SailtotheMoon

by Lynne Connolly

  When he fluted them, opening her even more, she cried out and despite her best intentions, arched her back in instinctive response. “Oh God! Fuck!”

  Chuckling, he continued his work, the sound vibrating against her clit, blending with the movements of fingers and tongue like one of the band’s intricate melodies. Harmonizing with himself now, he continued for a while, building her up to her screaming point.

  Then he changed completely. He thrust his fingers deep in a motion that shocked her to the core. Then he sucked hard, holding her clit captive in his mouth to tease until she stiffened, and her pussy throbbed in release.

  He didn’t come up the bed until he’d lapped every bit of her arousal, sweeping the flat of his tongue along her crease until he’d absorbed every drop.

  She had a condom in hand by the time he came back to her, the small plastic package clenched in her fist, ready for him. She let him sheath himself, because he was quicker than she, and she wanted him inside her now.

  His blue eyes wild, he drove straight in. She arched up to him, her shoulders hard against the bed, her feet flat on the mattress, almost lifting him up.

  Only his strength held them together and he stared at her, hair sticking damply to his forehead and around his ears, mouth partly opened, reddened with passion. Hooking her arm around his neck, she dragged him close for a kiss. To taste herself on him, something she’d never enjoyed before. The flavor enhanced the experience, the deep, relentless thrusts, his breath hot on her face, the sight of his beautiful body.

  Everything drove her to impossible levels before she screamed his name and surrendered.

  “Two is good,” he said, sounding infuriatingly in control, but she saw his eyes and knew better. He never stopped, working them both hard now, so much that his sweat dripped onto her. Normally she’d have pushed the man away, but not this man. She clutched his firm, round buttocks and urged him on. His turn now.

  But not, it appeared, until he’d driven her to madness one more time.

  Harder and harder, relentless in his deep, driving strokes until he moved, slightly, and sent her off again, like lighting the fuse on a firework. Her breath caught, came in short gasps as if she’d run a marathon, but she clamped her pussy tight, using her internal muscles, and that did it.

  He dropped his chin and growled her name, coming down for a lush kiss as he throbbed deep inside her.

  They lay there, getting their breath and senses back until he found enough strength to roll over. She went with him, ignoring the state of their slick bodies. He threw back the covers. “Come on. If we don’t get into that tub, this bed won’t be in any state to sleep in.”

  He was right. Together they poured the bath. Zazz took care of the taps while Laura found the bubbly stuff to pour in it, ignoring his laughing protests. “I’ll smell like foo-foo. You want me girly?”

  “We’ll smell like each other.” She sniffed one armpit and winced in mock response, even though they’d showered at the venue. “Better than this.”

  Sitting on the side of the bath, he splayed his legs, shamelessly displaying his cock and balls. Even in repose it was a meaty treat and it tempted her to take it, taste it once more. Maybe he saw the intention on her face, because he swung around. He dipped one leg in the bath and slid in with a movement that would have looked clumsy if she’d done it. Zazz did it with the grace of a dancer.

  Envying his suppleness, Laura climbed in more conventionally and turned so her back lay on his chest. Warm and hard, and all male. She could feel his nipples against her back, and she squirmed to enjoy the sensation. “In a bath with a rock star. How decadent.”

  He kissed her shoulder. “In case you’ve forgotten, you’re in the bath with James.” The name she’d yelled at the height of passion, the one that had driven him to give her more. “Call me what you like. As long as you let me into that gorgeous body and scream it when I’m fucking you, I’m good.”

  “Zazz in public, though, right?”

  “It doesn’t matter now they know. It was bound to come out.”

  She tilted her head so she could see his face. “Was it? I know why you let him give those interviews tonight.”

  “Do you?”

  “Because he wanted it. You’re proud of him. At least, you’re proud of his musical achievements.”

  He grimaced. “Yeah. That. Not proud of everything he did though. Sometimes I’d come home to find him gone and I wouldn’t see him for days. But he provided somewhere to sleep and, usually, enough to eat. He never abandoned me, even though there’s no evidence I’m actually his son.”

