“Was it that long?” Billy cracked.

“You really are a fuckin’ bastard!” cried AC/DC girl. Mercifully, she crawled out of the car and hiked the leggings back up under the T-shirt.

“I’ve been called worse.”

Billy definitely had.

Not in the early days—back when the Blasphemers had gotten their first and only decent record deal. That debut album had sprouted “Ain’t I Good Enough for You,” an honest-to-God smash. That meant the next two albums sold well enough, even if the numbers were square roots of that maiden effort. Sub-mediocrity followed; the record company dropped them and there wasn’t a single label on the planet that would pick up the pieces.

Now, two decades later, the band was relegated to dives like the Wooten, which bordered a Piccadilly Circus alley where Billy was lucky to grab a groupie fuck.

Case in point—the disheveled and disillusioned AC/DC girl who had choked back a sob, flipped Billy off, then tromped down the alley, her heels clacking rhythmically on cobblestones as she disappeared into the misty London night.

Billy opened the glove compartment and dug around for a half-finished pint of Bushmills, uncapped it, and took a deep pull of amber-colored sustenance.

THUMP.

Something had just hit the back of the MG.

“Holy crap!” Whiskey spilled onto his multicolored silk shirt. His first thought was the girl.

“We’re all done here! Go home!”

The car jolted again.

Someone had opened the trunk.

Visions of scorned female rage raced through his head—tire irons on body parts, starting with private ones. Even worse—smashing his beloved Fender housed at the bottom of the boot. That got him scrambling out of the MG.

“Done means done, bitch! What don’t you get about that?!”

He got no response. Billy realized he hadn’t heard her high heels clip-clopping their way back on the cobblestones.

A figure flew out of the fog, swinging a familiar object.

The Fender Telecaster.

Pried from its case and suddenly used on its owner—a washed-up rocker who was soon bleeding out on the cobblestones of an alley in the heart of London.

His attacker hovered above, then straddled him—much like Billy did with his 10:50 women—wielding the Fender as a seductive scepter. For a moment, it seemed like he was going to tear into a searing solo of his own—instead, he ripped off one of the metal guitar strings with a savage jerk.

Within seconds, it was wrapped around Billy’s neck.

As he felt the life seeping out of him, Billy heard his killer softly begin to whistle “Ain’t I Good Enough for You.”

Billy really hated that song.

III

The Heath.