Tangled Mess

Prologue Ransom –––––––– I TIPPED THE bottle of Patron back and took another swig, watching as the two girls rolled around in my king-sized bed, whimpering and moaning in pleasure as their tongues danced between the other’s thighs. The scene was straight out of a porno – two gorgeous girls, both horny, and begging me to join them. It was a fantasy many guys would give their left nut for. Hell, it used to be mine. These days, however, it was just another Sunday night in my L.A. condo. Or was it Monday? The brunette, some famous lingerie model, raised her head, and gave me a sensuous smile. “Aren’t you going to join us, Ransom?” she purred. Trying to focus, I waved my hand at the blurred image. “Nah,” I answered in a thick voice. “Gonna sit this one out.” She licked her full lips suggestively. “Are you sure? Or are we going to have to keep begging?” I smiled lazily. “Not really sure of anything, sweetness.” She giggled, thinking I was flirting with her, and then resumed pleasuring the redhead who was staring at me with hungry, adoring eyes. I rubbed a hand over my face, trying to remember what her name was. Ginger? Cinnamon? It really didn’t matter. To me, Spice-Girl was just another faceless groupie, one who’d caught my eye during my drummer, Vance’s, birthday party, a few hours earlier. She’d been wearing some kind of silver sequined halter-top, her n*****s poking through as she’d plopped herself onto my lap, whispering kinky s**t into my ear, finally, offering to suck my c**k. I obliged, taking her up on the offer in the bathroom, but in the end had to push her away. I couldn’t stay hard, looking down at a girl who stared up at me like I was something I wasn’t. A god. I was by no means a “god.” Gods weren’t miserable, nor were they ruled by others. Hell, I was both. On the outside, my life was the stuff that dreams were made of. I was a filthy rich, celebrity, with hordes of women, drugs, and alcohol at my disposal. I owned several cars, four homes, a private jet, and a small island in the Caribbean. I was the s**t. An All-American-Grammy-Winning-Rock Star. Right, what a f*****g joke... I was a nothing but a prisoner, owned by the small print in my contracts, and managers who treated me like a child at twenty-five. I wasn’t allowed to write my own music, plan my own tours, or make any more important decisions about my life, let alone my career. s**t, I couldn’t even step outside my front door without being monitored or chastised by one of my P.R. peeps. The only thing I could control was getting wasted, so I indulged as much as possible. As far as I was concerned, the fact that I still had control over what I did to my body was what kept me from drowning in their cesspool of non-negotiable rules. Or, hell, maybe it was pushing me under faster, I didn’t even f*****g know anymore. The shitty truth was that even if I wanted to walk away from all of the glory and stardom, my mug was plastered everywhere on magazines, television, billboards, and bathroom stalls. I couldn’t go anywhere without being followed by reporters or star-struck fans. Hell, I needed bodyguards just to go to f*****g McDonalds for a shake. Then, there were the crazy, obsessed stalkers who’d sworn an undying love for me, convinced that we were soul-mates. Or the other fanatics who just simply wanted to destroy me. Why? I was Ransom, an icon to some, the epitome of sin and debauchery to others. In reality, I was a puppet with too many strings and no Blue Fairy in sight.