The Cougar Book

by Jolie Du Prè

  “Need a beer too?” Talia grinned–she still thought we were an item.

  “Yeah, I’ll take a glass of—oh, shit!” I pulled out my cell and dialed.

  She grinned. “I know what you like babe.”

  I’d been working on getting a date with über-hot Jenn for two months. Seriously, this girl hardly ever accepted dates. When she finally gave in, she’d all but said we’d end up in bed. Why did Adrian Parker pick tonight of all nights?

  “I can’t make it tonight, but I’ll make it up to you, Jenn. My editor really wanted me to do the interview . . . Willie’s . . . Yeah, the bar . . . It’s not so bad . . . Some folk singer or something from the Seventies. Hey, why don’t you come down and hang out?”

  Yeah, right. From a date at the best restaurant in the county to a show at a township dive. Jenn was pissed, but she didn’t tell me to fuck off.

  Talia’s big, brown eyes sparkled as she set the Sam Adams down. She rotated one shoulder to draw my eyes to the wide V in her silky blouse. Who am I to argue? She set the change down in my hand and curled my fingers around it.

  I patted her hand. I would still probably be here at closing time. Maybe it wouldn’t be a total loss.

  Along one wall stood a bass drum, a Black Beauty snare, a ride cymbal, a crash and high hats. A vintage Fender Jazz bass sat to the right of the kit. On the other side of the kit were a TV, yellow Gibson Les Paul Jr., and a Fender tweed amp.

  I figured Adrian would be the guitarist, and as luck would have it, the booth beside the guitar rig was open. There was no stage at Willies, just a stretch of floor along the wall in front of an out-of-service fireplace. I would be close enough to reach out and touch Adrian.

  I sipped my beer and accepted occasional flirts from Talia until three people walked in and snaked through the tables between the front door and the gear. A relatively tall woman, with full hips, and a sloping, soft, belly crowned by full breasts approached. Her long, curly, jet-black hair with streaks of pewter gray framed her angular face tightly.

  A heavy-set man with a long beard that would make the guys from ZZ Top envious sat at the drums. A skinny, wrinkled man with faded tattoos and absolutely no hair—I kid you not, he didn’t even have eyebrows—lifted the bass.

  The woman began to tune the yellow guitar.

  “Adrian?” I leaned forward. She didn’t look up. Maybe she needed a hearing aid? For a moment it occurred to me that maybe Baldy or Beardy was Adrian. “Adrian?” I said it louder and scanned all the musicians.

  The guitarist lifted one brow and almost looked at me. “Hmm?”

  “I’m Brendan Vivaldi, from the Daily Mail. Would you consent to do an interview?”

  “Vivaldi?” Her head lifted. A half smile carved one cheek. “Ahm kinda busy, hon.” She had a thick southern drawl.

  I’d have preferred folk music. I hate country. “Maybe between sets?”

  Her eyes were an odd color, something like olive. She looked at a table on the far side of the room. “That’s when ah sell mah CDs.”

  “Talia!” I called out and Talia turned back. “Will you watch Adrian’s table over there between the sets?” Talia nodded. I turned back to Adrian. “Girl could sell space heaters to equatorial rain forest aboriginals.”

  Adrian laughed as she trimmed the G-string tuning knob. “Well, thank ya darlin’. ’Specially for thainkin that’s whut ah naid.”

  “I—um—I mean . . .”

  She let me fumble for a time, and then winked. “Relax. Ya got your interview, cutie.”

  Beardy cross-sticked the time, and she dove into a deeply bluesy song. Tints of rock but on a very strong blues structure. She played finger style, her hands were long, and slim, but with big knuckles. She leaned to her left side as she played, and the strap of her olive, spaghetti-strap top drooped down her shapely upper arm. She sang without a mic, and she belted it out like a soloist in a gospel choir. Her powerful, deep but sharp voice literally took my breath away.

  Between songs, she’d return the drooping spaghetti strap to her shoulder, and warmly announce the next song. All were originals. The lyrics, dark but hopeful. They seemed cohesive in an odd, found-object way.

