Hating the Rich Bastard

  Hating the Rich Bastard

  B. B. Hamel

  Contents

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  1. Ben

  2. Alice

  3. Ben

  4. Alice

  5. Ben

  6. Alice

  7. Ben

  8. Alice

  9. Ben

  10. Alice

  11. Ben

  12. Alice

  13. Ben

  14. Alice

  15. Ben

  16. Alice

  17. Alice

  18. Ben

  19. Alice

  20. Ben

  21. Alice

  22. Alice

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2018 by B. B. Hamel

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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  1

  Ben

  I think I’m about to get my dick sucked.

  I’ve seen that look a million times. Eyes unfocused, smile vague, body language screaming “take me home and abuse me, Daddy.” It’s a look I’ve come to love during my time as the owner of one of the most successful indie record labels in the world.

  “What do you think?” I whisper to her. “Think you can take it all?”

  She nods, blinking. She’s blonde, tan, pretty in a boring way.

  I tip it up against her lips and she giggles.

  “Go ahead,” I whisper in her ear.

  She slams the shot glass back, swallowing the vodka, and laughs. I grin as I take my own shot, bristling at the burn on the back of my throat.

  “Oh, shit!” she says, grinning at me and grabbing my arms. “It’s my song!”

  She starts dragging me toward the dance floor. We’re in the middle of this expensive and exclusive club called Sweaters. The pulse is pounding, a deep and unrelenting thud reverberating through the space. I’m trying to remember this girl’s name, but for the life of me I can’t figure it out.

  I know that if I follow her out to the dance floor, maybe spend ten minutes grinding up against her, I’m going to get my dick sucked. I just know it, deep down in my bones. I have a sixth sense for this sort of shit.

  I’m like the Ghost Whisperer, except I can tell when drunk girls want to fuck me.

  It’d be so easy. I mean, it’s why I’m here alone at one in the morning. I’m looking for an escape, some decent pussy to keep me occupied. I’m drunk, but I’m not hammered, and this girl should do nicely.

  Except I’m not interested.

  The thought of taking her home and letting her lick my shaft for ten minutes, unenthusiastically pawing at my cock, followed by twenty minutes of hardcore fucking where she moans faker than a porn star just sounds pretty exhausting more than anything else.

  I’ve been there, done that. It used to excite me, used to make me feel alive.

  Now it just makes me feel tired.

  “You go without me.” I pull away from her. “I’m good.”

  “What?” she asks, looking shocked. “You don’t wanna dance?”

  “Not in the mood.” I head back toward the bar, hoping she doesn’t follow.

  I think she gets the idea. I post up in an empty stool at one end and watch as my girl disappears into the crowd, a disgusted look on her face.

  I have another drink before giving up. I know nothing’s happening tonight, and frankly, I don’t fucking care.

  I feel heavy, like I’ve been walking for hours. The music is giving me a headache and I know that girl was my best chance at getting laid tonight. No sense staying in this fucking awful club a second longer.

  I wander out into the Philadelphia streets, still damp from the rain earlier, and flag a cab. This young kid with bleached blond tips picks me up and I give him the address for the studio.

  It’s not a far drive. I spend the time staring out the window at the people flashing past. Philly isn’t exactly New York, but it doesn’t sleep, either. There’s always something happening, always some party going down. I love this city, but sometimes it’s too much.

  Especially right now. Things are going great for Somesuch, the label I founded ten years ago with my best friend Markus right out of college. We’ve made hit record after hit record and plenty of critical darlings on top of those. I have more fame and money than I know what to fucking do with.

  Except I’m fucking bored. I’m fucking depressed. I want to get my dick sucked, but I know that won’t do shit.

  I sigh. This was my dream. I always thought turning Somesuch into the sort of label that could scout out great talent and put amazing music out into the world would fulfill me. I hoped it would be enough, and for a while, it was.

  At least until these last few years.

  Now, none of it makes me happy.

  Not the women, not the drugs, not the drinking. I drift through the days, waiting for the next thing that might distract me.

  The cab pulls over and I give him a fifty. I climb out and walk up a short stoop, stopping in front of an old red door with a little high-tech keypad on the side. I type in a number and the door unlocks.

  I step inside, shutting the door behind me. The old floorboards creak under my feet as I walk down the familiar hallway.

  I run my fingers along the textured wallpaper. I can remember building this place with Markus all those years ago, spending all our money, going into debt. It took a few years before we broke even and a few more years before we started making a profit.

  Those days seem so long ago now.

  Records in frames stretch out toward the far door. Some of my favorite bands and records are among them. Slide, Three-Act Structure, Dime Thoughts. Big acts, amazing musicians.

  I’d trade one of these platinum records for a fucking good time right about now.

  I get toward the control room and step inside. This is my favorite place in the world, the brain of Somesuch’s recording studio. I expect the place to be shut down and quiet, but instead stop short in my tracks when I spot someone sitting at the piano in the back corner of the live room.

