“Give them to me,” I whisper.
“What?” asks Natalie, glancing into my eyes, then over my shoulder at the party.
My hand reaches down and takes her right buttock in my hand, squeezing it tightly. The flesh is so firm it resists my fingers. “Take off your panties. Give them to me,” I say in a low voice. My mouth is now dangerously close to hers. Her body is tense, as if she’s bracing for me to take her. To defile her. Natalie’s eyes are looking into my own, but her lust for me glazes them and it’s as if she’s looking inside me, seeing places the suns don’t reach.
“Now?” she asks, barely audible.
“Yes,” I reply, still clenching her buttock.
Natalie looks over my shoulder at the partygoers. Though I’m not facing the crowd, I know it’s likely someone is watching us. But my body mostly blocks their view of her, affording limited privacy. Natalie looks me in the eyes again, our faces close and I feel her subtly reach beneath her dress and slide her g-string down, letting it fall to the ground. I kneel down and help her step out of the underwear, pulling the tiny black lace over her high heels. I fold them once and place them in my inner jacket pocket. When I stand up again, Natalie gently pushes her mouth against mine. Barely a kiss. More a rush of lust that has bubbled to the surface.
“Take me somewhere,” she says, quietly.
“You lead and I’ll follow.”
Natalie smiles, the wicked glint returning to her eyes. I imagine it’s similar to the final glance that sirens gave sailors before they tore the flesh from their bones. We begin to weave through the party, towards the stairs that lead back down to Brannagh’s apartment. We pass Jennifer Fox and she doesn’t look impressed, her eyes looking at Natalie’s hand grasping my own. A few people say hello to me as I pass, but I can only nod. My focus is completely on Natalie and my overwhelming hunger.
On the footpath below, Natalie and I try to catch the attention of a passing taxi. It rolls past in the thick, balmy night air without seeing us.
“Where are we going?” I ask, still holding Natalie’s hand. “Your place?”
I’m not allowed to take women back to my own apartment anymore, even though it still happens. I do try to discourage it and avoid it. For the first two years after my discovery I had to move home six times, because the world kept finding out where I lived. The footpaths on my block turned into an endless candlelight vigil, where thousands of teenagers sat and waited for me to appear. It was tranquil, flattering and a little disturbing. I don’t have many possessions, so changing residence wasn’t unbearable. I’ve been in my current apartment for nearly two years because the place is a fortress and the PR team at the record label do a darn fine job of spreading rumours that I live in Lower Easton, but spend most of my time on an island in the middle of the ocean. Of course, parties still happen. Girls still come and go. Fame keeps me reclusive, but only slightly exclusive.
Natalie turns and takes me by the collar of my shirt, pulling my body against hers, kissing me. As her tongue pushes against mine, I can feel blood turn on its heel and start advancing toward my groin.
Sensing my burgeoning excitement, Natalie pulls away. “No,” she says, her eyes gleaming. “I’m going to make you wait.”
The lights of another taxi pull into our block and Natalie quickly steps out into the road, the vehicle screeching to a halt in front of her. In the headlights she beckons me over with a finger. Once we’re in the backseat, the driver asks us where we’re going.
“Durté,” says Natalie, squeezing my hand. The driver nods and takes off.
“Durté?” I whisper. “It’s going to be a bit wild if I get recognised there. Shouldn’t we head back to yours?”
“No,” says Natalie, “we’ll go to the new VIP room. We’ll be safe in there.”
“Ok,” I shrug, feeling adventurous. “I’m putting my safety in your hands.”
“Such a bad idea,” says Natalie, before running one of her delicate, gloved hands through my hair and pulling my mouth against hers. Knowing she’s not wearing a bra, my hand dives into the front of her dress, finding two breasts that make the concept of Heaven seem a little bit overrated.
Aesthetically, Durté is no different to any other seedy establishment, but the tastemakers decided it was cool. So now it’s a choice locale to hang and you can barely get inside the place. Me and the other guys from the band used to go there because it was low profile. You could chill out. Now there’s a perpetually long queue to get in. Overpriced drinks. Various famous faces and generally attractive clientele.
