedroom condo, which his wife bought him in lieu of any alimony she would have to pay. He also got a million and a half and a brand new luxury car. Two years later he was in a studio apartment, driving a little Kia, broke, and the only roles he could get were in soap operas and indie films. Hollywood never took him seriously again. Of course, I was fired immediately and named in the divorce, but it didn't bother me that much. I told his wife I'd be glad to appear in court, and she lightened up on me. Her husband knew he was not going to come out of it well, so he never denied anything and went quietly.
I was in 'between jobs' right now because no one would hire me. I suppose I could have gotten a real job in corporate America, work nine to five in some little cubicle and save my pennies for girl's nights out, but the whole idea made me a little queasy. Besides that, I was smokin' hot, and if I wanted to go out, there was always a man ready to take me. Usually it was a successful man with money, so it was always top tier, and I never fucked them until the fourth date. A lot of them lost interest after they slept with me, but there was always someone else waiting in the wings. My lifestyle disgusted Alison no end.
"Word's getting around, baby, and it isn't good. The word is you're a guaranteed great fuck, but not relationship material. You need to stop and straighten out if you ever want a serious relationship."
"Why would I stop? These guys are just dildos with money. I use them, they use me, we all get something out of the exchange."
I realized I had really pissed her off when she almost snarled at me. "Ther's a word for women like you."
