𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐂𝐇𝐘 𝐖𝐎𝐌𝐀𝐍 彡 [e. munson] [✔]

─ 𝐞𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞.

*ೃ༄𝐈𝐓𝐓𝐘 𝐁𝐈𝐓𝐓𝐘 𝐊𝐈𝐓𝐓𝐘-𝐂𝐀𝐓 𝐅𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓

The heavy music inside the bar which happened to be located in the middle of Bourbon Street was infectious. It wasn't your everyday lively jazz tunes either. Those were reserved for daytime because as soon as it hit nine o'clock at night the Stray Bullet—one of the most popular hangout spots for city locals and tourists alike—was filled to the brim with individuals looking to get their rock n' roll fix. A familiar brunette was leaning up against the far side of the room, nursing her tall and chilled glass of Jack and Coke. The girl brought the beverage up to her lips and took a sizable gulp, her green gemstone eyes never once leaving the stage located on the other side of the establishment.

Pulling the glass away from her mouth, the girl sensually licked her lips stained with a cherry hue as she unabashedly continued to mentally undress her favorite musician who was currently playing his heart out on that small stage. Had he known that skipping town and going down to New Orleans would grant him the opportunity to be in a band that had adoring fans coming back every night, Eddie Munson would've left Indiana sooner. He was making his dreams come true—rocking out on stage, playing his electric guitar while singing the songs he wrote. Not some cover band-type bullshit. The songs were original and still just as good as any other band out there. If not better. Out of all his bandmates, Eddie just so happened to be the fan favorite with the dudes and ladies.

Most guys wished to get just a fraction of the talent he had and the majority of the chicks at the shows wanted to fuck the guy—they wanted to be his groupies even though Eddie and his band never traveled out of state. But Eddie's new band—the band of his dreams—had the potential to go places. Maybe even acquire a record deal one of these days because between Eddie's impeccable vocals and lead guitar, Artie Lewis' groundbreaking bass playing, and Dallas Vale's aggressive drumming the trio was sure to capture the attention of some hotshot record producer who was taking a vacation in New Orleans. But even if that didn't come to fruition, Eddie and his bandmates had it pretty good. The bar's owner would pay them close to four hundred bucks each week for being one of the only bands to bring customers into his business.

Some sorority sisters in the front row were practically foaming at the mouth, attempting to reach up and physically touch the guitar god who had been the main focus of their sexual fantasies. Granted, Eddie did look quite spiffy with his leather jacket, disheveled jeans, and the new black boots his gracious, loving girlfriend bought for him on a whim. But the guy sported no shirt—the only thing on display was his upper body moistened with perspiration that glistened under the minimal lighting in the bar. The tattoos on his chest were especially accentuated and Magdalena May felt a chill run up her spine alongside a mild throbbing sensation between her thighs. That was her man up there. All hers and no one else's.