Zipless

by Diane Dooley

  Bluto started to giggle. “You’ve been up to your old tricks again, haven’t you, doll?”

  Lou gave him a shove and walked towards Zippy. “You…you’re the session guy?”

  He nodded, his eyes cold. “Make yourself useful and tell Lou I’m here.” He brushed past her and walked over to Bluto, who was now lying on the couch, chortling. “You got a problem, dude?”

  Bluto stopped laughing, stared at him wide-eyed, then collapsed into another set of giggles. He pointed at Lou, trying to get the words out. “She…she…” He slapped himself in the face, sat up, and took a deep breath. “Lou is otherwise known as Louisa Margaret Marzaroli.”

  Lou watched as Zippy frowned in puzzlement. “You’re managed by a woman?”

  “She’s rumored to be of the female sex. You’d probably know more about that than me.” He cracked himself up at his own joke and subsided back into the cushions, his sides heaving.

  Lou wondered if beating Bluto to death with his own guitar would be considered homicide or manslaughter.

  Zippy was turning her way, but then he changed his mind and went back to Bluto. He pointed a thumb over his shoulder. “That’s Lou?”

  Bluto nodded.

  “Not a groupie?”

  Bluto shook his head.

  “She’s your girlfriend?”

  Bluto’s eyes almost popped out of his head. “Fuck no, man. She’s more like the bossy harridan of a big sister I never had.” He grinned and glanced over at Lou. “Naw, man. No worries. She’s all yours.” He muttered under his breath, but Lou caught it. “Ye poor bastard.”

  Zip turned to Lou. “You told me—”

  “I told you nothing. You believed what you wanted to believe, what all men think if they see a woman hanging around with a band.”

  Lou watched him, desperately trying to stop her eyes from wandering to his crotch. Was it just a few hours since he’d been naked in her bed back at the hotel? She’d left him sleeping there. The poor thing had been exhausted after everything they’d done. A shiver ran through her. And they’d certainly done everything. She’d licked a lot more than his armpit this time. Every part of him was delicious. Every part of him beautiful. She looked at the well-worn laugh lines around his mouth. He wasn’t smiling now.

  He decided something, then shrugged. “I’m under contract with the label and they’ve sent me to work.”

  “Maybe it would be better if I called them and asked for someone else?”

  He shook his head. “I’m the guy they go to in moments of desperation.” He smiled crookedly. “They pay me for moments like this, Maggie. I mean Jolene. I mean Miss—”

  She smiled despite herself. “Call me Lou.”

  “I’m sorry I thought you were a groupie.” He said it softly so Bluto couldn’t hear, leaning forward to put his mouth next to her ear. His cheek brushed hers, and Lou clenched her fists, so strong was her desire to touch him. She took a step back.

  “Let’s get to work.” She gestured to the back of the rehearsal space. “If you want to get set up? The other two are running a wee bit late, but that’ll give you time to learn the song we’ll be performing.” She remembered they were doing “Song for Margaret,” with its final blistering solo. He was just a session musician. Should they do something easier? “Um,” she said. “Are ye…well…any good?”

  His shoulders stiffened. “I’m a professional. I can handle anything you want to throw at me.”

  Oops. She’d delivered an inadvertent insult. But then he smiled. Was he remembering how she’d pelted him with condom packets while she’d been on top of him? She almost moaned, remembering how he’d grabbed her hips and thrust himself into her, over and over, and oh… She closed her eyes. The sound of their joined laughter, the feel of their sweat on each other’s bodies. She bit her lip and forced her eyes open. Aye. By the expression on his face, he was thinking exactly the same thing she was. Sweet Jesus, he was licking his lips. That tongue of his, the things he could do with it.

  Lou took three steps back. “I’ll just…um…I think…”

  Zippy had one eyebrow raised and an indecent smile on his face.

