There's gotta be something valuable in here. All I can see are clothes, covering every surface. Vests, shirts, pants, socks... so many pairs of boxers. More than any man could possibly need. Unless he wears them to impress, and multiple pairs a day at that. There are a couple of bras and panties lying around too (not mine). They don't even match. Not worth stealing.
Where the hell are his drugs? Or his stash of cash for buying them? He was high on something last night.
He probably doesn't have to buy his own drugs though. A guy like him just has to ask and he shall receive. Maybe he never has to pay anyone for them with actual money. Maybe he pays them with girls... girls like me.
What the fuck was I thinking? Playing the dumb blonde so well it came true. I should've snorted the line he offered me. Then I might have had the transcendent experience I'd dreamt of.
Instead I kept upending the drinks he magicked in front of me. Because what else was I gonna do? I had to be the perfect yes-girl. You wanna do shots? Yeah! You wanna take off your shirt? Sure, baby! You wanna give my equipment a car-wash... with your mouth? Mmh.
Did I think he would serenade me? Pick up his guitar and write a song for me? Singing it into my ear while massaging my back?
No, but I thought he'd be present. Is that too much to ask?
His bed felt so empty when I woke this morning. So I hunt around for something to fill the void.
What's this, hidden under a makeshift ashtray? A notebook? Is it a diary?
"Another gig. Another girl. Spanked her. Made her spank me. Still nothing."
There are pages and pages like that. Dates, venues. Diagrams. No entry happier than that one.
This is my jackpot. A tabloid would pay a lot of money for this diary.
But would it be enough? I flip to the last entry.
"Isabelle. Nothing to report."
I pucker my lips and press them to the page, below my name. A hickey for you to remember me by. That's something you haven't tried yet.