K. Linde - Take Me for Granted

My mouth fell open. “I’m so sorry. We’ll be quiet.”

“Sir, it was my fault,” Grant said, taking the fall.

That surprised me a bit.

“I don’t care whose fault it is. I expect you to pack up your things and leave. Return when you will not disturb the class,” he said before turning and walking back to the front of the room.

I grabbed my things and rushed out of the classroom in shame. I had been kicked out of class. I couldn’t believe it. By the time I exited the room, I was fuming.

Grant followed behind me a minute later. “Aribel, I’m really sorry.”

“You got me kicked out of class!” I yelled at him.

“I know. I’m so, so sorry. I didn’t think—”

“That’s right! You didn’t think. You have no idea what this means to me or how this could affect me. All you care about is your stupid game. Newsflash, Grant—I’m not going to sleep with you!” I screamed in his face. “I’ve known you for less than twenty-four hours, and you’re already messing up my life. So, do me a favor, and just get out of it!”

Thirteen years.

It had been thirteen years since I last pushed too hard for what I wanted…since the last time I had failed. All of that came crashing down around me as I stood there and let Aribel lay into me like I was no better than the scum on the bottom of her shoe.

In all honesty, I probably wasn’t, not compared to someone like her. She seemed like a package deal—smart, really fucking smart, hot, and feisty. Why the hell would she want to go out with a guy like me anyway?

And that should have made me back the fuck off. It should have made me want to walk dick-first into the next easy pussy I stumbled across. But it didn’t. As she rambled on about my utter douchiness, all I could think about was how I could fix this. So, I let her walk away. I was already going to be late for rehearsal, and if I were late one more time, Miller would have my ass.

Arriving just on time, I hopped out of my lifted dark blue F-150 and strolled into the garage. When I’d first bought the place, I’d renovated the garage, so we would have a place to rehearse. I’d only left enough space for my sleek red Ducati.

“Bro, where the fuck have you been all morning?” Vin asked.

“With your mother.”

“Fuck off!” Vin yelled back at me.

I sauntered over to my baby and picked her up from her stand. She was a cherry red Gibson SG that I loved more than anything else on the planet. She had gotten me through the rough times, and every day that went by when I wasn’t strumming her to life made me feel like I was dying.

“Seriously though, Grant,” Miller started his best reprimand, “can’t you ever manage to be on time? You’d think a label scout coming to our show tomorrow night would get you to be more serious about rehearsals.”

“Miller, chill the fuck out. I’m serious about rehearsals.”

“Then, can we fucking get started?” McAvoy leaned back against the wall, balancing precariously on two legs of his stool. He flipped a drumstick between his fingers.

“Yeah. Are we playing ‘Hemorrhage’?” I asked.

McAvoy started the beat to our lead song.

The words were spilling out of my mouth. My hands were flying across my baby as I coaxed the chords and rhythms out of her. My body was super heated from the bright lights on the stage, and sweat collected on my brow and the back of my plain black V-cut T-shirt. My dog tags hung loose around my neck, moving in time with me.

McAvoy was shirtless and fully tatted with his hair swinging as he slammed the sticks down on the drums in front of him. Miller’s bass beats were thumping into my body. He looked completely unfazed in his crisp jeans and polo as the heat intensified through the set. Vin’s shirt was a size too small, and somehow he was flexing as he played his shiny black guitar next to me.

We were killing it tonight. Most nights, I’d felt like we were in sync, but nothing could compare to tonight. It was a Saturday night in September, and the dive bar in New York City where Miller had gotten us a show already looked like they were breaking the fire code with how many swaying, drunken bodies were crammed into the small space.

A blonde chick was standing in the front row in the lowest cut shirt I’d ever seen. Her tits were nearly bouncing out, and I could almost see her nipples as she danced and jumped to our music. She hadn’t looked away from me for one second the entire set, and I was sure we’d be fucking in the restroom before I even knew her name.

As I finished off our last song, the light panned across the room, and the crowd cheered to a deafening volume. Performing was an adrenaline rush unlike anything else. I felt perfectly in control and in my element.

“We’re ContraBand. Thanks for coming out,” I called out to the crowd before swinging my guitar onto my back and exiting the stage.

The venue actually had a real backstage, unlike The Ivy League, and the other bands were lounging on couches and chatting with fans. McAvoy immediately made friends with the dudes who had gone on first, and Vin was already fondling a chick near the stage door.

Miller shrugged. “Feels weird, not being bombarded.”

“We would be if we took one step out that door.” I pulled a joint from my pocket and lit it up. I didn’t typically smoke in public, but who the hell is watching now?

“You going for the blonde in the front row?” Miller asked intuitively.

The guy was sharp. He always picked up on the moods of the guys, and he was able to keep us cohesive.

“We’ll see.”

About ten minutes later, the next band started their set, and a wave of girls ran backstage. A crowd was forming for us, and Blondie was at the lead.

“Hey, sexy,” she said, walking right up to me and running her hand down my dog tags.

“Hey, darlin’.”

“I loved your show.” She stuck her chest out, and her tits pressed against me, emphasizing how much she would enjoy an aftershow.

“Thanks, babe. This your first ContraBand show?”

“Mmhmm…I sure hope it’s not my last.”

I smiled down at her in a way that I’d heard melted panties and nodded my head toward the back room. She arched an eyebrow and winked. All the confirmation I needed.

“You made it, Cheyenne,” Vin called out next to me.

My head snapped to the side, my conversation with Blondie completely forgotten. Cheyenne? As in, Aribel’s roommate? Is she here? She might have been pissed with me, but maybe her friends had dragged her along. It was wishful thinking maybe, but I had to know.

“Will you just give me a minute?”

She pouted with her gloss-coated full lips. For a second, I envisioned the mess that would make on my dick, and I shuddered. Blondie had a nice rack, but she needed to take that shit off.

“Come on, baby,” Blondie purred.

“Just one minute.” I held up a finger, pulled myself from her grasp, and walked over to where Vin was standing with a tall, curly-haired ginger.

I looked around, but I didn’t see a short blonde in a cardigan. Maybe she was hidden behind the mass of people who had just come backstage. “Cheyenne,” I said in greeting.

“Oh, Grant, hey,” she said, smiling warily at me.

Not the reaction I was used to. I wondered if Aribel had told her what had happened or if gossip had traveled to her.

“Bro!” Vin said, trying to nudge me out.

He still didn’t realize that I had no interest in the girl in front of me.