  “I need to pee!” Lou gasped at the stupidity of her statement, then turned and rushed out of the rehearsal room. She dashed down the hall and shoved through a door into the ladies, heading for the sink. Running the cold water, she splashed it on her over-heated face, wishing she could pour a gallon or so down her over-heated jeans. She turned off the tap and stared at herself in the mirror. Raccoon eyes again. Oh, Zippy. What are you doing to me? This silly girl wasn’t her. She needed to get a grip, be a professional. Would he be able to play the solo? Another bolt of heat ran from her brain straight to her crotch. She couldn’t wait to see what he could do. He’d played her body like a virtuoso. He’d played it for hours. What would his hands be like sliding up and down the neck of his guitar? Those fingers. Could he make his guitar cry and moan like he’d made her? Could he pluck a string and make it vibrate for long, delicious moments? Like he’d done to her.

  Groaning, Lou turned the taps on again and dunked her head under the cold water. She dried her face with some paper towels, then pulled her mobile out. She should take a few minutes to calm down, then try to get a hold of Chiz and Alasdair. They should’ve been here by now. She remembered she’d taken a photo of Zip as he lay sleeping earlier. She pulled it up and stared at it. What was it about him? She’d never thought she could be so daft over an older man. He was in great shape, but the silver hairs running through his chest and head told the story, as did the slight lines around his eyes and mouth. He was no spring chicken.

  Still, she’d spent years surrounded by four very immature men. If Bluto was to be believed, they didn’t even want to be in the band, but had been too cowardly, or lazy, or too stoned, or drunk to bother telling her. Zippy, now. He knew what he wanted. He wanted her. She could see it in his eyes, feel it in his touch. It was quite a refreshing change. A grown man with a few years under his belt, with plenty of experience. She shuddered delicately, thinking of what he had under his belt. He certainly knew his way around a woman’s body. Her zipless fuck was turning out to be so much more. It was probably a bad idea, but…those hands, that smile…

  With an exasperated sigh, Lou turned on the cold water again. She needed to get Zipless out of her head and focus on him as a musician. If she couldn’t get Paolo back in time, Zippy was the key to their big break.

  * * * *

  “And you are?” Chris stuck out his hand towards the grinning man seated on the couch, who wiped his hands on his jeans before shaking it.

  “Bluto. Singer. Rhythm guitar.”

  “Front man?”

  “Aye, most of the time. Until Paolo takes over, then I step back and let him do his thing.”

  Chris nodded. “I’m Chris O’Conner. Wanna get tuned up together?”

  “Aye, sure. You want to use Paolo’s axe?”

  “Got my own, thanks.” He bent to his guitar case and started to open it.

  “Mind if I ask ye a personal question?”

  Chris shrugged.

  “You responsible for all those weird noises coming from Lou’s room earlier?”

  He looked up at Bluto. “I guess I am.”

  “And you were with her last night too?”

  Chris nodded.

  Bluto was looking at him incredulously. “You got together with Lou more than once?”

  “Well, yeah, why wouldn’t I?” He opened his guitar case, hearing a sharp intake of breath as the light caught the guitar’s reflective blue surface.

  “Wow, man. Wow. That’s beautiful.”

  Chris picked it up and strapped it on, smiling down at his favorite guitar. “You ready?”

  “Aye.” Bluto grabbed his and together they began to tune up. “I’ve only seen a guitar like that once before. Years ago. When I saw Snakebite play the Barrowland Ballroom in Glasgow. That guitar picked up every light in the place. People were jumping up and doon, trying to get
a wee look at themselves in the reflection. That Crash dude would let girls kiss it. Bloody thing was covered in lipstick by the end of the night. Great night, that. Great band. Shame what happened to…”

  Chris looked up as Bluto trailed off.

  “Oh. My. Fucking. God.” Bluto stared, eyes wide. “It’s you. It’s you! I didnae recognize you without all the makeup. Oh, my fucking god, I’m gonnae play with Crash fucking Burns!”

  “Hey, man. It’s no big deal.” Chris shifted uncomfortably. He wasn’t Crash anymore. Hadn’t been for a long time. But Bluto didn’t seem to care.

  “You disappeared. After the singer died. Jake… What was it?”

  “Allende. Jake Allende.” Amazing. His name still hurt. Even after all these years it was still hard to believe he was dead. Jake had been so alive. So fucking alive. But he’d been blotted out. By a fucking needle. “Come on, Bluto. What’s the song we’re gonna be doing. Key?”