The cab pulls up outside the bar and there’s a large crowd of people on the footpath. The neon Durté sign flickers above the tattered red awning that hangs uselessly over the entrance. A lot of people that went to the McCarthy Awards have come back to Durté to party on. Giant security guards in black uniform and radio headsets try to herd the human flock into a line.
We exit the cab after I pay the driver. Natalie leads me across the footpath towards the bustle of the doorway. Almost instantly the flash of cameras lights up the dim footpath. Natalie gets the attention of a security guard. Recognising me, he unfastens the velvet red rope and swiftly gestures for my companion and I to enter.
The air is thick with cigarette smoke and heavy metal music. Natalie and I push our way through the crowded room, with its sweaty bodies and raw brickwork. Most of the walls are covered with fading rock posters. Bands I’ve never heard of, most of which probably haven’t even played this venue. Hanging behind the bar, above the rows of brightly coloured spirits, is a framed, autographed Big Bang Theory photograph. My serious expression looks down at me from across the room. I recognise my signature, though I don’t remember writing it. If my eyesight serves me correctly, Dylan has drawn a penis rather than sign his name. That seems appropriate for so many reasons.
A random woman grabs my arm. She looks a similar age to myself and has bleached blonde hair and a lot of black eyeliner. Looks kind of punk. She yells over the music, “I love you, I love you!” She’s sweating, as if she’s on a lot of gear. Her eyes are wide and she’s staring so close to my face that it makes me slightly uncomfortable.
“Pleasure,” I say, trying to shake her hand. I don’t kiss it. But she’s squeezing my upper arm with both hands. She just stares at me, as if I’m not real. Then a friend of hers appears behind me and grabs my other arm.
“Stay and party with us. Please, just party with us,” says the second woman.
“We love you,” says the first woman. “Stay with us.”
“I have to... go,” I say. “But I’ll come back.”
Natalie has moved ahead without realising I’m not behind her. She turns to see the two women accosting me and quickly darts towards us, a fist raised.
“Get your fucking hands off him,” she yells. The two women, despite their desperation, quickly release me. Natalie grabs the front of my jacket and starts pulling me through the room. I hear the women crying out behind me. This alerts more people around us who turn and recognise Jack. Bodies move towards me, shuffling like a room full of zombies who have caught a whiff of living meat. We quickly reach the far side of this main bar area, arriving at a red, velvet curtain that seems to glisten, as if made of flesh. A security guard, broad and tall, moves to block our path. Natalie motions toward me with an impatient hand and the security guard’s face widens with surprise and recognition. He hurriedly pulls the curtain back for us to enter the VIP area.
It’s not as crowded in here. Luxurious antique furniture is arranged around the spacious room, dark and leather upholstered. Dim lampshades. The people in the room all look up from their lounge chairs as I enter, recognising me. A few smile. A few wave. I vaguely recognise people. A swimsuit model. A television actress. A fashion designer. A record producer. Natalie seems to know most of them, greeting people as we float through the room, bending down to kiss them on the cheek. Natalie introduces me to a young man who is apparently a film producer and director. He says I should call him
because he’s got some “really fresh music video ideas that would really work for our songs”. He hands me a card, which I put in my back pocket.
As we make our way toward the bar I catch three striking girls sitting at some lounges over in the corner. One of them is turning around, craning her neck to see me. I stare at them blankly. Then Natalie taps my arm.
“Jack, this is Lucius and Lyone,” says Natalie, introducing me to two similarly dressed young men. Lucius has tight black jeans, buckled shoes, a loose fitting tee and a blonde quiff. There’s a thin blonde moustache on his top lip and he’s quite tan. Lyone has a black, military-style cap and a thicker, dark moustache. They both look vaguely familiar.
“Pleasure,” says Lucius. “We actually met a few months back. At Brannagh’s fashion fundraiser.”
“Lucius owns Jest Station at the top of town,” explains Natalie.
