Hard Rhythm

by Cecilia Tan

  “Don’t apologize. It’s the best scent in the world. Hot woman. Very distracting, though. Get a fresh ice cube. Do it again.”

  I did it again, whining as my arousal mounted and I jerked my hips, but the ice was frictionless. I would never be able to come from it.

  “Again,” he said.

  I picked out a third piece of ice, this one with a “rough” texture, but within seconds it had melted down smooth.

  “Is it working, sweets? Are you cooled down now?”

  “Ah, fuck you, Chino,” I said through clenched teeth. “I’m at eight or nine now.”

  He laughed his evil laugh. “When you reach ten what happens?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe at ten I go crazy from the need to come?”

  “Crazy enough to do anything I tell you?”

  Now I laughed. “You don’t have to wait until I’m at ten for that.”

  “There you go again with the ‘anything.’ Well, I haven’t told you about the doll heads in the trunk yet,” he said with a grin. “So. It would seem the hornier you get, the more pliable you get.”

  “Doesn’t everyone?” I asked, squirming with my fingers sliding down as far into my pants as I could go.

  “Get your jeans off.” He checked in the rearview mirror. “I want you to spread that pussy wide. Let it breathe.”

  I kicked off my shoes and peeled my panties and jeans off.

  “Now,” he said. “I need to keep my eyes on the road, so I want you to take my phone and take pictures of yourself fingering yourself for me.”

  “Oh, fuck,” I said aloud.

  “Is that a problem?”

  “No! That was a general ‘oh, fuck’ of enthusiasm,” I said. “Chino, you are one hot and twisted individual.”

  “Yep,” he said with a nod. “See, the thing is, I’m not into sex toys…except that anything can be a sex toy, you know?” He gave me the code to unlock his phone. “Right now, Maddie, you are my sex toy.”

  Nngh, those words, the rush of desire I felt when he said them was like drinking a shot, heat flowing deliciously through my whole body.

  “Spread yourself with the fingers of one hand and hold the phone with the other,” he directed. “Take plenty. I’ve got lots of memory on that phone.”

  I unlocked the phone and caught a glimpse of his “recent calls” log. Were those women’s names I saw? Flora, Christina, Penny…I switched to the camera quickly, telling myself they were probably the names of real estate agents. I was wholly entranced by the Chino Garcia sex god spell and didn’t want to burst the bubble. Don’t be paranoid, I told myself. Stop it and enjoy the ride.

  I took about a dozen shots from various angles. I hadn’t examined myself so closely in a long time, not since college when I’d been worried I had caught herpes. (I hadn’t. Thank goodness.)

  “Now put some fingers in for me.”

  “How about some video?” I suggested. I slid a finger into myself. “Oh, fuck.”

  “Was that the ‘oh, fuck’ of enthusiasm?”

  “It was.” My own fingers sliding in and out of me felt far better than they had this morning. I was much more aroused, I guess. I took some photos of my middle finger planted deep, and then some video of my index and middle fingers drilling in and out of me.

  “One more suggestion,” Chino said, his gaze resolutely on the road ahead. “I want you to put something else in you. Something you choose.”

  “Something else?” I glanced around the car, trying to come up with something. “Like the straw that was in my mouth?”

  “For example. Unless you’ve got something in your purse you’d prefer.”

  There wasn’t much in this purse, I didn’t think, except… “I’ve got mascara.” I pulled the container out of the bag and held it up, a gold and black tube about six inches long and about the width of my thumb.

  “Ever fucked yourself with it before?”

  “Nope.”

  He made that purring sound. “Excellent. Do it.”

  It wasn’t very wide and I was gushingly wet, so the hard plastic cylinder slid into me easily. I took both photos and video of it going in and out of me.

  “Thank you, sweets,” he said, when I turned to him expectantly. “You can put my phone down now and make yourself come. Unless you’re really really into delayed gratification, in which case you can wait till you get home.”

  “I…I…” I was already fingering myself furiously, so impatient to come that I didn’t even pull the mascara tube free.