  For the end of the first set, she pulled out a powerful, rocking ballad with a lead guitar section that conjured Jimmy Page crossed with Stevie Ray Vaughn. Her shiny bare knee protruded through a hole in her jeans as her right leg bounded in time with Beardy’s quarter notes on the hi-hat.

  The modest crowd whooped like a mosh pit at a festival.

  “Thank ya!”

  Adrian’s silky palm choked my hand. “I ain’t been interviewed in a coon’s age, so you’ll pardon if I’m a bit rusty?”

  “No sweat, Ms. Parker.”

  “Good God son, just Adrian.”

  “Sorry, ‘Just Adrian.’ First question: why here?”

  She winked. “This is a nice town. Good people, salt of the earth, you know.” She sipped her club soda with a twist of lime and licked her lips. She wiped the dew from her forehead with her long thumb.

  The answer seemed odd. I just lowered my brow.

  “Hon, when you get thrown, you ain’t likely to mount up a thoroughbred. You gotta start someplace. Ponies are horses too.”

  She wasn’t an easy interview. Didn’t offer much more than concise answers to the questions interspersed with folksy phrases. She was a very good guitarist, so I pushed a guitarist’s often-favorite button: gear. I nodded toward her guitar. “Nice Les Paul Junior. Do you have a preference for P-90 pickups over humbuckers?”

  Her face opened into a grin. Jackpot! “Varies from guitar to guitar, but in general P-90’s are fat like humbuckers, but more focused and tight like a single coil. I even like that warm hum that everyone tries to ‘buck.’ But you know what I mean. You know your way around six-strings, don’t you?”

  “My brothers and sisters were.”

  “Guitarists?”

  “No, six strings.”

  Adrian belted out an earthy laugh like her singing. “Cute.”

  “I come from a musical family.”

  “Like Vivaldi.”

  “Yeah, something like that.” I get that a lot

  “And how about you?” She pressed her ribs tight to the table.

  “Me what?”

  “Are you musical?”

  “Who’s doing the interviewing here?”

  “Seemed like you were losing traction. Just tryin’ a-help. I gotta get back up there.” She winked and patted my cheek softly.

  The last vestiges of motel soap had succumbed to Adrian’s sweat by the end of the second set. I’d always liked women neatly perfumed. Still, my cock felt a bit heavy. I figured it was from my lost date with Jenn and my occasional glimpses at Talia’s tight body.

  Adrian’s sudden directness when I brought up her parents surprised me. “Momma died when I was thirteen. Daddy didn’t hang around, so my grandma raised me. She was a hard woman, and cold as an Alaska winter, but she did teach me music, an’ I had me some talent. When I was sixteen, I just took off. Went on the road.”

  “Sixteen? That’s pretty young.”

  “Mmm hmm. I didn’t want to hang around with grandma, and she didn’t put up no fuss ’bout it. I was skinny, and I was pretty, and had a strong voice, and could play the guitar pretty well. I worked a lot of dives that made this place look like that Russian Tea Room thing.”

  “Are pretty.”

  “This bar?”

  “No, you. You are pretty.” I winked and grinned. It was my charm reflex.

  She shook her head then shrugged. “Are you trying to seduce me, Mrs. Robinson?”

  “Mrs. Robinson?”

  “You know, The Graduate?”

  “What graduate?”

  “The movie.”

  “I have no idea.”

  She covered her eyes her left palm. “Oh, darlin’.” A thick band on her ring finger gleamed.

  “Tell me about your husband?”

  “My what?”

&nb
sp; I pointed at her hand.

  “Oh, that. I ain’t married. This was my mama’s ring. Don’t get me wrong. I been married. I been married four times, for them that keep count. I’m good at getting married, not so good at keepin’ that way.”

  “Did the marriages fail from life on the road?”

  “No.” We stared at each other for a long time. “See, how it works, Brendan, you’re the interviewer, I’m the interviewed. You set to askin’ the questions, I set to answerin’.”

  I laughed. “Alright, why did you marry so many times?”

  “See how easy it is?” That wink was infectious. “I married a couple good men, and a couple bad. Even in the day of the emancipated woman, I thought I had to marry when the music thing crashed. I kept tryin’! You know, for years I bought guitar after guitar, every tip I squirreled away, even though I only played at home. I’d play ’em in the store and think, ‘that’s the one.’ Never was.”

