by Susan Ward
“Because Alan Manzone just told me to get your ass out front now and if I touch you he’s going to kick the shit out of me.”
The whole situation is beyond the abilities of my befuddled mental state: Vince and his prowling hands; Alan and the phone call; and how messed up I feel after only three drinks.
Vince is pulling me through the club and I can’t get my thoughts to keep up with the rapidly shifting scene as he drags me out onto the front sidewalk. My car is parked by the door, my blond Nordic driver is waiting, there is a crowd, and the tabloid photographers are no longer relaxing against the brick of the building. They are rapidly clicking away. Flash, flash, flash.
The popping flashes make me sway a little on my feet and Vince reaches out to me. I panic, nearly tumbling to escape his repulsive touch and I’m suddenly swallowed by an angry swarm, taking pictures, shouting questions, so many questions, and I can’t get out of the swarm and I can’t breathe.
“Keep the fuck away from her,” someone shouts behind me, and then the swarm evaporates and there are people everywhere, the cameras are flashing like a meteor storm, and Alan and Vince Carroll are fighting. Everything is moving slow, like I feel inside: Vince on the ground; Alan kicking him in the gut over and over again; Vince trying to crawl away; the hard snap of Vince’s arms; the girls screaming.
“Oh my god!”
Frozen in panic, I stare at the ensuing chaos. Shit, did Alan Manzone just kill Vince Carroll right in front of me? I feel frantic screams rising inside of me, but I can’t get the air from my lungs to push them out. Then Vince groans, and I’m relieved and I don’t know why, but it’s probably because Alan is shouting to put me in the car and I have David’s kind steadying hands helping me there.
I’m pushed down onto the seat, the door slams behind me, and I am trapped inside. Strange flashes mar the tinted windows, and there is shouting, so much shouting and my head hurts. Nightmarish images flash in and out of my head and I struggle to try to lift myself from the seat. I need to call David to get me away from here.
I’m pushed back into the leather and Alan drops heavily into the seat beside me. The car door slams. I can feel the pressure of the car moving forward with rapid speed.
The only sound within is Alan’s heavy breathing and I warn myself to hold steady, but his eyes are blazing and I don’t understand what is happening. Why would Alan Manzone show up out of nowhere and beat up Vince Carroll on the sidewalk in front of CBGBs?
I can feel Alan all around me and I know without looking at him that he is very angry. Why is he angry? Why doesn’t he say something?
“What the fuck are you doing at CBGBs with a known drug dealer and Vince Carroll?” he growls through gritted teeth.
“You know Jimmy Stallworth?” I ask, though why that seems a reasonable question I don’t know.
His eyes are blazing as they lock on me. “Everyone in the industry knows Jimmy Stallworth. Fuck!” He lets out a long and primal exhale of anger. “What the hell are you doing making the rounds of the New York club scene alone? Do you have any idea what could have happened to you? Fucked up? Alone? With guys like Vince Carroll and Jimmy Stallworth? Where the hell is that useless friend of yours?”
“Rene,” I supply contritely, though I don’t know why I am contrite.
“Whatever,” he counters, sharply dismissive.
I’ve never heard whatever with a British accent and I can feel myself being swept away by laughter. The laughter feels strange, a disobedient force, but I can’t seem to stop laughing and am vaguely aware that there is nothing funny happening here.
Alan’s eyes lock on me, blazing. “Stop laughing. This isn’t the least bit funny. It would have been better for us both if you hadn’t done this.”
My head buzzes. Nothing I do has anything to do with him. He has no right to stomp about like a caveman and then yell at me. I want to tell him to go to hell. I’ve obsessed over him for five days, and now he has the nerve to pop up out of nowhere, create that horrifying scene, then behave as though I’ve behaved badly. What I do is none of his business.
“I really wish you’d stop telling me what would be better for me,” I exclaim in frustration. “How would you know what’s better for me? I don’t even know.”
He arches a brow. “Exactly. If you did, you wouldn’t be stupid enough to be out partying with Vince Carroll and Jimmy Stallworth.”
