She sucked and he moaned, his body arching of its own volition, trying to push into the warm, wet haven of her mouth. Her tongue stroked him with a silky, almost sly touch, and oh fuck, he should have more control than this. “So good. So fucking good. You have to stop, sweetheart, you can’t do this.”
Her only answer was a throaty chuckle, a sound he felt as well as heard. It vibrated over his cock, and then she did it again, picking up on one of their songs. He concentrated on identifying it. Heartbreak, that was the one. A strange one to pick, but maybe she was operating on autopilot. Heartbreak was about that, about the day or two after a love affair breaks up. But it had a nice melody. A very nice one, he decided as she ran her tongue down the length of him and then up before taking his cock head back in her mouth.
Zazz lay back, let her do whatever she wanted. Even if that was to cradle his balls in one hand while she grasped the lower part of his cock and worked it in time with her sucking. “Oh shit, you do this so well. Baby, I want you. I need you. Ah fuck, God, I want inside you. Bring that pussy here, give me something to do.” She raised her head and shook back her hair. Their eyes met and they smiled. Her mouth was wet, her lips red. She blinked, a slow, lascivious movement.
Then she moved, turned around to give him a perfect view of her beautiful backside. Rounded, and right for his hands. He took hold, drew her up and moaned his approval as she lifted one knee and climbed over him, lowering herself slowly. Growling, he pulled her down and sucked her clit into his mouth.
She surrounded him. He tasted her spice and tartness, a flavor he’d recognize to his dying day. Great to feel her clit hardening in response to his steady sucking. He stroked her backside, slid his hands lower and pushed two fingers deep into her pussy. Such lush, wet heat, so soft, with the resilience of muscle when he pressed a little harder, exploring her. He added another finger. She could take it. Her turn to moan. He wanted some of that gorgeous luxury. Leaving her clit reluctantly, he switched hand and mouth, letting her crease slide against his mouth until he found her entrance. Now he could taste her for real, drink what she was giving him. She responded by sucking his cock in deep. She held his cock tight, as far as her fingers could reach around him, then worked him in a steady rhythm that could only end in one place.
Zazz didn’t try to minimize the sounds he made, the slurping, suckling as he ate her out. She was soaking now, enough to wet the fingers of his other hand, the one not working her clit, and sliding them slowly, one by one, into the sweet rosebud of her arse.
Furnace heat surrounded the digits, sucking him in to an impossibly tight place. She flinched, then relaxed, deliberately letting her body shift position slightly, stick her bottom in the air, hollowing her back to let him get at her. With fingers and tongue and mouth he worked her hard, knowing he didn’t have much time because what she was doing should be outlawed. She’d make him come in no time, less than that. He was determined to get her to go first, because once he was done, that’d be curtains for a few hours.
Tingles took over every part of his body, like pleasurable pins and needles prickling his suddenly sensitive skin, heating his body. He tensed, holding the moment when the climax became inevitable as long as he could, pulling her clit, caressing that place in her arse that would ensure her pleasure, and sucking the juices as she gave them to him.
A slight change in the flavor told him she was getting there. Then she was tightening and releasing his fingers—three by now—and jerking her hips in an instinctive effort to get away. He wouldn’t let her. He used the hand he’d been playing with her clit to grasp her around her lower back and hold her steady. He was determined to get every last drop out of her.
Then he exploded. Only word for it, and for a man who made his living out of playing with words, that was saying something. He shouted against her flesh, felt her hesitate, and then dip to take all his essence into her, suck it down, drink it as he’d done hers.
Limp as the proverbial wet noodle, he managed to roll her to the side of him and then help to turn her. He wanted to hold her now. They kissed, sharing flavors, and he loved the scent and taste of him in her mouth. He’d never have ended the kiss, but weariness swept over him like a tidal wave and he knew, despite his good intentions, he wouldn’t be awake for room service.
*
A few hours later, Beverley woke them and took them to the little airport in London Docklands, where they got a flight to Manchester. What it was to have money, Zazz mused.