  I don’t know who she is, which isn’t surprising. I don’t run daily operations around here anymore, although I used to. Delegating is part of a great leader’s skillset, or so I’m told.

  I watch the girl move around the piano and sit at the bench. She doesn’t know I’m here. I sit down at the control console and hit a button to allow what she’s playing to drift in through the speakers up on the walls.

  I cock my head and listen. It’s a beautiful melody, something I’ve never heard before. She plays beautifully, almost sensually. I bite my lip and I can feel my breath coming in slower. The memory of that blonde girl from the club disappears, my anger and resentment disappears, even my boredom ebbs and slowly fades.

  For about thirty seconds, I feel good.

  “Oh, fuck.”

  I open my eyes. The girl’s staring down at her hands, a frown on her lips. She stands and walks around to the side of the piano and leans over the open top, doing something inside.

  “Fucking fuck,” she says again, this time the words muted. She comes up and sits back down, playing another little melody, before cursing and going back into the piano.

  I watch her for a few minutes. She’s pretty, beautiful actually, with thick raven black hair, long eyelashes, and a nice body. Her breasts aren’t large, but they’re not small, either. She has a firm ass and an athletic build
. She’s probably a foot shorter than I am, probably just under five foot five, and I’m guessing she runs a lot.

  It takes me a minute to realize that she’s tuning the piano.

  She sits down for a fourth time and starts playing again. She gets to the same spot, stops, and curses loudly.

  “Oh, motherfucker!” She stands up, grimacing.

  I hit a button to open the intercom. “It sounds good to me.”

  She jumps, startled, and her eyes snap over to me. I grin and wave a little bit as she puts her hand on her chest.

  “Jesus fucking shit balls, holy crap. You scared me.”

  “Sorry,” I say into the intercom. “I didn’t know someone would be here.”

  “Neither did I. What time is it?”

  I look at my phone. “Almost two.”

  “Really?” She frowns. “I thought it was earlier.”

  “What are you doing?” I don’t know why I ask. It’s obvious what she’s doing.

  She hesitates, giving me a look like I’m a moron. “Tuning the piano.”

  “And I guess it’s not going great?”

  “So far, no.” She arches an eyebrow at me. “Do you need something?”

  “I need my studio,” I say to her, standing up. She glares at me as I go through the side door and step into the live room.

  A studio’s live room is built around acoustics. That’s the whole purpose of the room, of course. This particular studio has old wood floors and a high ceiling with more wood paneling. There are acoustic treatments on the walls and rugs placed strategically all over.

  Right now, the space has a grand piano in the back, a drum kit to the right, and an assortment of different keyboards and synthesizers. I briefly wonder who was using the space earlier today, but it doesn’t matter.

  The piano tuner girl looks at me as I approach. If she knows who I am, she doesn’t show it, which is probably smart. There are a lot of famous people that come in and out of this space, and it’s better to get used to that. Besides, it’s not like I’m a rock star.

  I’m just a regular old billionaire.

  The air feels almost dead in here, but that’s because sound doesn’t reverberate like it does in a normal space. The rugs and the treatments are there to make sure sound waves aren’t bouncing around like crazy, making the recording equipment pick up excess noise.

  “Guess you work late too,” I say to her, drifting over toward a guitar leaning against a stand.

  “Yeah, sometimes.” She watches me, her frown slowly easing up. “I like it in here when it’s empty.”

  I smile a little bit. “I hear you. That’s why I’m here, too.”

  “I can get out of your hair if you want to get to work.”

  I shrug and sit down on a stool. I pick up the guitar and strum a few chords, running through some licks I have burned into my heart. Tuner girl watches me, her frown disappearing into something that resembles a smile.

  “I know that one,” she says. “That’s from Slide’s first album.”

  I shrug a little. “Yeah, third track. Nathan hated it, but I told him it was gold.” I drop a little fill and grin at her. “He thought it was too showy.”

  “Showy?” She laughs. “It’s as simple as it gets.”

  “That’s what I said. Fortunately, he got a little bit better at listening on his next albums. Even let the other guys in the band write some stuff.”

  “I heard about that. Did you work closely with them?”

  I shrug and realize she knows who I am after all. “On the first one I did, but not later on. I wish I had though.”

  “That first one is the best one anyway.”

  “That’s why they needed me for the next two.”

  She laughs and sits down at the piano. “Look, I won’t be much longer. Mind if I finish up? I need to have this done for tomorrow’s session.”

  “Sure.” I put the guitar down and lean back to listen to her play.

  This time, she doesn’t curse. I guess she’s holding back on my account, which makes me smile. I watch her go back and forth, and each time I’m straining to hear what she’s hearing.