I hear it in his voice, concern, something I understand. My combativeness fades. My limbs relax all on their own and it’s as if I’m melting, my flesh is melting, until I am deep in the leather seat, against him, my cheek resting on his shoulder. It feels so wonderful to be touching him, to be close. I tilt my face. I stop when he fills my eyes.
“Why are you angry with me?” I ask and those captivating black eyes flash at me.
“The Blue Light was awful enough, you stumbling and drunk and making a fool of yourself. But I didn’t expect to see you tonight wired on stage singing with Vince Carroll.”
The interior of the limo has calmed, less full of angry Alan. I take in more details of him. He definitely looks rock star New York chic tonight: Leather pants, open shirt and all. The same clothes from his television interview earlier today.
“I hate how you’re dressed,” I whisper.
“I don’t particularly care for your attire. That top must belong to Rene.”
I crinkle my nose. “Attire? My we are British again. I guess this does make me look a little slutty. And you are right. It is Rene’s.”
Those black eyes lock on me. I begin to burn. “No, Chrissie. You don’t look slutty. You look like a girl out looking for trouble. That’s how you look tonight. Incredibly hot and looking for trouble.”
His thumb runs along my jaw line. I can feel a jolt shoot down, all throughout my body. He turns my chin until I’m looking straight at him.
“You are a very beautiful girl.” He kisses the underside of my chin. My organs tighten. I pull in a sharp breath. “And unfortunately,” he whispers, “you are very, very fucked up.”
He sets me back against my seat. My body screams. I can’t tell if he’s mocking me, toying with me or angry with me. “Behave yourself,” he commands.
I jerk away from him and sink into my side of the seat. “And I was about to take my top off because you are right—I would never buy this for me.”
“You can take your top off if you want. I don’t fuck fucked up little girls and I’m sure the tabloid photographers would enjoy it.”
OK, he’s mocking me, and through my deadened senses I feel my anger surge. “Yeah right, Alan. I’m yellow carding you. That’s bullshit. Do you mean to sit there and tell me you don’t go to bed with drunk women? You’d be the first rock star in history…”
Those black eyes swivel. I shiver. “No, what I’m saying is you are too much shit to deal with for a fuck. I fuck drunk women all the time. I don’t do bullshit, Chrissie. If you ask me a question, I will tell you the truth. You need to decide how far and in what direction you want to go before you start something.”
OK, this is a little frightening and a little bit of a turn-on. And damn, if he doesn’t know it. I stare out the window.
“Where are you taking me?” I ask quietly.
“Back to your apartment. Where did you think I was taking you?”
“Shopping with Nia. You said you didn’t like my top.”
The car rolls to a slow stop. He did take me home. I don’t understand anything that’s happened tonight. And I definitely don’t know what to do now. Do I invite him up, Mr. I don’t fuck fucked up little girls? Do I thank him for seeing me home? Do I kiss him goodnight? Christ, why is this all so hard to figure out? It’s just goodnight. What’s wrong with me that I can’t figure this out?
The car door opens. A blast of cool air rushes in and it makes me feel not at all good. I begin to feel faint and I am definitely aware of my dizziness as I climb awkwardly from the car with the assistance of my blond Nordic driver.
My shif
ting vision fixes on Alan. God, why does he have to look so good? No, don’t think about that. You’ve got to send him away. Tell Alan goodnight and send him on his way.
“I’d invite you up but you don’t want to fuck.”
Oh shit, those weren’t the words in my head. The world shifts. Alan grabs me before I fall, and some moments later the world refocuses, I’m in his arms, tucked against his chest, being held close against him. He is firing off rapid words to the driver and I can’t catch any of them. Maybe I could figure out what was happening if the building would stop spinning. Why is he yelling at David?
The doorman pulls back the door, proceeds to the elevator, but Alan waves him off before he enters with us.
“What did you do with your elevator key?” he asks me.
“Key? Oh, it’s in my pocket. Back. Left cheek.”
The metal doors of the elevator slam shut behind us. I can feel every motion in the elevator, the long ride up floor by floor, the feeling of his pulse beneath my cheek, the slow, deep breathing. I curl more closely into him. I can feel the heat of his body as I tuck my cheek against his shoulder and watch the pulse move in his neck. I want to kiss that spot.