  “You share his talent.”

  “Nature or nurture?” He kissed her. “It doesn’t matter. I am what I am, and he helped to make me. Whatever I am.”

  That reminded her of something she wanted to ask him, something deeply personal. “You implied that you don’t take drugs or drink in the interview.”

  “I don’t take illegal drugs, for sure. The thought of it repels me. And I only drink a little because I like it sometimes. Champagne for celebration, wine with a meal, the occasional beer. That’s all. I can go weeks without a drink and not miss it. I can’t go weeks without writing. That’s my real addiction.”

  “It’s a good one.” She nestled close as he lifted the oversize bath sponge and dripped it over her, clearing the bubbles from the upper slopes of her breasts. “I thought you were telling the truth.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m not absolutely sure, but I’m guessing I know your body language better than most.”

  He growled and palmed her breasts. “Oh yeah.” Playing languidly with her, smoothing his hands over her water-slicked skin, he talked to her. Told her his secrets. “That was one reason Murder City Ravens gave me a trial. The band had nearly fallen apart with drug addiction and drink. Jace liked the bottle too much, but he took anything else he could find as well. Matt took everything, and since he sang, didn’t do anything else, he had more time to get high. Don’t get me wrong, Matt had—has—an amazing voice, but for him it wasn’t enough. I write. It keeps me out of trouble. But when they decided to carry on, Riku already knew them, and he introduced me. Neither of us has much time for artificial highs, but Riku has tried a lot of stuff. He’s one of those people who can try the heavy stuff and walk away unscathed. I’m not interested. Does that make sense?”

  “For you, perfectly.”

  Silence fell for a while as she stretched up for a kiss. When they broke away, breath coming shorter now, he asked her, “What about you? Are you into anything?”

  Wow. From the expression in his eyes, she knew it didn’t matter to him. Not right now. She could do what she wanted, and he’d stay. Double wow. “No. I never had the opportunity. Child of the suburbs, went to an unremarkable school, unremarkable university, but I had to work hard to keep up. I didn’t socialize much, stayed at home and studied. I’m not a natural academic. I never came into contact with the wild crowd.”

  “Hmmm. Nothing unremarkable about you if you ask me.” He touched his lips to hers. “I learned that during our emails. Two years, don’t forget that. So do I get to meet your parents?”

  She sat up, water spraying over the floor with her sudden movement. “What did you say?”

  “I’m your boyfriend. Don’t you want to take me home to meet your folks?” He gave her no clues whether he meant it. She decided to take him at his word.

  “I—I usually go to their house for Sunday lunch,” she confessed. “You know, roast meat and two veg, apple pie for afters. Mum called me to see if I was coming.”

  “Do they know about me?”

  She stared at him, aware all over again of who he was and who she was. “No, but they will tomorrow. They have the local radio station on all the time, and they’re bound to talk about the concert and Jimmy. I have a brother and a sister, and one of them will see it online. My sister spends far too much time on the social networks and the gossip sites.”

  He gave a slow nod. “Inevitable.
Local girl, local rock star, local jazz genius.” His mouth twisted into a bitter laugh. “Once I’d have done anything for that kind of recognition. Now, I’d like some anonymity once in a while. It’s only happened this year. Before, people might have recognized Jace or Hunter or Donovan, but not like they do now. Jace was almost mobbed in Baton Rouge.” He gave a sharp laugh. “That’s where he comes from, partly. That’s where his mother lived, anyway.”

  “Do you know any more about your mother?”

  “Just her name and what happened to her.”

  Tragic, but Jimmy’s goodness threaded through the sorry story like a white thread on a crow’s back. Without Jimmy, Zazz might not be here, or he’d be in some gutter somewhere. Or dead. Unable to bear the thought, she moved close again, climbed over him to curl her legs around his back and hold her close.

  “I’ll text my mother, tell her I’m bringing a friend.”

