by Leslie Wells
I wondered when they were going. We dug into the pizzas and Mark paid the bill. “So nice to meet you, Julia,” Suzanne said, touching my arm. “I hope we’ll see you again soon.” She kissed Jack on the cheek and they went toward a limo; their driver must have followed us from the gallery.
Jack and I got into his car, and Rick peeled out.
“I like Puffy’s,” I said. “It’s nice they don’t make such a fuss about you.”
“You mean it’s good for my ego to be treated like nothing special once in a while,” Jack said with a grin.
“Probably is. Do you ever feel like it’s a hassle not being able to go out to dinner without having to hide in the back?”
Jack gave me a contemplative look. “It’s been so long since I could, I don’t really remember what it was like.” He thought for a second. “When we first caught on, it got a bit rough before we figured out we needed protection from the fans. The record company would set up an appearance and we’d think we’d just be answering questions, you know, but it would turn into a free-for-all. Patrick almost got lynched a time or two. Finally we realized we’d better keep out of grabbing range.”
“It sounds exhausting.”
“I can’t complain. The gods have been good to me.”
“Suzanne seems to think you ought to go into therapy with Patrick.” I’d been intrigued by that part of the conversation.
“Not a chance in hell. Mark did it just to yank his chain. Patrick’s always having these blonde moments, hiring advisors and gurus and going off on some screwball tangent. Then he fires them a few months later when he realizes they’re just taking his money or using him. It’s an insecurity or something. Not to sound like one of your authors.”
“Believe me, my authors sound nothing like you. Some of them can’t even carry a tune.”
Jack raised an eyebrow. “I bet none of them fuck like me.”
I crossed my arms. “I wouldn’t know. I don’t dip my pen in the company ink.”
“But some of them have tried.” He seemed to expect a response.
I thought of Harvey, but I didn’t want to get into that. “Not really. You seem close to Sammy and Mark,” I said, changing the subject.
“Oh yeah, we’ve been through thick and thin. Equipment shorting out on stage, being pole-axed by the press, getting busted … ex-wives dragging them through court, scumbag detectives snooping around … What Sammy went through with his second ex made me glad I’ve never been hitched.”
I digested that statement as we pulled up to his building. When we got inside, I took the package of books out of my backpack. “Here. I got something for you today.”
Jack removed the brown paper wrapping. “You got me Wise Blood,” he said, turning it over in his hands. “And what’s this one?”
“As I Lay Dying by William Faulkner. It’s about a poor Southern family with lots of kids. It has one of the best lines of all time: ‘My mother is a fish.’”
Jack stared at me. “My mother is a fish?”
“It sounds strange, but when you come to it in the book, it’s … mind-altering.”
“I’ve had my mind altered before, but not by a book. So that should be a new experience. I appreciate this, Julia. You’ll have to read me your favorite parts.” Jack placed the books on the front table next to several piles of mail. He picked up an envelope, glanced at it and threw it down. “Mary Jo brought the post over today.”
Arranged in neat stacks were invitations to parties, gallery openings, film premieres, museum first nights. “Boy, you really get invited to everything,” I said.
Jack shrugged. “Most of it I toss out. I think Mary Jo’s organizing a party at the Mudd Club next weekend. I want to take you shopping at some point, and get you a few more things to wear. Not that I don’t like your outfits. This purple shirt’s nice, even if it’s a bit long on you.” He fingered my sleeve.
“It’s my favorite blouse from Alice’s.”
“Your wardrobe’s kind of skimpy though. Wouldn’t it be nice to have some things that aren’t tatty?”
I was a little miffed at his comment; it was easy for someone with all his money to criticize my lack of stylish clothes. “I like shopping at thrift stores,” I retorted. “I like the fact that someone else wore it first. It gives me a sense of … history, a connection with the past.”
“You can have your historical stuff and some new things too. You seem so worried that you’re going to owe me, or something. That you’re not going to be ‘independent.’”
