"What the fuck? Who was that?" asked Matt, sluggishly lifting his head from the pillow. He had a cigarette stub in one hand and an empty whiskey bottle under the other. He eyed his chick keenly while she walked across the room and set herself on the bar stool.
The girl threw a yellow envelope in front of her and turned to look back at Matt.
"There was some miss, asking me to give this to that jerk with a dog."
"The fuck we need the door-phone for? You know better than to let random people in." Matt turned around and put his hands over his head. "Kitty, be a good girl, pass me another bottle. Head's exploding."
"I thought that Dick of yours came again. He always needs some crap in the morning." As she said that, Kitty moved obediently behind the bar table and reached out to the highest shelf to get a fresh Connemara bottle.
Matt narrowed his lids, getting a better view at Kitty's ass, almost covered by his shirt that said, "I'm single tonight."
"Not the worst morning ever," Matt thought. "I have to get rid of her before two. I guess I won't come home alone either way. Kitty's fine, she gets me, she never asks questions. Besides, she sucks like an angel. And has a hot butt."
Kitty took her time trying to get the bottle, as if she was reading Matt's mind, and sometimes she managed to reveal her tanned back.
Inspired by the view, Matt watched her closely.
After he released a track that in less than a month had conquered all the charts, he seemed to have it all: any chick, free rounds in any bar, and the best offers from producers. Mathew Leutte was living a dream.
The only annoying thing was his exacting manager, Dick. And that was his name, not his description.
He always insisted on so many dumb details. Once he decided that Matt had to quit drinking, then he decided that Matt needed a new style.
Why wouldn't he go to...
Life was amazing as it was. And Kitty was just the cherry on the cake. It was Kitty II, there was a first one too, and billions of them. Any girl he had ever fucked was Kitty. Matt never had to get whores. Kitties were always around to please him.
Everywhere he went, he usually wore sunglasses, not because he was too cool, but because he had horrible hangovers.
Two of the Kitties, Kitty I and Kitty II, were almost like girlfriends to him. They were around on Mondays and Thursdays, left before he got bored, but stayed as long as he wanted them. They knew what he liked; he didn't give a damn about their preferences.
Kitty one, Kitty two, Matt is fucking both of you, he thought as Kitty II turned the bottle over to him and started climbing under the blanket. Matt opened the Connemara and took a gulp of the strong-flavored whiskey. That didn't cure the chaos inside his mind, but he closed his eyes, tapped a remote, and got ready to enjoy Nirvana and a splendid morning blowjob. Everything was perfect until Kitty's head appeared above the blanket.
"What's up?" Matt asked with asperity.
Kitty II chirped something in return, pointing at his smartphone. It was vibrating on the table, and Dick's name was blinking on the display. Matt pressed mute and answered the call.
"Dick, you're a dick. You just screwed up a perfect blowjob. So either the absinth is on you or you're gonna be screwed yourself."
"Anything you want, sweetheart. I need you at Dickens at one o'clock."
"Piss off!" Matt hung up and gave Kitty an interrogative look. She got it right away and continued her job while he turned the music back on.
'If I could write something half as good. Damn it, it has to be like an orgasm. Better than anything ever written.' The tunes were combining and falling apart in the air. Matt's mind painted a musical staff, where an unbelievable track was arising. Impulse. Music as a sense. Not life, but just a moment.
Matt was feeling abandoned by his inspiration. Well, he never called his girls, and his muse never called him back. She might as well be cheating on him with some other bugger. Maybe even with that jerk, his neighbor. Matt turned his head and gazed at a slim line between the blinds where the windows of another house could be seen. He thought that maybe his inspiration lived somewhere over there. But then, that was a disgustingly romantic thought, so he took another gulp of Connemara.
A few minutes later, Kitty was already ferreting around his apartment, trying to gather her stuff. Matt was sitting on his bed, muffled in the sheet. These moments of barrel fever, or hangover, usually made him wonder if Dick was ever right. Matt lit his first cigarette of the day and felt a solid void in his stomach.
Kitty II showed up in front of him, already wearing a tight dress and a jacket. She bent over and kissed Matt, pushing her sharp tongue through his shut lips.
"Don't burn it down," she said, pulling the cig out of his hand.
"Show yourself out," Matt said, and waited for her to disappear.
Only as the door slammed did he finally manage to relax and light another cigarette. He checked the time: it was already half past twelve. He'd better call Dick to find out what he wanted.
Matt reached for his phone and dialed his manager.
"What did you want, Proudfoot?"
"You, in half an hour, at Dickens," Dick answered firmly. "Can you be on time?"
"I can try if you tell me where the fuck are my car keys."
"Try a taxi. I've got your keys, you were wasted last night. And you've been drinking this morning too. Let me guess, Connemara?"
"Are you a freaking psychic? I'm on my way. Don't be late."
Matt stood up and took his shirt from the chair where Kitty II had left it the night before. She was okay, a hot girl. Matt thought of her as he zipped up his jeans. Somewhere under the bar, he found his leather jacket with sunglasses in its pocket. Passing by the mirror, he stopped for a second to ruffle his hair. Looked just like a fashionable hairstyle.
He noticed an envelope on the bar. He'd better take it. His neighbor might be home already and maybe Matt could cadge him for a smoke.
He left his apartment and knocked on the neighbor's door.
"Hi." The resident smiled when he saw Matt.
"Hola, that's a little something for you from the spies." Leutte grinned and leaned against a wall. "You wouldn't happen to have a smoke?"
The neighbor nodded and disappeared into his apartment. Instead, a basset hound poked his head out of the door and lazily looked Matt in the eye. With a smile, Matt petted him. His neighbor returned and gave him an opened pack.
"You can keep it. Have a nice day."
"You too."
Matt turned around and headed outside. Walking downstairs, he lit a smoke.
Outside, near the hallway entrance, something stank so lusciously, so sweetly. It was almost intolerable. Matt walked towards the crosswalk to throw out his cigarette, then caught a cab.
He was heading off to the Charles Dickens Pub, or as he liked to think "to Dick." Kind of funny, that was. He should write a song about it. Or just something quirky like that. It could turn out cool.
The car stopped near an archaic dark-green pub sign. Matt flung a few crumbled bills and his dazzling smile at the driver.
Matt was gifted by nature with this smile, and it sure helped him to pick up girls. In case they hadn't heard his song, of course.
Matthew let himself inside the pub and waved at the bartender. John House waved right back at him, but then he pressed a finger to his lips. He obviously was on the phone.
Matt looked around. Dick was nowhere to be found, so he sat at the counter and started checking out the menu. He was a frequent customer here, so he knew well enough what John had in the house. Matt started catching some phrases John was saying.
"Have you looked at her portfolio yet? ...Like it? ...You owe me, Ed. You could've never found anyone like her... Sure, come over any time keep in touch with old friends!"