  “Don’t scream,” he said mischievously just as I neared my peak. I clamped my jaw shut—my eyes, too—as I came so hard I saw stars.

  * * *

  There was just barely time for Chino to drop me at home so I could change into not-damp panties and jeans and get to my rendezvous.

  Price Lawson looked much the same as he had a few years ago, the cut of his suit and his hair a tad more chic than when he’d worked at a daily newspaper, but otherwise same former-athlete-prone-to-pack-on-weight build, same rakish hunch to his shoulders. I saw him waving from inside while I pulled into the drive-through. I got myself some hot tea at the window—after all, I might need something calming—then pulled out the other side and parked on the street at the curb, motioning him to follow.

  Mine wasn’t a glamorous car by any stretch, a hand-me-down from my father, but not only did I feel safer in it than out in the open, I’d also hidden a voice recorder in the glove compartment. Just in case.

  Price didn’t object to my choice of meeting place, getting into the passenger seat without hesitation and perching a backpack on his knees. “Thanks for meeting me,” he said.

  Having spent the afternoon with Chino, I hadn’t exactly given a lot of in-depth thought to the situation, but somehow I felt clearer now about what to say. In fact it was suddenly obvious: “I decided it was best to tell you off in person, Price. How dare you make accusations about me having an affair while simultaneously pretending to be some kind of dream-job-dangling knight in shining armor?”

  He cringed sheepishly. “I, ah, you’re right. I’m sorry.”

  “Now give me the dirt on Schmitt and I’ll decide whether I’m going to deign to help you or what.”

  Price pulled a sleek laptop out of his backpack and shoved the bag into the footwell. Before he opened the laptop, though, he said, “Maddie, I want you to know I really do think you have writing talent. And I really do think a story like this would have much more virality if told by a woman.”

  “Is ‘virality’ the new term for sensationalism?”

  He cleared his throat, pretending I hadn’t called him on it, and opened the laptop. On the screen were spreadsheets and images of statements showing deductions from Schmitt’s bank accounts that exactly matched the income from the Purity SuperPAC. It looked as though Schmitt hadn’t even tried to keep the contributions secret and I told Price that. “I don’t know if your plan is going to work.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, if you’re going to try to discredit Purity Values, will showing that a donor doesn’t adhere to those values actually make any difference? What if Schmitt gives to all the candidates because he’s hedging his bets? He’s a power broker. He gets in everyone’s pockets. Do you know if he gives to liberal PACs and candidates, too? What then?”

  Price frowned. “Hm.”

  “Or another thing: What if the only reason he gives to these guys isn’t because it’s his beliefs so much as a smoke screen in case he ever does have something quote-unsavory-unquote come up? He doesn’t even look like he’s tried very hard to hide it.”

  “Huh.”

  “Your scenario only makes sense if Schmitt is in fact having an affair with me, but unfortunately he isn’t.” I gave Price a pointed look. “I know you’re looking for a huge exposé or story to make a big splash, but Schmitt carrying on with me isn’t it.”

  “What were you doing with him at the Hamilton place, then?”

  “That’s private and
yes, I’m going to be an ass about my privacy because it’s payback, Price. But I will tell you normally he has his wife with him; that’s how off base you are. She just had a cold and stayed home.”

  “Damn.” He closed the laptop. “I was so sure I was onto something.”

  I gave him an innocent-looking shrug. At least, I hoped it looked innocent. “Got anything else you’d like written? I’m sure there are plenty of feature article topics I could tackle. Sexy ones, even. How about the explosion of male exotic dance revues in the wake of Magic Mike XXL? I could totally do that one justice.”

  “Sure. Yep. I’ll think about it. Thanks for meeting me, Maddie. Sorry again. Bye.” He got out of the car so fast it was crystal clear to me he wasn’t the slightest bit interested in my story idea. Although, granted, I’d picked the topic to needle him, so I wasn’t too surprised that he couldn’t get away from me fast enough. Now that I’d thought of it, though, I decided I should pitch that as a story to some other online magazine. Meanwhile, I hoped I’d thrown him off Schmitt’s and the Governor’s Club’s scent. The exposure of the playground of Hollywood’s kinky elite would truly be a massive, massive scoop, but Price would never know it. Not if I could help it.

