Rocking the Second Act - Chapter Two
Cocktails, Chaos, and the Pursuit of Dick (or Lack Thereof)
First time here? Start with Chapter One to meet Veronica and find out what happens when life refuses to stick to the script.
Read from the beginning.
Veronica
I should have fucking known.
Rachael always picked places that were just slightly too trendy for me – upmarket bars where the furniture was velvet, the waitstaff were prettier than my Sixth Form crush, and everyone looked like they’d been styled by someone who used the word capsule unironically.
And there I was: a damp, peri-ragey forty-eight-year-old with food in her tote bag and crumbs in her bra, wondering how the fuck I’d let her talk me into this.
I spotted her immediately, curled up in a booth like she’d been born there – radiant, relaxed, and sipping something garnished with what looked like a sprig of rosemary and an entire personality.
“Veronica!” she beamed. “Out past bedtime! I’m so proud.”
I rolled my eyes, peeling off my cardigan because the room was approximately the temperature of Satan’s armpit. “Enjoy it while it lasts. I’ll be hallucinating about my duvet by 9:30.”
A waiter appeared – dewy skin, expensive teeth, full Glossier glow. He looked at me like I might ruin the aesthetic just by ordering.
“And what can I get you?”
I looked at Rachael. “What am I drinking?”
“Espresso martini,” she said, already delighted with herself.
“Jesus, Rach. Are we getting caffeinated or hammered?”
“Both. Obviously.”
I sighed and nodded at the waiter, who vanished in a cloud of essential oils and financial privilege.
Rachael gave me that look. The one that meant I was about to be emotionally ambushed with a smile.
“So. I have a gift for you.”
“If it’s anything alive, I’m leaving.”
She cackled. “No, it’s digital. And frankly life-changing. You can thank me later. Honestly, it’s a great alternative for those who aren’t getting dicked-down regularly.”
Dicked-down. And I thought I was the wordsmith.
“Jesus, Rach,” I squinted. “This better not be another sex guru you found on TikTok.”
“No!” she said, mock-offended. “Not this time. Fraser is still recovering from the last one.” She cackled evilly. “This is much better. Have you heard of Whispr?
”“Is that… a birth control app?”
Rachael choked on her martini. “No, you absolute egg. It’s an erotica app.”
“An erotica what-now?
”She smirked. “Audio stories. Sexy ones. Beautifully written, gorgeously voiced. Very, very moist.”
I glared. She knew how much I hated that word.
“Fraser and I have been married twenty-three years,” she said serenely, sipping her drink. “And I love the man. But there are some things he just can't give me.”
“Oh my god.”
My drink arrived and I took a grateful sip, mentally calculating how many of these it would take to erase this conversation from memory.
She pulled out her phone, tapped something, and turned the screen toward me.
Whispr.
I frowned. “The fuck is that?”
Rachael smirked. “Only the best thing ever. It’s an audio app for erotica. Hot, well-written, fully immersive stories, all in your ears.”
I blinked, not fully convinced. “So, what? Like… podcast porn?”
“Better,” she said. “Professional voice actors. Beautiful sound design. A whole range of stuff – romance, filth, whatever your vibe is. You don’t just listen. You experience.”
I narrowed my eyes. “This sounds suspiciously like a gateway drug to some questionable life choices.”
Rachael laughed. “Oh babe, I live for questionable life choices.”
I glared at her. “Yes, I know that, Rachael. Since high school you’ve been the instigator of my top ten most questionable life choices.”
She waved her hand breezily. “you’re welcome,”
I rolled my eyes but couldn’t help smiling.
We’d been having this exact kind of conversation since high school—usually soundtracked by something loud and hormonal, like Midnight Ashes blasting from Rachael’s cassette player.
God, we’d lived for that band. Back when seeing a bunch of messy, brilliant Kiwis barnstorming the global rock scene felt like permission to take up space. Like maybe we didn’t have to shrink ourselves to fit.
Jasmine Hart had been everything—black boots, leather jacket, vocals that could slice a man in half. I’d memorised the lyrics to Ashes of Us like they were scripture.
“What’s she doing now?” I asked absently, more to myself than to Rach.
“Jasmine? Wrote the soundtrack for that Whetū Productions film—Boundaries of Blue, I think? Fraser made me watch it because he cried in the trailer.”
“Right, Salt and Silence—that was hers?”
Rachael nodded. “Still got it. The absolute weapon.”
I took a sip of my drink, suddenly aware of how quiet that part of me had become—the one that used to write with fire, scream along with guitars, feel things at full fucking volume.
“And Hannah Overton was in it too,” Rachael added casually.
“Oh my God, yes.” I sat up straighter. “She’s unreal.”
“You and your weird girl crush.”
“She’s not a crush,” I said defensively. “She’s a cultural reset. Did you see her in Safehouse? That scene in the car where she doesn’t say a word for like, three full minutes, and you still feel every ounce of what she’s thinking?”
“Fraser said it was slow.”
I gave her a look. “Fraser eats toast in the shower. His opinion is invalid.”
Rachael snorted into her martini.
I leaned back, the hum of the bar fading around me. “I just wish she was in more stuff. Stuff about women like us. Not side characters or punchlines. Real stories. Our lives.”
“Middle-aged rage and perimenopausal plot twists?”
“Exactly. I’d binge the fuck out of that.”
She grinned. “You say that like Netflix is listening.”
“God, I hope so,” I muttered. “Someone should be.”
Rachael fluttered hands at me impatiently. “anyhoo…back on topic…Whispr, Veronica.” and she brandished her phone at me.
I took it and scrolled. The descriptions alone made my eyebrows climb. Some were sweet. Some were downright filthy. Some intrigued me more than I was willing to admit.
Rachael watched me with a smug, knowing grin. “See? Told you.”
I handed the phone back, shaking my head. “I am not downloading this in a bar.”
“Oh, but you’re gonna download it,” she said breezily. “Later. Alone. Possibly after your third cocktail.”
I rolled my eyes again…because she was absolutely right.
Then, before I could stop her, she tapped through the app and hit play.
A smooth, velvety male voice purred through the speaker.
“You feel so good,” he murmured, low and obscene. “So fucking soft. Let me taste you.”
I froze.
The sound of deep, breathy kissing filled the air…followed by a distinctly wet, distinctly unholy noise that made my entire soul leave my body.
“Jesus Christ,” I hissed, lunging for the phone. Rachael yanked it away, cackling.
People were definitely looking now
.And then – oh god – the moaning started. Full. Fucking. Cinematic. Moaning.
I dove across the table and snatched the phone, stabbing at the screen like it had personally wronged me.
Rachael was gone, doubled over, gasping between shrieks of laughter.
The table of men nearby? Also howling.
“Oh my fucking god,” I whispered, face flaming, mortified to my bones, but also… kind of wheezing myself. “You are an actual demon.”
Rachael wiped a tear. “V, the look on your face. I…I have no regrets.”
The guy at the next table raised his glass. “That was some top-shelf entertainment. Thank you for your service.”
I gave a little seated bow, still wheezing.
Rachael clinked her martini against mine. “Welcome to the wonderful world of audio erotica, babe.”
I shook my head, still catching my breath. “Honestly? Jesus. I mean this just might be a solution… catching a bit of dick is just not worth the hassle these days.”
Rachael grinned. “Exactly. So let some fictional Scottish fireman whisper in your ear and call it a win.”
Drop the needle on Chapter Three: The Bottom of the Bottle isnt the End of the World.
❤️ Thanks for reading along here. If you’d rather curl up and scroll the chapters in one place, you’ll find them on Wattpad too.