Avenging Us - Gina Whitney Page 0,13

was thankful for each and every one of them.

“Get your pervy hands off my girl and my kid,” Abel shouted, and all conversation halted. Until he smirked. I knew as well as they did that he was deadly serious. However, I had a talk with him about people wanting to touch out of curiosity and it wasn’t anything perverted. He said, “I’ll consider it.”

Michael, our chef, barbequed, and Jessie, our sous chef, helped serve. The food flowed and so did the spirits. The boys, as usual, cleaned out the beer and moved on to hard liquor. Abel, of course, wasn’t drinking, and I couldn’t. However, what caught Chance’s and my attention was Ender and Jakes reaction to Jessie. Abel obliviously played with my hair and neck, Woody tapped new beats on the back of a chair, all while Ender and Jake not so discreetly cornered Jessie. Chance shook his head back and forth at me, because he knew what was coming.

I turned and whispered in Abel’s ear—the question Chance was clearly fretting over. “What’s that about?” But he continued to ignore me and placed hot kisses up and down my neck. I snapped my fingers in an effort to wake him from his sexual haze. If I wasn’t pinned under him…he made it his life’s mission to remedy that.

He opened his eyes, annoyed by my interruption. And then they followed mine to the two men and one woman standing not far from where we were. He nodded and said, “It’s their kink.”

“Meaning what exactly?” I asked even more interested now.

“Meaning, they like to fuck together. As in M-M-F…” he said, returning to my neck. And the acronym played in my mind. MMF…MMF…MMF.

Mother of all things holy. When did this start? I had so many questions. Did they fuck each other? Bisexual? Who was on top—or the bottom for that matter? Ugh, my body exploded with goose bumps pondering the possibilities. However, now wasn’t the time to interrogate the broody alpha. I’d have to back-burner that and ask Chance. He knew everything, and I was going to kill him for not dishing sooner. Some gossip girl he turned out to be.

“Why…does that turn you on, Beauty?” His breath hit my ear and warmed my core.

“Nope.” I lied. “You’re the only man that turns me on, and I’m utterly satisfied.” I removed myself from his lap, and whispered into his ear. “I’m going to make love to my fiancé.” I walked away and said goodnight to everyone. I never turned back.

The last few months we’ve been working on our newest album, Under the Blood Moon. After Jake’s introspective explanation, as a group, we agreed it was fucking cool. It would be the End of Days tour.

The blood moon, in some circles, was symbolic of the “end of days.” He showed the notable quote.

“The sun shall be turned into darkness, and the moon into blood, before the great and terrible day of the Lord.” –Joel 2:31

This album was a testimony of how close we’d become as a group. We’d managed to have a great time writing and recording as a team. When we were in the studio, it had a different vibe than the last album. There wasn’t any fighting or misplaced egos. We were stripped-down-bare musicians who loved to play and make music. These songs were darker metal. The management’s concern was, “Would the fans follow? Would we be able to integrate it successfully into Lethal Abel’s persona?” Some still thought of us as pretty boys, and that’s what they capitalized on. This album was dropping Christmastime and the execs were twitching that the bible-thumpers would cause problems. My reaction was simple. If people had a problem with what we were doing, because it would cause debate or public outcry, I welcomed a healthy discussion in the current stagnant scene of rock.

Basically, go fuck yourself. My band. My music. Be respectful of other people’s point of view or don’t listen.

“Fuck me, lads. Any beak? I’m about to gnaw my own fucking leg off here,” Woody yelled at the producers behind the glass. I laughed as I watch them all look to one another for explanation. We’ve been working our asses of with no food. “Jesus fuck already. Food, man. Got any?” He threw his stick at the glass window.

Dave was still our band’s manager alongside my father—who still denied to this day we were getting fingered by him. While we couldn’t hear what Dave was telling them, we laughed good and hard