Zazz was in no mood for the photographers who routinely waited outside the first-class exit, so he plowed straight through them, Laura tucked by his side.
A few paparazzi sniffing for celebrities hung about outside. He gave them a wave and told them, in passing, that he wanted to catch up with his father. But his dad might be out, staying with friends, so they were probably wasting their time. Christ, he hoped that was true. Let him not be lying in a gutter somewhere, or a nameless patient in a hospital with someone who didn’t know about his complex medical history. To them Jimmy A would be just another old man, an encumbrance blocking a bed. But to him, that was his father, the man he’d tried so hard not to love. And failed.
All through this Laura remained by his side, focused and responsive. She didn’t cling, but she was there when he needed her, so he could hold her through the flight, take her hand when they got through the airport madness. The only surprise she expressed was when he got behind the wheel of the rental car, a nondescript mid-range model. “I’ve never seen you drive.”
He shot her a tight grin. “Learned on the cars my mates used to steal. We’d joyride and then return them. I was lucky not to get caught. Most of them were. I got my license in London, so you needn’t worry you’re being driven by an illegal.”
He used the London method of driving, taking corners fast, dodging in and out of traffic, which made most passengers he drove catch their breaths, but she took it in stride. Maybe she was as anxious as he to find out what was happening and what they could do. Maybe she drove like he did. The thought that he had so much yet to find out about her made him smile, even now. Even when thoughts of his father gnawed at his stomach, threatening to give him the ulcer he’d dodged for years.
Driving gave him something to do, and it would keep the paparazzi at bay. If they needed security, Beverley had given him a number to call and put the company on standby. Stupid fucking thing, that. All he did was write and sing, and it had come to this.
All his dad had done was play, but he’d lived in an age when it wasn’t cool not to take drugs. Getting addicted meant you were even cooler. His father’s rehab and recovery had been precarious, and if he’d fallen now, Zazz didn’t think the old man would recover from it. Old man. At sixty-four, people didn’t consider themselves old, but Jimmy A surely was. He had kidney problems, back problems, eating problems because of his ruined mouth. Unexplained headaches that had worried Laura, because they made him violently ill. She’d told him in one of their emails and he’d told her it was part of the addict’s experience. Too fucking scared to come home and face his past. Afraid he might get dragged back in.
So here he was, well and truly in. His dad meant so much more to him than he’d allowed himself to believe. What worried him to the point of screaming was the thought of his father ill without anyone who understood him with him. Or dead. No, not that. Please. He’d only just begun to rebuild his relationship with the old man.
He took the corner of the road too fast. Just as well nobody was coming. His parking wasn’t exactly perfect either, but at least it was legal. He barely checked before they left the car and headed for the flat. The lifts were out of commission again, but the two flights of stairs didn’t make him or Laura pause. It would his father. He had to get him out of here. Sentiment couldn’t keep him there. If he promised to keep all the things Jimmy wanted, maybe he’d agree to move.
If he could find him.
Kelsie opened the door on their first knock. She looked terrible, her face unmade-
up for the first time since Zazz had met her, her eyes huge in her pale face. “He’s not here,” she said.
If she hadn’t gotten out of the way, Zazz would have pushed past her to get in. He needed to see for himself. Shit, oh shit. He heard the front door slam but saw the state of the previously tidy room. Liquor bottles, at least six, lay strewn about, all but two empty. He picked one up and tossed it aside again. Whisky. The cheap kind, the kind someone who wanted to get drunk fast might buy. Saucers used as makeshift ash trays overflowed. He frowned. Jimmy hadn’t smoked. Said the cigarettes dropped out of his mouth after his accident, made him look stupid. But the saucers held a collection of hand-rolled stubs, so maybe it wasn’t only tobacco they’d been smoking.
Fear clutched at him, turned his insides to dirty laundry swirling around a washing machine, but he ignored it in favor of searching the rest of the flat.
Everything except the kitchen and living room were as they should be—neat, most things in their places, reasonably clean, just as his dad’s caretakers kept it.