“Oh yeah, Jest Station. I’ve... worn stuff from there, I think,” I say.
“That’s one of our jackets,” smiles Lucius, pointing at me. “Lyone actually designed it.”
Lyone smiles. “It looks good on you.”
“Lyone’s clothing is fucking gorgeous,” says Natalie, admiring the jacket. Then she asks me, “Did you know that Lucius and Lyone have a band now?”
“No, I didn’t know that. I’m out of the circle,” I say. “What are you called?”
“We’re calling ourselves Gash,” says Lucius.
“Gash? Nice,” I say.
“Yeah, we’re happy with the name,” replies Lucius. “I think it sums up what we’re all about.”
“Party,” I say.
“Oh, and congratulations on the awards tonight. Nice new song. Very buoyant... and kinetic,” offers Lucius.
“Apreciativo,” I smile.
The three girls from the corner of the room appear, sidling up to our conversation. Lucius smiles as he recognises them. “Jack, these are my friends Juniper, Anais and Mirabelle. They do a lot of modelling for the store,” says Lucius.
“Pleasure,” they all say, almost in unison.
“Pleasure,” I say, lightly kissing the back of each of their hands.
“Actually, it’s perfect timing that you’re here,” says Lucius. “The girls were just saying to me the other day how amazing it would be to get you in our next fashion shoot. The girls would love to work with you. What would it take to get you to come in for a fitting?”
I ponder for a moment before Natalie squeezes my hand and whispers in my ear very softly, “Those girls are total mechs.” A term that’s short for mechanics. Car mechanics. They do most of their work on their back.
Despite Natalie’s petulant jealousy, I smile and reply, “I’ll think about it.”
The girls pout at my non-committal answer.
“It’ll be tasty,” says Lucius. “Nothing sour. Something with impact. With a serrated edge.”
“Sounds intriguing,” I reply. “Maybe. I’m just not sure, man.”
“Ok,” says Lucius. “To sweeten the deal I’ll give you a lifetime’s supply of new outfits. You’ll never have to go naked.”
“Well, my lifetime’s almost over,” I reply, with a sly grin.
“Oh, don’t be so silly,” says one of the models, whose name might be Juniper. She has long limbs and is almost taller than me. Her face has a radiant allure, framed by long, straight black hair and a low fringe. On one of her bare shoulders is a colourful flower tattoo. “It’ll be lots of fun.”
“Fun, huh? I can’t argue with that,” I smile. I tell Lucius to get in touch with my management and “we’ll organise something”. The models then all ask to get photos with me and after they’ve each given me their phone numbers and suggested that I call them sometime, they return to their corner of the room and Lucius and Lyone head back to their group.
As Natalie and I pull up a stool at the bar, she turns to me and says, “A shoot for Jest Station? That’s so under you.”
“I thought you liked Jest Station?” I ask.
Natalie makes a disgusted sound. “It’s cheap and boring.”
“What about my jacket? It’s a Jest Station special.”
“It looks good on you,” she smiles. “But everything does. I just think a shoot would be under you.”
“When are you going to be under me?” I ask, before getting the bartender’s attention.
Natalie smiles. “Are you being impatient?”
“Sort of. I keep remembering that you’re not wearing any underwear.”
“Well whose fault is that?”
“That you’re not wearing underwear or that I keep remembering?”
I order two berry elixirs from the barman. He’s a tall, muscular boy in a tight black tee, with a square jaw and a closely shaved head. As he begins mixing the drinks on the bar in front of us, Natalie studies him. Despite his obvious bartending experience, he seems slightly nervous to be serving me. Natalie keeps staring at him until he notices and glances back. He gives a meek smile and I can tell Natalie is satisfied that she’s making him awkward. Her hand squeezes my upper thigh as she watches him.
“So,” I ask Natalie. “Am I meeting your expectations?”
“What do you mean?” she asks, returning her attention to me.
“You must have had a perception of me before tonight.”
Natalie thinks for a moment. “I think you’ve exceeded expectations.”
“Cool,” I say.