  The door opened and Bluto glanced over. “Hey, Lou. Remember that band, Snakebite?”

  Lou went to a corner of the room and rummaged around in a big leather bag. “Aye, vaguely. One hit wonder, over-produced, they all ended up overdosing or choking on each other’s vomit or something.” She shoved her hand deeper into the bag and looked over at them. “That the one you mean?” She pulled out a sheaf of papers.

  Chris stared at her, willing her to shut the fuck up. He looked over at Bluto who seemed to be frozen with embarrassment.

  Bluto tried to intervene, to head her off at the pass. “You’re a wee bit harsh, are ye no?”

  She shrugged as she walked towards them. “Another junkie band with more showmanship than talent. That singer was a joke.”

  Chris held his breath as she shoved a piece of paper into his hand. She hadn’t said anything unforgiveable. There was actually a lot of truth in her brutally-stated opinion. He opened his mouth to inform her that there’d been only one junkie in the band.

  She looked up at him. “People who waste their lives like that? In thrall to heroin?” She grimaced. “They’re an insult to all the people who died of cancer. The ones who wanted to live.”

  Her lip was trembling and, as she turned away, he thought he’d seen tears in her eyes. He turned to look at Bluto. “Just drop it,” he said quietly. “Let’s get to work,” he added more loudly. “What song are we doing?”

  “The one you’ve got in your hand,” Lou said, still with her back to him.

  He glanced down at the paper. Song for Margaret. Words and Music: Marzaroli. The title was followed by sheet music. He shook his head. “I can’t read music.”

  Lou turned to him, rolling her raccoon eyes.

  “I can learn anything by ear. Do you have a recording I can listen to?”

  She nodded and returned to her enormous leather bag, soon pulling out an iPod attached to massive headphones. She tapped away at the iPod as she ambled back.

  She pushed a chair toward him with a foot. “Sit,” she barked, then put the headphones on his head. He watched her as she walked away. In his ears the song started, sweet and mellow. She was talking to Bluto, who was nodding and smiling. Bluto handed her something, then left the room, waving and grinning. She came back, pulling a chair with her. She sat on it in front of him, bending slightly, then clipped a capo onto the neck of his guitar. The song continued. He played a single chord, and she shook her head, putting her hand over his and sliding it a couple of frets up the neck. He played the chord again. This time she nodded and moved closer. He looked down. His leg was between hers, the guitar in his lap—and she was either staring at his crotch or trying to look at herself in the guitar’s reflective mirror.

  Chris reached into his pocket and pulled out a pick. In the song, a slow, sad phrase was playing over the rhythm guitar. He’d already heard it twice. The third time he played along with it. Lou smiled and nodded. With more confidence, Chris continued with the song, adding some length and vibrato to the final note. Would she mind him changing it a little? Adding something of himself? She wasn’t smiling any more. She was just staring. Maybe she didn’t like it. He played the phrase again, adding a small run in the middle. He had the repeating phrase down now, just had to hear the solo. He listened to the lyrics. Bluto had a good voice, gruff yet tender. The song was about somebody dying. Someone called Margaret. That was Lou’s middle name.

  The song was reaching its emotional climax in the final verse. He’d thought it was a song about losing a lover, but it wasn’t. It was about losing a mother. Being left alone. The feeling of fear and confusion. Chris closed his eyes. He’d known those emotions. Back in South Carolina, the third foster home, his social worker with tears in her eyes, telling him that Mom had died. Liver failure due to chronic Hepatitis C. Fifteen years old and he’d finally understood why his mother had dropped him at the local children’s home nine months earlier. Why she’d been crying, telling him it was better this way. She’d loved him; he’d always known she loved him. In her way. Not more than the smack, though. Never more than that.

  The final line of the song registered, and then it was into a full-blown screaming wave of agony disguised as a guitar solo. Chris didn’t even try to play, just listened. Until the headphones were wrenched away.

  “Zippy, you okay?” Lou’s voice was soft and sweet. “You’re crying,” she said, as she collected the solitary tear that was making its way down his face.