He confronted Kelsie, Jimmy’s new case worker. “Fuck, how could he do such a stupid thing?”
Kelsie glanced away, avoiding meeting his eyes. “I think it might have been something I said.”
“Go on.” He held himself in, very still, waiting for an answer. Laura stood between them, saying nothing, taking everything in. A referee. They might need one.
Kelsie swallowed. “I said he should get out more.”
Zazz breathed out, a sigh of tension released. “Is that it?”
“N-no. I said it would be good for him to pursue his hobby, maybe take his trumpet and see if anyone wanted to listen. He said he could still play a little, so I thought it might be good for him.”
Zazz listened now, in total disbelief. “Hobby? You called it a hobby?”
“Well, I know he had some hits once, but he hardly made Top of the Pops…” Her voice trailed off into faint nothingness.
Zazz chained himself with restraint, felt like that character in the old sitcom about the war who said she’d explain things only once. “That horn was his life. Jimmy A was one of the most influential and innovative jazz trumpeters in the world. People teach his stuff at universities, God help them. Because it can’t be explained like that, can’t be copied. When those gang leaders smashed his mouth, they destroyed something millions of people took pleasure in, copied. Loved. Yes, he could still play, but not like he did. Not the miracle that he was.” He breathed deep, let it out, his fists clenching into tight balls at his sides. “It was also his downfall. Don’t you know that jazz musicians can teach rock musicians how to take drugs? Jesus, woman, Chet Baker was a walking pharmacy, and my dad met him and showed him where to get the best snow in town.”
He saw her blank face, glanced at Laura, relieved to see that she understood. He turned his attention back to Kelsie. “The jazz scene in the seventies and eighties was full of addicts. My dad came here partly to get away from that scene. Even here, there’s something. And you sent him back?”
“The Band On The Wall is a perfectly respectable place these days.” Kelsie put up her chin.
“You mentioned it by name?” He slapped his forehead. “Fuck, Kelsie, didn’t you do any research? You know my dad’s an addict, so you send him back to the scene that made him one? The Band’s a great place, but not all the people who go there are so great. Like with Murder City Ravens, people hang around, offering us stuff. All the time. And the talent gets it for free.”
Kelsie glared at him. “Like father, like son?”
He didn’t bother to answer that one. “Shut up. Unless you can tell us where he is, shut the fuck up and get out.”
He turned his back on her and reached for Laura, not caring that Kelsie would see how much he needed Laura right now. She came without question, nestling close, letting him hold her until he stopped shaking. Mingled rage and terror filled him.
“Did you alert the hospitals?” Laura asked. Kelsie must still be here then.
“Yes. Nothing. I left an alert.”
Good, or maybe not, considering he could be lying in some hovel somewhere, dead or dying, arm full of junk. No, Zazz couldn’t bear to think about that. It mustn’t be true. His dad had tried so hard to stay off the stuff, but without his methadone, he’d start to experience withdrawal. Then he’d go on the other stuff. Then he’d die.
Zazz swallowed back his panic. That was the last thing he needed now. The answer came to him. “We’ll spend the rest of the day looking for him, and then if all else fails, we’ll go to The Band On The Wall.”
*
After an exhausting day scouring the hospitals, clinics, doctors’ surgeries and everywhere else they could think of, Zazz insisted that they lie down for a couple of hours before the Band opened. It would be highly unlikely anyone would turn up much before eleven, but just in case he planned to go around nine. He’d checked, and this was an improv jazz night, so if his father was awake, alive and anywhere near sentient, he’d be there. Beverley had booked them a room at the Buckingham again, but Zazz wore a cap over his distinctive hair and slouched. He got away with it. Nobody stared at them or approached them. It might have been his glare, or the way he held on to Laura’s hand as if he were afraid she’d get away. He fucking needed her now.
In their room, he led her to the bed. “We need to rest. I’ll set my phone alarm so we get to the club.”
She agreed, and only then did he see how weary she looked. He drew her close. “Hey. We’ll get past this.”