  Chapter Eight

  Zazz didn’t have much experience of what passed for normal family life. Occasionally he’d gone home with a school friend, but such visits had usually ended badly. Until he’d learned to simulate behavior, copy what others did. His success had formed his first confidence boost, but after a while he’d also decided that he’d be himself. Never be anything for anyone. Except now he wanted to be what Laura wanted and all his youthful anxieties surged up to choke him and twist his stomach into knots.

  He dressed down. As much as he could anyway. Black close-fitting shirt over a white T-shirt, black jeans and his favorite leather jacket, the one he’d bought to replace the one that had finally fallen apart after years of sleeping in it. This one was better quality and had better memories attached to it, but he still missed the old one sometimes. He brushed his hair back to minimize the navy-blue color, but he didn’t want to change it. Not yet, not that much.

  Grimacing, he turned away from the mirror. He saw enough of himself these days, mirrored by other people for the most part, rather than a sheet of glass. Strolling out of his room, he encountered Chick. Just as well. “I won’t need the room,” he said. “I’ve packed what I need for the week.” He lifted his holdall, then the guitar case he had in his other hand. He’d traveled with a lot less than that in the past. He’d buy what he’d forgotten.

  “I’ll get the other stuff dealt with.” Chick looked up from his electronic tablet. “Riku’s moving hotels, so this place is done after today. You happy with it?”

  “Great. No security problems, everybody was pleasant to us. Give ’em a good tip, and I’ve left something in my room for the chambermaid.”

  Chick added a note to his tablet. “You might want to rethink staying with your girlfriend. The media won’t give up chasing you.”

  Zazz shrugged. “I’m sick of hotels. Great, you think at first, then it fucks you up. Everything is done for you, and one room is like the other, has the same things. I want home cooking, a quiet evening in. I don’t want everything perfect.” He paused. “In London, I still have a flat. I never sold it, because you said the market was down right now. I want to stay there when we go.”

  “Give me the keys, I’ll get it serviced.”

  “It gets serviced. I might buy the building.”

  Chick nodded. “The market’s still with you. Nothing wrong with good investments.”

  He wanted more. Although it still boggled his mind that he could talk casually about buying property in central London, it would have meant the same had he bought a small house in a suburb. He’d never owned a place before he bought that flat, and that was why he did it. Now, he had a place he could call home.

  It certainly wasn’t the place he’d run away from thirteen years ago. Shit, thirteen years! He’d accomplished so much in that time and he still didn’t know how.

  He walked out the front door of the Buckingham, a rare treat, and climbed into one of the cabs waiting there. The driver merely glanced in his mirror, and then did a double take and grinned broadly. “Where to?”

  Twenty minutes later, they arrived at her flat, and she welcomed him with a kiss. “You’ll get sick of this,” she said as she showed him his bedroom. Their bedroom. That sounded good. He dropped his bag and turned to take her in his arms, loving the way she fit there, but she moved away, laughing. “We have to get going. Or I do. You don’t have to come.”

  He hated the guarded expression that came into her eyes. No fucking way was she going there alone. He took her hand, twining his fingers between hers. “Yes I do.”

  It took half an hour to get there. Her parents lived in a respectable suburb of Manchester with her younger sister. Her brother had left home but would be present with his wife and kids that evening.

  He’d brought a bottle of wine with him, a traditional gift, but he hoped a welcome one. Not a sign that he was into untold debauchery. He felt her tension, even though he was only holding her hand. She wore something boring—badly fitting plain black pants and a beige pullover—but he didn’t want to comment on that and make her even more nervous. Even her makeup was subdued. It made him wish he’d put some on himself, instead of dressing for “dinner with the parents”.

  “It’s my first time,” he confessed, more to make her smile than anything else.

  “For what?”

  “Dinner with my girlfriend’s parents.”

  For a moment, it was as if the sun had broken out from behind the clouds. Her smile beamed, and he recollected why he was doing this. Because he couldn’t do anything else. He doubted if she realized she could twist him around her littlest finger, but no doubt she would soon enough. It worried him that he didn’t care.