“I thought you’d be a bit more shy. You’ve been very forward. I like that.”
“You’ve caught me in a weird mood.”
“Weird? Is that your word for being really fucked up?”
“Maybe.”
“Your pupils are massive and you’re sweating,” says Natalie, wiping my brow.
The barman finishes our elixirs and places them down in front of us. Natalie gives him an appreciative wink. As we both pick up our glasses, I propose a toast. “To new friends,” I say. Natalie smiles and lightly chinks her glass on my own.
As I take a sip on my elixir, I feel a tap on my shoulder. I turn around to see two young women. One girl, who has an amazingly beautiful face and straight blonde hair, looks instantly familiar. She’s a young actress by the name of Zara. I can’t quite remember her last name. But she’s in this film at the moment that’s making huge amounts at the box office. It’s about a girl that befriends a talking alien. I’ve only seen the poster, but to me the alien looks like a cross between a ferret and a spring roll. Children seem to find the alien’s droll wit amusing and have been scooping up as much merchandise as their tiny arms can carry.
Zara seems excited to see me. “Hi Jack, it’s pleasure to meet you. I love your music.”
“Pleasure,” I say, shaking her hand and lightly kissing the back of it.
“This is my friend Beattie,” says Zara, motioning towards her friend, a petite brunette girl.
“Pleasure,” I say, kissing Beattie’s hand.
I can barely recognise Zara from what I’ve seen of her in film. Her characters are always conservative. Polite, dainty and well spoken. This is a slightly older version of her that is wearing a thinly strapped pink dress, which stops high above her knees. Her blonde hair is tussled, her face reinvented with make-up. Reimagined with drugs and dim lighting. I pull out a cigarette and light it.
“Did you win any awards tonight? Beattie and I were invited, but we couldn’t make it,” says Zara.
“Yeah, a few,” I say.
“Congratulations!” says Zara, drunkenly, reaching out and putting her hand on my arm for balance.
“Gracias,” I reply. I glance over my shoulder at Natalie and I can see her eyeing Zara and Beattie warily.
“I’ve just signed on to do a movie with Jennifer Fox,” says Zara, now quite near my face. “You’re friends with her, aren’t you?”
I acknowledge how loaded her question is. “Yeah, we’re friends,” I reply.
“Right,” says Zara, sipping more of her elixir. She stares at me as she pu
ts the glass to her lips, as if I’ll give something away at any moment. Then after she swallows, she asks, “So you’re just friends?”
“Zara,” says Beattie, embarrassed. “Leave Jack alone. Stop being such a trashbag.”
“I’m not offending you, am I Jack?” asks Zara, mischievously, as she puts an arm around my shoulder.
“No, not at all,” I reply, casually. “How’s that alien movie going? I hear it’s doing very well.”
Zara shrugs, leaning into me. “Yeah, it’s going well. Who knows? I shot it eighteen months ago.”
“Well, you’re great in it,” I say.
“You saw it?” asks Zara, incredulously.
“Sure,” I say. “But you look quite different in it. You look different now.”
“Well, it was eighteen months ago,” smiles Zara. “I look like an idiot in that movie.”
“I really liked the alien,” I continue. “But he looks kind of edible. He always looks really edible.”
Zara pulls a weird face and Beattie laughs at my comment.
“They want to make it a quadrilogy,” reveals Zara. “Three more movies.”
“Will you and the alien marry?” I ask.
Zara and Beattie laugh.
“You know, Jack, you’re as different as everyone says you are,” says Zara, with a smile. “And that alien was made out of some weird rubber that gave me a rash. I hated the little bastard.”
“Well, most wives find their husbands irritating,” I say, dragging on my cigarette. “Just give it some time.”
A socials photographer appears and asks all of us to get together for a photo. Although Natalie hasn’t joined in the conversation, and has been quite territorial, she enters the photo, leaning into the left side of my body. Zara remains on the right and Beattie stands next to her. We all smile. All good friends. Another wave of euphoria washes over me and every sensation in my near vicinity becomes a beacon of boundless joy.
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