  * * *

  CHINO

  My phone rang shortly after I dropped Madison off. It was sitting on the dashboard of the car and I answered it, putting it on speaker while I drove. “Yo.”

  The voice of Ford, my partner in crime in the rhythm section of The Rough, came from the phone. “You still house hunting? Or are you ready to come and jam?”

  “I had to run a quick errand in West Hollywood,” I said. “But I’m heading back into the hills now. I’m probably fifteen minutes from your place.”

  “Cool. Actually, if you’re still down there, pick up some burgers? There’s nothing to eat here but the crap flavors of Campbell’s soup.”

  “No worries. In-N-Out is only five minutes out of the way.” I hit my blinker and turned toward the nearest burger place.

  “Bring me two Double-Doubles? One for later?”

  “You know, when you house-sit for your dad you are allowed to actually leave the house to do things like, oh, shop for groceries and have some fun, like, for example, attending super-secret sex dungeon parties that you’re invited to.”

  “Oh, don’t you get on my case about last night,” Ford said.

  “I’m not on your case, bro. But you and Samson did miss a good time.”

  “Oh?” Curiosity made his pitch go up. “What happened?”

  The most amazing thing happened. “Tell you when I get there.” I hung up and then chuckled to myself, feeling gleefully evil.

  A short while later I made my way up to the Cutler house. Ford’s dad was something of a legend in the music business, sort of a Tom Petty or John Mellencamp type who’d made his name with American roots rock in the eighties and nineties and still toured regularly. He’d bought the house in the eighties and while it wasn’t an over-the-top luxury mansion like some of the places here in the Hollywood Hills, it was extremely nice and well kept. The main section of the house was a great room with dining area, sunken living room, and kitchen. One whole wall was windows and sliding glass doors onto the pool patio overlooking LA.

  The front door was unlocked, so I let myself in and locked it behind me. Ford was standing by the pool table leaning on a cue and staring at the balls on the table. I held up the bag of food to get his attention, and he looked up like a hunting dog picking up a scent.

  I set it down on the counter island of the kitchen area and got out plates. I was as familiar with this kitchen as I was with my own. I’d crashed here a lot when Ford had first joined the band and we hadn’t made any money yet. At first I’d felt a little weird about it—though extremely grateful for a no-cost place to lay my head at that point in my life—but it eventually sunk in that taking in strays was something the Cutlers did regularly. When Remo was in town there was often a revolving round of houseguests, and having his son’s bandmates camping out for weeks or months at a time was par for the course.

  Ford had grown up here, nestled in the hills so close to the star-making machine that was Hollywood. As the son of a millionaire musician he’d never known what it was like to miss a rent payment, never had to decide between paying the gas bill or buying new shoes, never gone hungry.

  Well, except for times like this. “I had an egg for breakfast but there was no bread and then I went into the studio and man I’m starving.” He picked up a burger and bit into it over the sink so the juices could drip. After he’d swallowed he said, “Thanks. There’s probably a grocery delivery service I could use on the Internet, but I haven’t gotten around to it.”

  “Probably,” I agreed, putting the plates back into the cabinet and joining him at the sink with my own burger. I was ravenous, too, but if I couldn’t have what I was craving most—Madison—then this would have to do to take the edge off.

  A good jam session would do that, too. Ford and I were working on some songs together. Some might turn into songs for The Rough, or maybe we’d end up recording a side project, or who knows—our A&R man might funnel one or two of them to other artists. We were having fun with the music and trying not to be too concerned about what was going to happen with it. After how stressful working on the last album had been, we needed to put some fun back into things. Sometimes a little stress helps creativity flow, but sometimes you just need freedom to experiment and see what happens.

