“Don’t call me that,” I snap, my jaw set.
She throws me a funny look. “Mr. Sommer?” she asks.
I click my tongue. “Yeah. Don’t fucking call me Mr. Sommer. It’sKarl.” I shake my head. I can’t have her in my ax room, looking like she does, curious about music, and calling me Mr. Sommer. “You don’t need to clean in here.”
“Of course. And, um, Karl?”
I nod with approval at her using my first name. “Yeah?”
“It won’t happen again.”
5
KARL
Lola finished cleaning. It was a job for a team, but all full of energy, she hustled and actually finished—to my amazement. I’m glad I doubled the fee Sofia quoted me. She more than earned it. Especially after Pixel attacked her.
There has to be a reason for her to need money bad enough to clean houses when I’m sure she’s still in high school. I’ve only known her one day, so it makes little sense for me to be protective of her, but I feel compelled to help the kid out.
She walks in from the back porch after taking the last of the trash bags out, and I wait, sitting on a stool in the kitchen. After she repositions her headphones to rest on her neck, she smiles at me. Her breathing is hard, and perspiration dots her forehead.
“Oh, hey,” she says. “I’m done. I’ll get out of your hair.”
“You did amazing. Thank you.”
She smiles goofily. “You’re welcome.” She turns to leave, then seems to think better of it. She clears her throat. “Um, Karl?”
“Yeah?”
“Since I’m off the clock, can I be a fan for five minutes? Just a fan talking to Karl Sommer fromIndustrial November, not my client?”
I bite back my smile but nod at her. “Go ahead.” I pretend to sound annoyed.
Lola giggles, knowing I’m enjoying the attention. “I’ve seen you play live twice,” she admits.
“We’ve only been in Kansas City once,” I say.
“I missed this last concert here in KC, but I saw you in Chicago, and before that, I was at the first stop in your American tour.”
“You were in Boston?” I ask, startled and suddenly uncomfortable.
She smiles knowingly at me. My face heats up, and I start to sweat.
“That fan . . .” she says thoughtfully.
I scratch my jaw. “Yeah, that was, um—an experience.”
How could I forget that first concert in Boston? A fan got on stage and stripped for the Arena. Before she was arrested for indecent exposure, I lifted my ax over her head and played an entire song with her between my ax and me—my ax the only thing covering her naked lower body. For a complete song, I played with my erection pressed against her naked ass.
When the song ended, I pulled her off stage and handed her to security to get her dressed and taken away. The crowd ate that shit up. It went viral and made the news globally. To say it pleased Roger would be the understatement of the century.
And innocent, sweet, little underage Lola was in the audience.
“It was amazing,” she admits, staring off into space.
“Uh—thanks?”
Lola bounces on her toes where she stands, giddy, like most fans do after concerts. She’s so uncool; it’s endearing. “I know the big draw to your live shows is Bren’s intricate fire show, and it’s great and all, don’t get me wrong, but hearing you live is something else. It’s so much more than just spectacle, you know?”