  “That one seems like it might be it.” I pointed toward her Les Paul Junior. “Is that a custom shop model?”

  “Nope. You never answered my question. Do you play?”

  “I know every note on the fret board. I know formulas for triads and chords, know the scales, classical music, jazz music, blues.”

  “So you do play.”

  “Yes. Badly. To share a family secret, I’m tone deaf.”

  She looked sad. “For real?”

  “I couldn’t carry a tune in a bag. But to make for it, I have an appalling sense of time.”

  She laughed and took a sip of her club soda.

  “You said the music thing crashed. Tell me about that.”

  “No.” Her expression was more emphatic than the word.

  We stared for a minute. “Okay, so what color are your eyes?”

  “You ask some strange questions, Brendan.”

  I leaned forward and studied her eyes. “So answer the plain ones. You aren’t the easiest interview I’ve ever done.”

  “Why should I be?” Her breath had a hint of lime and the fruit salad she was slowly eating as we talked. “My eyes are gray, but they kinda reflect what I’m wearing. See?” She pulled a blue silk scarf from her pocket and draped it across her wide cheeks like an Arab woman and leaned forward.

  Her eyes indeed looked suddenly bluish. “They’re stunning . . . I . . . uh, I mean . . .” I couldn’t recall the last time I’d fumbled on my words.

  She pulled her long hair back from her shapely ears ornamented with big, gold hoops. She bound her hair in the scarf. “Thank ya, darlin’.” My cock began to feel heavy again.

  “Tell me about the album.”

  “My CD? It’s not much better’n a homemade thing . . .”

  “Actually, I’m asking about the album, The Adrian Parker Band.”

  “You know ’bout that ol’ thing? We sold every copy.”

  “Wow.”

  She winked. “Don’t be impressed. It was a teeny label. They just made five hundred total. Back then it was Heart, and Fleetwood Mac, and such. I was kind of odd. Southern but not playin’ country. They wanted to turn me into a star. Shape my music into ‘it’ by leaning it toward country rock. Somthin’ like The Eagles or the Allmans with a puss.”

  I nearly spat my beer across the table. She winked.

  “So, you wouldn’t sell out?”

  She leaned back in the booth and laughed hard. Her knee pressed mine. My cock sprang through the leg hole of my bikini briefs. I casually turned it up along my zipper and wiped my pre-come on the hip of my jeans.

  “Honey, I sold out like a cheap whore in tore leotards. Then I got me a head so big I couldn’t keep it straight up. I pissed off some mighty powerful people and crashed down like that Skylab thing. Pieces of me are still all over Texas.” Her face became serious and she tilted her head softly. “Best thing ever happened to me.”

  “The crash?”

  “If I’d made big money, I’d of put it up nose or in my vein or just plain down my gullet. Probably all of ’em and be six feet under today. Live fast, die young, leave a good-looking corpse.” She paused. In any other case, I’d have inserted a charming comment. I just waited for her to finish. “Honey, I struggled with a lot of demons through four marriages. Through ’em all, I found the music my one joy. I wrote me more than a hundred songs in the basement, some of which you’re hearing right here. My last man was kind. Gave me all kind of space to find myself. Truly a gentleman among gentlemen. I owe a lot to him.”

  “What happened?”

  “So tell me. Your whole family is musical, but you aren’t?”

  “That’s the story. What about that last husband?”

  The way her lips flared up from long, seamless creases into almost heart-shaped lips on a cartoon kissy mouth hinted at a mischievous teenager. The crow’s feet around her eyes pointed like arrows at her wishing-well pupils. My cock throbbed.

  “Your name is Vivaldi.”

  I nodded.

  “Bet that was tough.” She rested her hand on mine and stroked my knuckles.

  To that very moment, I had been convinced how tough my life had been. Always picked on by my siblings for my inability to play music, I was like the geeky kid struggling in a family of athletes. Asked to work at a rather prestigious musical magazine because of my impressive knowledge of all things musical combined with my writing abilities, I declined. Music had not been my friend, so I took this job at a dying local newspaper. “In truth, I had it pretty good.”

  She tilted her head. “I better get to that third set.”