“Maybe,” she said, and that was all. She stripped to her underwear and crawled between the sheets. He did the same. And for the first time since they met, they slept, just slept.
When he awoke to the beep of his alarm, her side of the bed was cold. He doubted she’d had any sleep, but over the years he’d become accustomed to sleeping when he had the chance. The shower was running, so he went and joined her. Only large enough for two, but they didn’t need much room. He found the gel and smoothed his soapy hands over her body, relaxing into her curves. “You’re better than meditation,” he murmured against her hair.
She gave a muffled laugh, then stopped abruptly.
He lifted her chin, gazed into her eyes. “No, don’t. Let’s live in the moment, hmm? If we didn’t need to be out of here soon, I’d make love to you. We both need it. But we have to go. I want to find a table somewhere in a dark corner.”
But they could kiss, and the feel of her warm, wet body against his soothed him better than a massage.
They dressed, jeans and unremarkable T-shirts, and he picked up his favorite jacket, the well-worn leather one. He paused, glanced at her. “I bought this with my first decent wage. Sent the rest to my dad, to show him I was making a living from music. I don’t know what he did with it.”
They took a taxi to the venue. It wasn’t far away, but it did involve walking along streets that in his day had been decidedly and interestingly dicey. He recognized landmarks—the old newspaper building, all black glass and chrome remained, as did the pub that had one of the cabins from a doomed airship as part of its décor. People wandered along and in an odd way it made him feel heartened that he could find his way around still, at least in this part of town.
The Band On The Wall had once been a pub. The proprietors had bought it and knocked the insides out. It became the hottest club in the city, especially for jazz and indie. The performers had originally performed on a stage so small it was little better than a shelf, hence the name.
His first clue was the outside appearance. “Clean,” he murmured. “And fuck, neon lighting.” A long streak of neon crept along the upper story and curled to a pattern above. It seemed wrong. “This was one of the grungiest venues in the city before it closed. And the coolest too.”
He’d worn his hat again, pulled it over his hair and low on his forehead. The taxi driver hadn’t recognized him, but he should have known his luck wouldn’t last. He took Laura’s hand and led her inside. The man b
ehind the desk glanced at them, and then looked again. A classic double take. “Wow,” he said.
Zazz fumbled in his pocket for his wallet.
The man shook his head. “You’re okay.”
“No.” Zazz tossed down three twenties. “This is a charity now, right?”
The man nodded.
“Then take it. I never played here, but I’d always wanted to,” Zazz said.
The doorman brightened, his eyes alight with speculation. “Perhaps you can tonight. Have a word with the band if you want to jam.”
Zazz shook his head. “I just wanted to see the place.” He paused, stepped aside when two other people arrived. It was barely ten, early yet. “I used to come here a lot. With my father.”
His new friend stared, eyes wide, then blinked. “Yeah, I read about that. Jimmy A’s your father?” He shook his head, his overlong hair trailing on his shoulders, his bald pate gleaming in the unfortunately placed spotlight above him. “Explains a lot.”
Zazz leaned a hand on the counter, getting in his face. “And that would be…?”
“The experimental approach, the sophistication.”
Raising a brow, Zazz stepped back. “Sure. Thanks. Have you seen him?”
“Jimmy A? Yeah.” The man grinned. “Last night and he said to expect him tonight.”
Sighing, Zazz glanced at Laura, an interested witness. “He’s not arrived yet?”
The man shrugged. “I’ve only got here myself, man. I don’t know. But in the old days, I heard Jimmy A never used to arrive until gone midnight.”
“Sure.” After reaching for her hand, Zazz led Laura into the club.
The same and yet different. Someone had put the club through the washer. It was cleaner, leaner, but more stripped-down. Its previous incarnation had been more authentic, even though the restorers had taken pains to reveal the Victorian interiors. People had sat in unmatched chairs at a variety of tables, from wrought iron Victorian originals to plain deal ones. The bar had served beer pulled from the barrel because it was cheaper that way. He bought a couple of drinks, two beers, and even took a sip from his. It tasted good.
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