  “Is that what I am?” she asked.

  He drew her close and pressed a deliberately gentle kiss on her lips. “It certainly is.”

  “For now.”

  Yeah. He’d see about that. They’d work something out. For now, he’d continue with his life’s philosophy. “There is only now.” It had worked for him, one way or another, for some time.

  He thrust money at the driver. They exited the taxi, but he waited until the cab had rounded the corner at the end of the street before he let her take him through the metal gate and up the concrete path to the green-painted front door. She rang the bell, although he imagined she’d have a key. Perhaps her family was security-conscious, although a glance at the rusting burglar alarm fastened to the wall above them hinted otherwise.

  He shivered, though the mild autumn air hadn’t caused it. He had no time to ponder the reason, because the door opened.

  For some time Zazz had worked on a song he’d called Anticlimax. He couldn’t get the end right. Neither could Riku or Jace or any of the others.

  Now he knew.

  The man who stood at the door was of medium height. He wore a white shirt with faint blue checks, a pair of trousers that shone with polyester and came up a little too high on his waist. He was a little overweight, balding, and he had the coldest eyes Zazz had ever seen. The phrase energy vampire came to him. That was it. Someone who sucked the vitality out of everyone around him, but remained the same. Perhaps parasite might be better. He’d have one of those in Anticlimax.

  The thought would certainly enliven the experience. He got the feeling that something had to.

  “Hello.” He held out his hand. “I’m Zazz.”

  “I thought your name was James.” The man barely touched his hand, but that was okay by Zazz. “I’m Laura’s father. Come in.” So Zazz still had no idea what to call him. He’d settle for the formal Mr. Wilkinson until told otherwise.

  “It is, but I come from Manchester. I got the nickname at school and it stuck.”

  He followed the man inside. While the house was relatively small, the ceilings were high and he shouldn’t have felt this claustrophobic. Just as well he didn’t have that particular terror, though he had plenty of others. He followed Mr. Wilkinson into the living room. This stretched the length of the house. A three-piece suite dominated the front part and a flat-screen TV set on the wall above the wooden
mantel. The TV looked like the only innovation since the seventies. The suite was a leather one, shit brown with an oatmeal carpet. The back part of the room currently contained a table set for dinner, with cloth and cutlery by every plate.

  And before him stood the epitome of anticlimax. A woman with a vague resemblance to Laura. Laura without her vitality, perhaps, someone with a different power. She wore pale-blue eye shadow to enhance her gray eyes, the color of fog in autumn, and raspberry-pink lipstick, currently stretched in a smile. “Pleased to meet you, James.”

  “Hi.” He touched her hand, then gave her the wine. “For you.” He’d thought of sending flowers, but the vases on the mantelpiece and the windowsill already held the silk variety. He decided he’d send some tomorrow. Something extravagant and exotic to lend the place a touch of color. Everything that wasn’t cream was brown. The only splashes of color were a few ornaments in the cabinet by the window and some subdued tones in the landscape hanging over the fireplace in the dining area. Outside, the rain had taken hold again. It seemed appropriate.

  “Thank you.” She took the wine and glanced at it, then pushed a perfunctory smile through and turned, taking the bottle to the table. She set it on the cloth, changed her mind and found a mat to set it on.

  The wine should have been opened to breathe, but Zazz didn’t know if it was worth breaking the silence to say so. They might take it as a criticism. Nervousness suffused him, prickled at his skin, making him want to yell, sing, anything to change things up. Only Laura, standing tensely by his side, stopped him.

  “Where did you live in Manchester?” Mr. Wilkinson asked him. Laura tugged him to the sofa and they sat.

  “My old man had a council flat in Hulme. I bought the place and he still lives there.” His mouth firmed. “Laura is his social worker.”

  “He’s not well?” To do him justice, Mr. Wilkinson was trying to make conversation. The least Zazz could do was oblige.