“Already I.O.U. several nice dinners, and about a case of beer.” I looked at the piles on the table. “Oh, what’s this?” It was a catalog from a modeling agency; each page featured a full-length photo, eye and hair color, measurements, and ludicrous things like “Margot enjoys sunbathing and polo matches.”
“The agencies send those,” Jack said, flipping it shut. “Sammy likes to look at them.”
“Hmm …” I thumbed it open. “They’ve left out the prices. Do they come with a nightly rate, or is it by the hour?”
“Put that thing up. I should tell Mary Jo to just ship them over to Sammy’s place.”
“Why are models always described as ‘leggy’?” I asked. “Here’s one, ‘leggy blonde.’”
“Some of ‘em are kinda leggy.” Jack cupped my breasts from behind and kissed my neck.
“Isn’t ‘leggy’ when a plant needs to be cut back?” I turned to face him; the length of him pressing into me felt so good. I ran my hands over his taut shoulders, nearly panting with lust. He felt for the buttons of my blouse as I unzipped his jeans, anticipation pricking my breasts and thighs. He tugged my clothes off and we kissed, his erection insistent against my belly, the sensation of his naked body overwhelming me.
“Let’s continue this conversation later,” Jack said. “Or not. I’ve been a good boy for three hours straight; that’s my limit.” He grabbed two pillows, threw them on the coffee table and lowered me onto them.
“Ahh, you feel so … inviting,” he murmured in my ear. Our bodies began to collide and part in increasing rhythm. Suddenly Jack stopped and held me close, his heart thumping wildly against my chest. “Let’s ease up for a minute,” he said, pulling away. He lapped my nipples into hard pink buds, then ran his tongue along the curve of my breast, up to my armpit and across my collarbone, making my aureoles dimple.
“Mmm, your skin’s so soft. Like tasting cream.” He licked the outer edge of my other breast and slid his tongue beneath its weight, then took my avid nipple in his mouth. Craving him, I pulled him toward me.
“You’re ready for more.” Jack gave a languid stroke. “Happy to oblige. Wrap your legs around me, baby.” He pushed my thighs higher and began moving slowly at first, holding himself back, tension mounting in his flexed arms. We gained momentum until we were breathing fast, careless of how we crashed together. I felt him tighten inside me.
“I’m going to come,” he gasped.
I dug my heels into his back. “Come on,” I said, and he drove into me with four pulsing beats. I gazed down at his dark tangle spread across my pale chest, blown away by the intensity of our coupling.
Jack rested for a while, and then pushed up from the table. He knelt and took my foot in his hand. “D’you know, it drove me mad when I saw you in that raggedy leather skirt,” he said, nipping the inside of my calf. “I had fantasies of doing this.” He slithered his tongue to tickle the crease of my knee.
“I like that skirt,” I said, distracted by his lips roaming over my skin.
“So did I; at least it gave me a little glimpse of leg.” He inched his mouth up my thigh. “Every time, I was hoping I’d get to see ‘em. Then you’d come out in your jeans, and my hopes were dashed.”
He edged toward my fold and gave a lingering lick, making me inhale sharply. Then he moved away, picked up my other ankle, and began tonguing a trail up my leg in infinitesimal increments. By the time he reached my cleft, my thighs were quivering. Without warning he sl
id his finger inside me, withdrew it and caressed my nipple, making it glisten. He sucked tender skin at my groin, and a finger glided in again. A moan escaped me.
“Are you feeling relaxed?” Jack’s lips teased me as he spoke. I wound my hands in his hair and he switched to the other side. I shifted my hips, but he merely gave a few flicks of his tongue before he moved slightly to the left and lavished his attention there. He put another finger inside and rippled. I wet my dry lips.
“Please,” I whispered.
“That’s what I call asking nicely.”