“Don’t start anything,” he castigates me.
My face burns. I am kissing him on the neck. I stop and his features are very tense. We are in the apartment foyer. “Are you staying the night?”
“Of course.” He says it stiffly. “I don’t want you vomiting in your sleep. You can die that way.”
I squirm in his arms, wanting now to be put down, but he ignores me and goes into the hallway.
“Where is your bedroom?”
“I’m not letting you to take me to bed.”
“I thought we covered this. I’m not taking you to bed. I’m putting you in it.”
“Oh.” I shrug. I point at a door at the end of the hallway.
His arms fall away and I’m sitting on my bed. I am as close to going to bed with a guy as I have ever been. And I want to. I really, really want to. Being near him is like some voodoo aphrodisiac. My blood is on fire. There is a wild pulse in me. I never feel this way, not ever. It is such a delicious feeling. The agitation in my flesh, the pulsing, the want, the anticipation.
“Where are your t-shirts?” he murmurs as he carefully unties my halter top.
Oh my…Alan Manzone is undressing me. Fantasies do come true. Cold air touches my skin and I am quaking like a leaf. I am topless. The first guy ever to see my unclothed breasts is Alan Manzone. How freaking unbelievable is that? He is so beautiful.
“Where are your shirts,” he repeats quickly.
This is it. I’m finally going to do it. I can’t find my words. I can’t take my eyes off him. My body is raging and he’s unbuttoning my jeans.
He slips them off. He goes to a chest of drawers and removes a white tank top. He pulls it over my head. No, no, no. This is wrong.
He jerks back the blankets and points at the pillow. He eases me into the bed until I feel the coolness of the sheets behind me. I want him to cover me with his body. He moves back from me, pulling the blankets up around me.
He grabs my hip and turns me onto my side. “Don’t sleep on your back,” he says softly and he switches off the light.
Fully dressed, he lies on the bed behind me, curled into my back. His arm casually snakes over my body. His long fingers rest carelessly against my stomach. I can hear him breathing. I can feel the warmth of him. How am I supposed to sleep with him behind me?
I roll over until I’m on my other side, my face a breath from his on the pillow. The tease of my shirt and the blankets make my breasts ache for his touch. I’m claimed by raging desire, and sleep just isn’t going to happen.
“I can’t sleep. I’m too restless,” I whisper. “Don’t you want to…?” I can’t finish the thought.
He gently strokes my hair, and those worldly black eyes harshly fix on my face. “It’s being fucked up and the aftereffects of being on stage. The combination makes it an adrenaline rush. You get off stage and the first thing you want to do is fuck someone. It’s just the adrenaline rush. It goes away. Go to sleep.”
“I’m too wired. I feel like I could crawl out of my skin.”
His features look strained. “Chrissie, go to sleep.”
I stare up at him. “But I want to. I really, really want to with you.”
I move into him, my lips on his neck and my hands clumsily fumble for the fastening of his pants. His breathing grows deep and ragged. He stops my hands.
“Behave, Chrissie.”
He is gently stroking my flesh. My breathing won’t calm. My body is ruthlessly demanding more and he thinks I’m going to sleep. My fingers search for the buttons on his shirt. My lips find the warm flesh of his jaw. My pelvis lifts upward into him. The taste of him runs wildly through my veins. I want him and there is no power on earth that could make me stop this…I want him…I want him…
Chapter Seven
I come awake slowly and open my eyes to streams of parallel ribbons of sunshine peeking through the half-open slats of the shutters. I am comfortable and warm in bed, wrapped in a cocoon of blankets.
I shift my head and my hair falls across my face. Unfocused moments slip by. It is my room, I know that. It is bright and airy and the walls are covered with that hideous pink and white striped wallpaper with the flowered border that I picked out when I was seven.
There is an arm carelessly flung over my hip, gentle yet holding. There is a dark tattoo on the forearm. The fingers are long.
All at once, like a door flying open, my sluggish brain jerks into overdrive and I know two things: I am nude beneath the covers, and that arm and warm body behind me belongs to Alan Manzone.
