This week's #fridayflash got about 20 rewrites but each one my friend Tim discarded and told me to stick with the original. So here's the original (almost), with maybe a name change, or two.
A flutter at the base of her neck woke Katie. His hand cupped her breast; his body molded against hers. She offered a moan, felt his tongue-stud flick her shoulder. She focused on the poster, his only decoration. JULY 5TH in bold, his band red arrow third on the roster. The night Rise Records signed the band. The night they met...
...he had looked so hot, sweat glistening his hairless chest, black-tipped fingers flying as he humped his guitar. She had been jealous of the girls gyrating at him. After his set, he whispered insults about those sluts while his hand strummed her thigh. She gasped yes.
He had washed off his make-up, put on a life is good tee, plucked a ballad on his ukulele. He became vulnerable; he became Stone. He talked about the label rep, promised he'd stay humble. She found the bed, he found her moaning-spot...
...her current shriek cut off her memory-moan as Stone's chin slammed her shoulder blade and her head slammed the bunk wall. The driver's muffled sorry, pothole came from the front of the bus. "Forget this!" Katie said, "I've got to pee, anyways." She thrashed at the tangled Egyptian Cotton sheets, inadvertently kicked the HD screen. Her four-carat diamond snagged on the privacy curtain.
The band manager winked at her from the office/kitchen/dining room/general hang-out space. The bassist sprawled along a leather couch, his armpits darker than his tee. The keyboardist balanced a beer can on his chest.
Katie slid the bathroom door shut, but still heard, "Remember! TP in the wastebasket."