I was so utterly primed for his mouth that my hips jolted up to meet him. Jack put his hand under my rear, cupping me. He withdrew his fingers and slid his tongue inside me, moving in and out, then slowly drew it up the middle, making me cry out. He did it again, the sensation so agonizingly exquisite that I barely felt his pinkie entering my lower aperture. Doubly penetrated, his tongue whipping me into oblivion, my entire body lifted off the cushions when I came. I lay there floating, unconscious of anything but my humming senses, until Jack gathered me in his arms and carried me back to his bed.
When I finally came to, we were lying across the mattress, Jack’s bony foot resting against my arches. I reached over and moved a wisp of bangs out of his face.
“I need a haircut, don’t I,” he said without opening his eyes.
“I didn’t mean to wake you.”
He smiled. “I was awake; I was just resting up a little. You’re younger than me, you know.”
“Not that much younger … seven years?”
“Try eight. I’m thirty-two. You sure you want to go out with an old man like me?”
“You’re not old. If you had any more stamina, I’d be afraid of you. You have a twenty-year-old’s physique with an adult mind.”
“I’ve been accused of having it the other way around.”
“Anyway, I don’t think you need a haircut.”
“No? Suzanne keeps wanting to get her hands on it. She used to work in a salon. Did you like how she did Mark’s?”
“Not really. It looked like something crawled up there and died a slow, agonizing death.”
Jack laughed. “I think he feels it makes an impression.”
“You certainly make an impression wherever you go.”
“What do you mean?” He rolled to his side and propped his head on his arm.
“People get so worked up when they see you. Like those women that glommed onto you at the gallery.”
Jack shrugged. “Goes with the territory. It’s not that they like you personally; they just think some of the gloss is going to reflect on them. I learned a long time ago to take it for what it is. They’d be into anybody with a band that made a name for itself.”
“Oh, I think it’s more than that. To be honest …” I hesitated.
“What?”
I decided to go ahead and ask; what could it hurt? “I don’t understand why you’re spending so much time with a bookworm. As opposed to those types in the catalog.”
Jack looked at me, considering. “Well, for starters, you’re very unusual, Julia. I haven’t really been with anyone like you. I like it that you’re into books. And the blues. Oddly enough, I even liked the fact that you really checked me out before you let me get next to you. You’re kind of peculiar too, not being into the girly stuff so much. I never fit the mold, either.”
“I wasn’t fishing for a compliment. It just seems like you would be going out with a model or an heiress, or something.”
“I get tired of being seen as just a big paycheck, or a photo op. Most models are more into the blow than the sex, if truth be told. They’re blathering on about how great you are in bed, but meanwhile you can see their little minds ticking, wondering how soon they can ask you for another line.” He saw me looking askance. “Which by the way, I’m taking a slight break from.”
I assume he means the cocaine.
“Anyway, it’s kind of refreshing to be with someone who reads more than Vogue. Plus you turn me on. A lot. That satisfy you?” he concluded with a smile.
“I guess. I mean, thank you.”
Jack yawned and gave a catlike stretch, his underarm tufts a shade darker than his hair. “God, this week got away from me. We’re on a deadline to finish cutting the tracks before L.A. What are you up to next week?”
Happiness flooded me, then I recalled Dot’s visit. “My mother’s coming up Thursday night through Saturday morning. A friend of hers drives a truck route to Jersey, and she’s catching a ride with him. I’m kind of dreading it; she’s a live wire.”
“My mum’s a pistol too. Fully loaded and cocked.”
“Is your dad around?”
“He passed a couple of years ago. He was always pretty buttoned-up; I wish I’d gotten to know him better. I need to get back over to visit Mum, though,” Jack added. “It’s been several months.”
“Does she ever see you perform?”
“A few times. It’s not really her thing. My half-sister came to some of our concerts, before she got married to a stiff.”
“Oh, I didn’t know you had a sister.”
“Yeah, after the divorce Mum remarried and had a baby. But I was so much older, we didn’t connect much until we were grown. Sharon lives in Surrey, has two kids, married to an attorney. I see them several times a year, whenever I’m over there. Her old man always takes me aside and wants me to tell him wild stories about being on the road. As if I would.” He gestured toward the bureau. “My nephew Oliver just turned six; he’s a real kick in the pants. That’s him in the picture there.”