Oh god, what the hell did I do last night? There are memories, but they are foggy. Was I drunk? I must have been, but I don’t feel hung over. I don’t feel wretched like I did after clubbing with Rene. How much of what I remember is real? Did I really go to CBGB’s? Did I really run into Vince Carroll? Did I sing on stage? Did Alan really dump Nia and beat up Vince Carroll?
Snippets of the night come to me in greater clarity. I couldn’t possibly have said the things I remember saying to him last night! I couldn’t possibly have all but attacked him sexually!
I cautiously lift the blanket just to confirm that I’m really nude. No, no, no. I don’t know what’s wrong with my memory. But that could not have possibly happened. It was a dream. A drunken dream. Only I don’t feel like I’ve been drunk. I feel funny. Spacey.
I cringe. More disjointed minutes come to me. There is a flash in my memory of Alan’s face as he undressed me: angry and worried. Why was he angry? Why was he worried? The last thing I remember is being naked in bed and then nothing. I blush. Did we make love? I don’t think we did. I don’t feel like we did. Wouldn’t I feel it? I frantically look at him. He’s still dressed. My memory stirs. He didn’t want to make love to me. He said no. I offered and he said no.
I want to die! I would climb from the bed, but I can’t. Even if I could slip free of his arm, I’m naked and there doesn’t look to be any clothes handy. In slow, careful movements so as not to disturb him, I gently turn beneath his bicep so I can see him. I’m surprised he’s still in bed with me, though technically not, just lying atop it.
Why is he still here? Shouldn’t he have slipped out the door long before this? Isn’t that what most guys do? Sneak out before morning? At least that’s what Rene says, and she would know. It would have been better for me if he’d made an escape, because I really don’t know how I’m going to keep from making a fool of myself when he wakes up. How do you face a guy in the morning after he didn’t want to have sex with you?
I need to talk to Rene. I wish I could get out of the bed. I wish he’d just screwed me last night while I was crazy, so I could just be done with my virginity. It wouldn’t make this morning any more nerve-rackingly awful.
The phone rings and I tense. I peek back over my shoulder to find Alan awake. He looks
at me, and it’s almost as though he’s studying my face, looking for something, and then feels relieved he doesn’t find it. His eyes become soft, his expression gentle.
“Aren’t you going to answer that?” he asks.
I shake my head.
“It could be Jack.” He says it nonchalantly.
Does he really expect me to take a call from my father while lying nude in bed with him? OK, technically not in bed with him, but my frazzled nerves don’t seem to draw a distinction.
The phone stops ringing. Thank god.
“How do you feel? Any dizziness? Are you sick?”
What kind of questions are those? Say something, Chrissie. You can’t just stare at him. “I’m OK.”
He looks relieved and smiles. Why does he look relieved?
He brushes back his tousled waves. “Are you hungry?”
What are we playing? Twenty questions? Why do I feel like the questions are more than just questions? Like I’m at the doctor’s office or something…how are you feeling, Chrissie? Any shortness of breath? Or just a fever today…Jeez, enough with the third degree. Am I hungry? I’m starving, which is strange since the last time I spent a night getting myself trashed on booze the thought of food made me want to wretch. But, I’m hungry this morning.
I nod.
He pulls away and sits on the edge of the bed. “Would you like me to cook you something or would you rather go out?”
I try desperately not to look flustered. “You don’t need to cook me anything. I usually just have cereal in the morning.”
“Cereal. Sounds charming. No, Chrissie. I’m going to cook you something. You need something substantial in your stomach today.”
My eyes round. There is something strange in all this, but I don’t have a clue what it is. Twenty questions and now meal planning. What difference does it make what I eat?
In a moment, he is rising from the bed and pulling off his shirt. “I expect you to decide what you want by the time I’m done showering.”
With a casual smile, he tosses his shirt onto my chair. I can hardly take in air. Every inch of him has been kissed with perfection. His back and chest are sensual planes of firm, defined, and tanned muscles. Regrettably, there is also quite a bit of ink there, though on him the ink is a turn-on. His tattoos playfully move with his muscles.