  Thus, jam sessions. Ford could play most of the usual stringed instruments: guitar, bass, mandolin, banjo, dobro, pedal steel, plus he could get by on a lot of others. Me, I played some guitar, too, and in addition to my drum kit in the studio I also had a portion of my ever-growing collection of percussion instruments. Indian, African, Latin American, Japanese—if a drum or percussion instrument sounded interesting to me, I wanted it. I tried to exercise some restraint because part of me kept saying it was a waste to buy a bell or a shaker or whatever that I might never use, but on the other hand now that I had the money, why not buy it? I was trying to sock away as much as possible in savings but my entire “percussion of the world” collection probably still cost less than a single one of Mal’s custom guitars.

  “I have a riff for you to hear,” Ford said. He’d already inhaled his food and had washed his hands in the sink.

  “Good,” I said, or rather grunted, since my face was full of burger. Almost done.

  I had just washed my own hands when my phone rang. I dried them on my shirt before answering. “Yo.”

  “Tú,” my sister, Flora, said with a huff. “I saw you left a message.”

  “I did. I tried to call Mom and she hasn’t answered. I just want to know if everything’s okay, you know?”

  The next voice that I heard was my brother Vincent’s. “Like you have a right to be concerned.”

  Flora: “Hush, Vincent. Chino’s trying to be a good son.”

  “He’ll never be that.”

  “Don’t speak about your older brother that way,” she chastised.

  I waited for them to stop bickering before I tried to say anything else. When it was silent for a moment, I went on. “Is she not calling me back because she doesn’t want to or is something going on with him?”

  “If you won’t call him Father, can’t you at least have the respect to call him by his name?” Vincent insisted. “I swear you’re just doing it to piss me off.”

  “No, if I wanted to piss you off I’d call him by the names I use for him in private,” I said. “Like ‘motherfucker.’”

  “You think because you’re a big-time rock star now you can use bad words? That doesn’t make you free. It makes you low-class trash,” Vincent sneered.

  “What are you going to do about it, spank me?”

  Flora interrupted us. “Stop it, stop it both of you. Were you just calling to say hi to her?”

  “And if I was?”

  “I could give her a message,” Flora said. “Or give her s
ome time.”

  “How much time should I give her, Flor? Two days? A week?”

  Vincent jumped back in. “Did you ever think maybe she doesn’t want to talk to you because she’s ashamed of you—”

  “Shut the fuck up, Vicente.”

  “Don’t call me that! When are you going to learn!” He had been a strident child, and now he was a strident twenty-two-year-old. “You’re never going to get anywhere in life if you don’t straighten up and fly right.”

  “Do you hear yourself? You sound like something from a 1950s high school film.”

  “You’re impossible.” I heard the click as he hung up.

  “Flor, you still there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is V off the line?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, listen. The reason I’ve been trying to call Mom is I want to buy her a house. If she’ll move to LA, that is.”

  “You’re what? Where’d you get the money for that?”

  I took that to mean that they were still living under the ban on “corrupt” television, radio, et cetera. “If you’d just stick your heads out of the conservative bubble you’ve been living in, you’d see my band is at the top of the charts. I’m famous now, Flor. I’ve got money in the bank.”

  “What about Vincent and me?”

  “You’re both welcome to come, too, if you want.”

  “And our stepfather?”

  I was counting on the fact that man would never, ever deign to live in a house I owned. Plus he’d often railed about how Los Angeles was Sodom, a land of fornication and sin. Come to think of it, he was right. But so so wrong about everything else in life. “You know he’d never come here.”

  “So you’re trying to break them up over money.”

  “Ma told me once that she married him for his money, to give us a better life.” I had been maybe twelve at the time, and I sometimes doubted the memory because she never said anything like that to me again. He’d punished me for saying something in Spanish and I wondered if she’d only said it to try to make me feel better somehow. “I want to know if it was true. Can you tell me, Flor? Can you tell me she’s truly happy with him? If she is, I’ll give up and go away.”