  I have good ears. I may just be a label owner but I’ve always been a good musician. I can play pretty much anything, and always have. I’m not great at it, but I’m passable. I also like to think I have a pretty good ear for this sort of stuff, which is part of why Somesuch has been so successful.

  Finally, she plays the melody, but instead of stopping she continues through. I sit back and listen, letting the music overtake me again. It’s such a lovely tune, and I almost feel her hands as the song unfurls in the air around me.

  The melody resolves and she lets the note linger for a moment before stopping.

  “Okay,” she says, letting out a breath. “That’s good.”

  “I gotta admit, I can barely hear the difference.”

  She shrugs, closing the top of the piano. “It’s just the little stuff, but people are nuts about it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “If they recorded this piano even slightly out of tune, fans would freak.”

  “Oh, yeah. Tell me about it. Music nerds are the worst.”

  She grins at me. “Not a music nerd yourself?”

  “Sure, I guess.” I stand up and head over to the piano. I sit down and stretch my fingers a little bit. “Used to be a lot worse when I was younger. I’ve relaxed a lot in my old age.”

  “Old age?” She laughs. “You’re what, thirty?”

  “Thirty-four,” I correct, “which is practically dead.”

  She laughs again and watches me curiously. I put my hands on the keys for a moment and start to play a song I came up with a few weeks ago. It’s a simple tune, the melody a patchwork of things I’ve had in my mind for a while now. It’s nothing like what she was playing, nowhere near as accomplished, but I’m happy with it.

  “That’s nice,” she says when I finish. “Do you ever record your own stuff?”

  “No,” I admit. “I’ve played on a few albums, but never recorded my own.”

  “Where’d you learn?” She leans against the piano, watching me carefully.

  “Nowhere,” I admit. “My dad was a musician, a session player out in Chicago, played trumpet for a bunch of jazz bands.”

  “Really? That’s amazing, did he teach you?”

  “No,” I say, laughing. “Fucker was barely in my life. I think I just inherited his ability, is all.”

  “Ah,” she says, nodding a little. “I think I know what you mean.”

  I start to play again, this time trying to work out the melody she was using. She watches for a minute before coming around and sitting next to me.

  “Like this.”

  She plays it for me. I watch her carefully, at her beautiful, slim hands playing the keys so deftly. I can feel my heart beating fast, my blood racing. She’s so close, I can practically feel her breathing, and her fingers are moving like they have minds of their own.

  It’s the most erotic thing I’ve experienced in a long time.

  “What is that?” I ask when she finishes.

  “Something I wrote,” she admits. “I mostly just use it to tune pianos now.”

  “It’s beautiful.”

  She smiles, and I can tell it’s despite herself. “Thanks.”

  “Seriously. I was sitting in the control room, just listening. It’s pretty gorgeous.”

  “Thanks. People don’t usually hear it, you know.”

  “Why not?”

  “People don’t normally come into studios at two in the morning.”

  I laugh softly, trying to replicate her song again. I can barely play it, but she doesn’t seem to mind.

  “Not much else to do these days,” I say. “I’d rather come in here and fuck around for a couple hours.”

  “Don’t you sleep?”

  “Not really,” I admit softly. “Not so much lately at least.”

  “Yeah. Me, neither.”

  I play in s
ilence. After a moment, she joins in, playing the same melody but one key lower. I’m clumsy compared to her but she still manages to make what we’re playing sound almost ethereal.

  We’re sitting close, shoulders touching, legs touching. She’s wearing short shorts and a black t-shirt. There’s no jewelry on her, no rings or bracelets, and I’m pretty sure she’s not wearing any makeup. Her hair is pulled back into a messy bun and she looks absolutely stunning. She’s the total opposite of that blonde girl from earlier today.

  When the melody resolves, she turns half toward me. I’m staring at her, ravenous, unsure. I don’t know what’s happening to me, but sitting here and playing piano with her…

  It’s driving me insane.

  She meets my gaze. I see something there, an echo of what I’m feeling.

  But not just the desire. An echo of everything I’m feeling, start to finish. The ennui, the boredom, the anger.

  I lean toward her, take her chin, and kiss her.

  It’s so natural. Her hands press down on the keys for a moment, startled. A discordant chord resonates in the space before dying in the still air.

  She kisses me back, half turns to me, presses herself closer.

  She tastes like wildflowers and honey. I’m so intoxicated I can’t think of anything but getting her clothes off.

  I stand and she follows. I push her up against the wall, against the acoustic padding, kissing her neck. She gasps as I pull her shirt off and bite her lower lip.

  Her breasts rise and fall with her deep breaths. I unhook her black bra and cup her breasts as she lets it slide off onto the floor.

  I kiss her neck and she runs her hands down my chest, tugging off my shirt. I let it drop onto the floor as she unbuttons my jeans. I tease her breasts, her nipples, small and pink. Her breasts are full and white, perfectly shaped and perky, just a little bit more than a handful. Absolutely perfect.