“Well I still think it’s a shit name!” Zoe tossed the glossy ten by eight back onto the editor’s cluttered desk.

She glanced at the press release.

“Playing The Black Box tonight. Sweet Jesus! Why has their agent booked them into that toilet?”

“I don’t know, Zoe. That’s why we employ slick young gunslingers like you. I’m just the editor. Aside from my haemorrhoids, my chief concerns are circulation and advertising.”

Zoe grinned and crossed her skinny legs; Peter could be quite funny sometimes.

“Ah, that reminds me,” the editor continued. “Could you try to be a little more encouraging when you review the local theatricals. They are readers too you know and some of them are advertisers.”

“Pity none of them are actors”

Peter was forced to smile. He looked across the desk at his Entertainment Editor, seeing past the cropped blonde hair and panda makeup that framed the delicate features of her small elfin face. Dressed in a perpetual uniform of tiny skirt, t-shirt, black fishnets and a cracked leather biker jacket, she looked like the last angel zonguldak escort hipster still left in paradise.

“Right, so they’re a local band who have just signed a deal. Go and see them play tonight and give me six hundred words, tops.”

“Signed to Tru Soul Records, who operate out of a shed on the trading estate.”

“Pleased to hear it, lots of advertisers on that estate. Close the door on your way out.”


Zoe made a point of never arriving on time for any event. True to form, as her Mini Cooper crunched over the gravel of the venue’s car park, the time on its clock suggested the band would be well into their first set.

She stood at the bar to listen. The four musicians she quickly dismissed as competent time servers. Two of them she recognised from other groups. But the girl singer was different.

Held in the spotlight, her throaty soulful voice effortlessly conveyed all the pathos of the Julie London standard, Cry Me A River.

Zoe joined in the applause when the song ended.

“Thanks fethiye escort so much. Before we take a break we’d like to give you a preview of our new single. It’s one of our own songs. It’s called Honesty. “

As the song began Zoe’s focus turned to the singer. In her late twenties, she had a plump, moon shaped face and shiny black hair cut in a Cleopatra bob. She wore a silky dress shot with sequins that glittered in the lights and showed off her full curvy body.

As the song reached its hook for the second time Zoe felt the singer’s eyes and words were directed at her alone:

“Don’t give me your honesty; When you haven’t got the time to try; Cos if that’s your honesty; You know I’d rather hear you lie.”

The band left the small stage and the bar area filled with thirsty audience members. Oblivious to the noise and bustle, Zoe stood lost in thought.

Minutes passed.

Then, as if reaching a decision, she placed her empty glass on the bar and with a nod to the manager passed unchallenged through the black door marked, alanya escort Private.

Familiar with the backstage area she found the dressing room, knocked and entered. The singer’s dress hung on a costume rail, whilst its owner, wearing only a thin bathrobe sat in front of the mirror applying makeup.

“Hi, I’m Zoe Sparks, from The Echo.”

“Yeah, I know who you are. I’ve read your stuff. You don’t like our name.”

She stood up causing the robe to fall open.

“Maybe you should try giving people a chance, Zoe. We all have to start somewhere, even you.”

The singer’s skin was cold and moist from the shower as Zoe’s tiny hand traced a path from her lined stomach up toward the heavy breasts. Her fingers traced slow circles around the crinkled brown areolas. Moving close the nipple felt large as a raspberry against her urgent tongue.

“Oh, shit yes,” she gasped as the woman’s strong fingers pushed past the waistband of her skirt and down into her panties.


“Are you going to watch the rest of the show?” They sat close on the dressing room’s worn sofa.

“Yes of course and maybe after we can…”

“Yeah, that would be great. We have tonight, as the song says.”

Zoe turned af the door. “I still think Earth Mother is a shit name for a band.”

The singer smiled. “So do our new label, they insist we change it. Do you have any suggestions?”

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