“I noticed that. He’s adorable.” I was glad to hear the boy wasn’t his own child.
Jack beamed. “He runs his mum ragged, just like I did mine. He was bouncing around so much on Christmas Eve, I thought I’d never get him to sleep.”
“I’ll bet it’s nice being there for Christmas.” I pictured a lavish Victorian feast. “Does your mother fix a big dinner?”
“Oh yeah, she puts out a stonking great spread. My contribution is cooking breakfast the next morning after Oliver and Emma—she’s four—have opened their presents. I get there a few days early and kind of go crazy buying them stuff.” He smiled. “Sharon complains I go overboard, but I love watching them tearing into things. ‘Uncle Jack, you got me a Sting-ray!’” he said in a little-boy voice. “I would have bitten me arm off for a bike like that when I was a kid. Matter of fact,” he added, tracing figure eights around my nipples, “You make me feel like a kid again.”
He got up and left the room for a minute. “Here, put these on,” he said, slipping the lavender heels on my feet. “Looks even better with you in the buff. Now …” He slid me toward the edge of the mattress, raised my legs high and put my ankles around his neck. ”I’ll show you just how much you turn me on,” he said, lowering himself onto me.
I gasped.
“You all right?” he asked.
I put his finger in my mouth and bit it.
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
I stayed at Jack’s all Saturday. He blew off going to the studio, telling Patrick he’d make up for it later. I’d never spent that much time lolling in bed. In fact, time seemed fluid with him. There wasn’t a mealtime, or a bedtime; you ate when you got hungry, you slept when you got sleepy. In between lovemaking—which he seemed to have an insatiable appetite for—we lounged around listening to music, or I watched him play the guitar; occasionally having a read from one of the books I’d bought him, ordering in food when the fancy struck.
Once in a while I found myself talking to him—or doing other things with him—more or less normally, and then it would hit me that I was with Jack Kipling of the Floor. But then he’d crack a joke, or I’d say something to make him toss back his head and laugh, or we’d talk about our favorite blues artists, and I’d forget that he was a rock star and just enjoy being with him.
Around midnight, Jack put his head in his hand and gazed down at me. “I’ve always been jealous of
women being able to come so many times in a row,” he said, trailing his finger around my belly in lazy circles. “Then again, it’s probably payback for childbirth,” he continued in a philosophical tone.
I decided to ignore the mention of other delirious women. “I guess. This is kind of new to me.”
“This …?”
“This whole, um, coming thing.”
Jack gave me a sharp look. “You’re not serious.”
“I mean, I have, you know, by myself,” I stammered.
“Of course. But never with a guy?”
I shook my head.
“They must not have known what they were doing. You’re like a volcano.”
“Nobody ever …”
Jack grinned. “I get it. You haven’t been with a real man before.”
“Obviously not.”
“We musicians have a saying about that, but I can’t repeat it because it’s too dirty.”
“What is it?”
“If you wanna get the honey, you gotta kiss the cunny.”
I rolled my eyes. “That’s just charming.”
“I told you it was dirty. Now you’ve got my curiosity up,” Jack said. “How many guys have you been with? If you don’t mind my asking.”
“Four,” I told him truthfully. “Before you, I mean.” I recalled the unsatisfactory gropings of the few college boys I’d known. Art had been much more worldly, but that didn’t extend to doing what Jack did.
“Is that all?” He seemed astonished.
I pulled a pillow over my chest. “Not everyone sleeps around indiscriminately, you know.”
“Now, don’t get in a snit. It’s just … you must have gone to school with a bunch of gormless fools.”
“I never even had a date in high school. I was too studious for the guys in my town; they only went out with the flirts. Plus I wore these thick glasses that weren’t exactly the height of seductiveness. I didn’t get contacts until college.”
Jack studied me. “That explains it.”
“What?”