  “I—I have more questions.”

  “Don’t you fret. I’ll be back.”

  She ripped into her guitar and belted out the vocals for another set. This time, she plied even more from that Les Paul Junior, with those long, strong hands. Her powerful voice caressed the room, now nearly empty. The passion of her performance didn’t dwindle in the least. At closing, one of the few that remained brought up her old album. “Jesus, darlin’ where did you find that relic?”

  The man folded his hands nervously. “I bought it new.”

  “Oh, you’re a doll.” She signed it. The man blushed.

  “May I?” The rightful owner handed it to me. Adrian had indeed been skinny. Her hair had been straightened and was cut short around her angular face. They’d put a tight silky purple blouse on her to make her eyes appear even more exotic and to showcase her high, full breasts atop her slim chest. Her skin was warmly tanned and buttery.

  “You’re more beautiful now.” I suddenly worried she’d think it was just another line.

  Her brows lifted like a draw-bridge.

  I shrugged. “Well, you are.”

  A soft, sweet smile like I’d not seen on her face opened. “Thank you, darlin.”

  “Um, listen Adrian. I haven’t, um, asked all my questions.”

  One knee pressed between mine. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

  A fresh hard-on stretched my zipper. She took my hand.

  “It’s such a beautiful night. Look at them stars.” She reached around my waist. Her sandals, laced in her fingers, bounded off my hip. She stopped and turned me to face her. She grabbed my chin firmly and smiled. “Damn, you’re fine looking.” She kissed me hard and rested one hand on my bulge. “How far is your apartment, Brendan?”

  If I wasn’t tone deaf, I’d have been able to calculate how many octaves my voice rose when I squeaked, “Half mile.”

  “Why, your hair’s bright as the mornin’ sun, Brendan, and your eyes are bluer than the sky.” She traced my cheeks with her powerful fingers, the stiffness of her calluses tingled. She kissed my body as she removed one garment at a time before she even untied the scarf around her hair.

  I lay naked on the unmade bed while she slowly drew her jeans down. Her thighs were shapely and tapered to similarly endowed calves. I reached out but she pulled away, and teased as she peeled that top. She held my hands over my head and straddled me in her bright pink panties. I kissed up and down her s
tomach, all around her breasts and savored her sweat.

  She finally pulled down her cotton panties and lay back on the bed, knees pointing to the ceiling. I parted her pubic hair and stared in those eyes while I tasted her with long strokes punctuated by short flicks of my tongue. I inserted one, and then two of my fingers into her.

  “Hon, you do know your way around a woman.”

  Body yes, but I was learning things so fast I couldn’t keep up. All I could do was continue to drink her, press my tongue inside her as she rocked in time until her hips crushed my face and she shouted out an orgasm. “Oh, honey, come here.” She opened her arms in a V as if funneling me up her body. I suspended above her and she gave me the most beautiful smile as her thumb and forefinger circled the base of my cock to guide me inside. We made love slowly, like a ballad. I lowered down onto my elbows where our faces nearly met. We kissed from time to time, deep to shallow to deep, then lingered in each other’s hard breaths.

  It was not urgent, not explosive, not desperate. It was relaxed, a slow steady ascent through strata after strata. I had never seen a more beautiful sight than her beneath me. When her face blossomed, and her voice uttered vibrant orgasmic notes, I could no longer restrain, and I pounded hard in her until I came in wave after wave.

  She stroked my back as I pulled breaths atop her.

  Fade to black.

  Adrian was pressed tight to my back when I awoke. She still smelled of sweat and smoke and the evening spring air and a bit of me.

  Bad as I had to piss, I didn’t care as she turned me on my back, straddled me, and took me inside. She pressed my body tight to the sheets, parted my thighs with her toes and rocked her hips in perfect time. She pushed my fingers to her clit and I helped her to another deep orgasm. She collapsed slowly, pumped on me until I came as the burgeoning sunlight washed the pale curtains. I rubbed her back and hips and sides and thighs. I hadn’t had enough of her, wondered if I ever could. “Um, look, Adrian, I didn’t finish my interview last night.”

  She gave a rare look of discomfort.

  “I mean . . . I . . . don’t really have anything tying me to this town.”