  One single tear, he thought. The first he’d shed for Mom in so many years. He shook his head. “Sorry. It’s just…” He remembered the final line—having to stay strong for the younger brother who was falling apart. One of the Marzarolis had written the song. And he was sure it was the one sitting in front of him. What she’d said earlier about people dying from cancer who’d so badly wanted to live. He took a deep breath. “My momma died when I was fifteen.”

  She didn’t speak. Just nodded like she knew exactly how he was feeling. “The song made you cry?”

  “Yeah.” He shifted uncomfortably. “You sure you wanna do this one on the show? I mean, it’s a great song. No doubt. But it’s kind of a downer.” He sniffed, trying to do it unobtrusively.

  “I suppose it is,” she said.

  “What’s the newest song? Would you consider that one?”

  “Um. The band hasn’t recorded it yet. But they’ve played it live a few times and it went down well.” She picked up the iPod. “I’ll let you hear it and you can tell me what you think.” She put the headphones back on him, then walked away. He started to listen, aware that she hadn’t walked far, and that she was watching him.

  It wasn’t the band playing, just a single guitarist. The song started out with a few simple chords and a little nimble finger picking. Was it Bluto playing? Or maybe the brother, Paolo? Whichever one it was, he got a nice full sound out of his guitar. But when the first verse started, it certainly wasn’t either one of them singing. It was a woman. And it was a fine strong voice, clear and pure, with an aching beauty. No vibrato, no runs, just straight melody. No strain on the high notes, perfect pitch, almost effortless. There was a noticeable accent; the singer was making no effort to sound American or at least transatlantic.

  He turned and glanced at Lou, who immediately turned away and pretended to be going through her bag. It was her singing. He was sure of it. Such a lovely voice, accompanied by excellent guitar playing. The song was good. Very good. It had the feel of something old that had been modernized. The lyrics were about never giving up on something, never surrendering. It sounded like her. “Who wrote it?” he said over the music, then pointed a finger at her.

  She blushed, nodded.

  “Paolo or Bluto on guitar?”

  She shook her head.

  The tempo of the song was building, the guitar playing intensified. “You?” he asked.

  She nodded, then turned in the direction of the door as Bluto came crashing through it, half-carrying another man. They both fell to the ground. Over the sound of the music he could hear Lou shrieking. He pulled of
f the headphones.

  * * * *

  “Chiz, you drunken bampot! Are you incapable of staying sober?” Lou rushed over as Bluto climbed to his feet. “Let’s get him on the couch.” Don’t kill him, don’t kill him, repeated in her head.

  Lou stared down at Chiz’s grinning mug, as she, Bluto, and soon Zippy, dragged his drunken carcass to the couch and heaved him onto it.

  “They’re after me,” he slurred.

  Lou grabbed a bottle of water and emptied it over his head, smiling with satisfaction as he spluttered. She pointed a finger in his face. “It’s me you’re in trouble with, laddie.”

  Chiz started to giggle and hiccup. He might be a drunk, but he’d never been a mean one, Lou thought. And he was used to playing drunk. But— “Where’s Alasdair?”

  “With some Jamaicans.”

  “What Jamaicans?”

  “We met them at a bar down the street.”

  “So he’s at a bar? Which one?”

  Chiz shook his head and rolled off the couch. “He’s no at the bar anymore. Got to go, lass. Them…they’ll be here soon.” He pushed himself up on his feet and stood there, weaving dramatically.

  “The Jamaicans? Why are they coming here? What the hell did you do to them? Are they bringing Alasdair?”

  “Naw. He went away with them.”

  “Went with them where?”

  Chiz tried to take a step back, but ended up falling on the couch. Lou stood over him, hands on hips. Chiz looked a little terrified. “Jamaica?” He asked it nervously, trying to push himself into the couch away from her.

  Lou bent over and grabbed him by the shirt. “Tell me that—” She shook him. “—the fucking drummer—” She shook him again. “—hasn’t fucked off…to fucking Jamaica.” She kept shaking him until Bluto intervened.

  “Careful, Lou. You don’t want him hurling everywhere.”

  She stepped back, glaring at Chiz.

  “Sorry, Lou-Lou.” Chiz pushed himself up again. “I tried to stop him. But those Jamaicans were pretty persuasive.”