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Although he wanted to share the dance, Mayne could not bring himself to interrupt such beauty. Her well-toned body swayed childlike, peacefully, slowly moving to the rhythm. Her innocence was enchanting, her beauty breathtaking. Mayne knew she'd be angry at him for sneaking about marlboro cigarettes stamp, watching without letting her know, but the teenage voyeur inside his adult body encouraged him and didn't care about the consequences. Besides, this was for his eyes only. Her eyes sparkled, reminding him of the ocean, vast with beauty and mystery. A slight breeze danced through her lion's mane. A full-length see-through dress covered her shapely body and a light glaze of sweat made her glisten. She seemed too beautiful to be real. During this split second of visual euphoria, Mayne conceded that she was the only woman he ever truly loved. Her eyes flickered. She must have heard me, he thought as she turned toward him. He didn't want to ruin the beauty, only to enjoy it. Her thick lips smiled sympathetically. Then the song started growing in volume.
Mayne awoke covered in sweat, a mute shriek still lodged in his throat. The past six hours had been spent in a drug-and-alcohol-induced coma that he put over as sleep. Sleep was a rare commodity and was impossible to achieve without some assistance. It didn't matter whether he slept six hours or six minutes, the nightmare always managed to creep in. No sleeping pill or antidepressant could spare him. He had written the song and was forever damned by it. With unsteady hands, he wiped sweat from his brow and rubbed his fingers against the satin sheets. His silver and gold bracelets clinked together. Rolling onto his side, he stared at the digital alarm clock on top of the black night table that had a built -in refrigerator as its base. On top of the clock was a half-empty pack of Marlboros. He stared at the green digital numbers but they made no sense. It really didn't matter what time it was anyway, his time was other people's money. Next to the clock was something more important than cash or time. Slowly he sat up. Tortured eyes scanned the black marble tabletop, searching for any leftover precious brown powder. There were burned matches, bent cigarettes, and empty bindles welcome to cheapnewportcigarettes dot com tme, but no dope. It didn't matter. He could always have more delivered. Sitting on the edge of the bed, Mayne reached down and opened the night table's refrigerator door. Inside were several Budweiser's, baking soda, and a chilled bottle of Dom Perignon. He grabbed a cold can, killing half of it in one sip. He did this every morning. Instantly, his aching head began to feel better. Although he didn't want to admit it, the time had arrived to rejoin the living. He knew he had to be at the studio soon but didn't feel up to it. Besides, the recording of his latest album, Alone noise cancellation headphones, had been finished over a month ago. The album was now in the final mixing stages. If Mayne liked what he heard newport cigarettes online, he'd approve it and the record would be released on schedule. If not, it would have to be remixed until he did approve. So then, what the ######## did they need him for? He procrastinated for as long as he possibly could before finally standing up.
For the past fourteen of his twenty-eight years Monster Beats by Dre Studio, he'd spent the majority of his time inside a bottle. Teenage beer and wine parties turned to vodka and rum at nightclubs, which in turn evolved into straight whiskey. Exiting the bedroom, he said a silent prayer to his patron saint, Jim Beam, asking that there be some in the liquor cabinet. An illuminating golden glow surrounded the thick blackout curtains. A small war had gone down in the living room the previous evening. Full ashtrays, assorted liquor bottles, empty and half-empty packs of cigarettes, and beer cans were strewn everywhere. Several CD covers were caked in cocaine residue. Mayne tried remembering who had been partying there and couldn't. An empty pack of Kool cigarettes meant that one of his many dealers, Jamie Jazz had delivered something. It didn't take very long before he made the connection between the empty bindles in the bedroom and Jamie. Jamie (pronounced Jay-mee) was typical Hollywood trash who hand delivered coke, toke new jeans online, crack, or smack to troubled celebrities, exploiting their vulnerabilities. Mayne searched for more clues as to who else had been over partying but came up blank. He slid behind the bar that was adjacent to the kitchen and opened a cabinet. There were several unopened bottles of assorted white liquors. A nervous surge shot through his small stomach. What if there was no whiskey? He shuffled the bottles around until he found the proper one. A sigh of relief escaped him as he twisted the cap off and made a mental note that he needed to restock. The whiskey's aroma was his equivalent of fresh brewed coffee. "Here's looking at you, love," Mayne said aloud, raising the bottle to his lips.