One Long Kiss

by Susan Ward

  “OK. I’ll remember that.” The wisecrack bubbles up before I can stop it. “And you have to remember you told me that if it starts feeling like I’m dumping on you.”

  He laughs. “I’ll remember. If I don’t you remind me.”

  A smile consumes me, internally taking the edge from my jitters over calling him, and teases the corners of my lips.

  “So why don’t you tell me everything?” he says, and the subtle change in his voice is the one he has when he relaxes back and wants only to focus on me.

  I tell him everything, in minute detail, like I should have since day one. How much I loathe living with the Graysons. How hard it is to fit in here. That I don’t like my job, not really. And in carefully crafted words, my suspicions and difficulties with the mercurial Alan Manzone.

  When I’m finished I can almost hear him shaking his head through the phone, and my mind forms the image of the expression he gets, the Linda Linda Linda expression, as I’ve labeled it in my head.

  “I want you to come home.” He says it quietly and firmly, but something in that stirs up my nerves again.

  “Why?”

  “You’re unhappy. I’m unhappy. I don’t want you staying there.”

  It sounds a simple statement, but it’s not. I hear something in his voice.

  “Why?”

  He lets out a long, ragged breath. “Shit happens, Linda, when people are separated for long periods of time and are unhappy. We do things we wouldn’t normally do. Things that we don’t really want, but we do them because we’re lonely and it’s hard not to be with who you love.”

  Every muscle in my body grows taut. Oh no, oh no, oh no. Oh God, is he tired of this and looking elsewhere?

  “What are you trying tell me, Jack?”

  “I’m trying to tell you to come home. I love you. I need you with me. I don’t want to lose you.”

  Instead of calming me, his words intensify my distress. Everything inside me is loose and rattling, like it is right before something terrible is about to come my way. A sense of impending doom. The tension in my body is unbearable.

  I say it before I can stop myself. “Don’t fuck with me, Jack. Are you seeing someone else?”

  The silence through the phone hits me like a slap.

  “Christ, Linda. There are times you don’t listen at all. And you still don’t really get me.”

  And to my shock, in a very non-Jack way, he hangs up the phone.

  Eight

  Two weeks later

  I’m lying in bed where I pretty much haven’t moved from all day. Tonight is the last gig of the Blackpoll UK Tour. There’s a shitload of stuff for me to take care of before tonight’s performance, but I haven’t got the will to get up and start any of it and I definitely don’t have the mental stamina for a dose of Alan Manzone.

  I reach for the bottle on my nightstand, pour my fourth glass of wine, and then stare at the phone. Two weeks. I haven’t been able to reach Jack for two weeks, not since he hung up on me. That’s never happened before and each day I become more emotionally chaotic.

  Worse, I don’t even get Maria answering the line in the Hope Ranch house. At least if I spoke to her, I would have an opportunity to pump her for information about what’s going on with Jack, get enough insight to know if he’s all right and what’s he’s doing. But no, I go straight to the answering service, so worry is now consuming me with the panic since Jack ended our last call.

  Are we over? I don’t know. It feels like it. The man hasn’t gone two weeks without talking to me since we first met, and a part of me is afraid to find out if I’ve ruined the best thing that has ever happen to me. I don’t know what will happen if it’s confirmed that I blew it with Jack and that we’re over. No, I’m far from prepared to hear that.

  Stupid, Linda, stupid. Why do you always ruin everything good in your life?

  Against my will, my mind rallies off all the mistakes I’ve made loving Jack, back to the first mistake, when we first met, of being dishonest with him. Then walking out in Santa Barbara when he asked me to stay. Definite mistake. Not realizing the depths of his feelings for me, that he was serious about us all those months we struggled to be together while he toured, before I left for the UK. What the fuck kind of woman doesn’t realize it when a man deeply and sincerely loves her? Then leaving him in West Hollywood after he asked me to marry him.

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. What the hell is the matter with me?

  A voice replaces my own in my head, the very worst possible intruder in my thoughts. Alan Manzone. Did Daddy not love you? Is that why you’re a bitch and a tease to men? Is that why you ran from a man you love? Daddy didn’t love you so no man can?

  I hated Alan for saying that, but I hated more that it had the painful ring of truth. Is that why I keep screwing up with Jack? Why I do us so badly. Has my dad not wanting me left me believing no man can love me? I shake my head, chasing away that hurtful comment. Alan is wrong. I believe Jack loves me. I just do it badly.

  I take a sip of my wine, then curl on my side and stare at the phone. Should I call again? It’s probably pointless. Jack doesn’t want to talk to me. While I’m in new territory with him, something tells me to be patient and that he’ll call when he’s ready. He’s not an abrupt ending kind of guy, and I must have pissed him off, hurt him big time, for him to feel he needs to step back from us for a while.

  My rational self understands him and what this is. Still, my heart needs to know where we stand, and my need to know that he’s OK is uncontainable.

  I reach for the phone, punch in his number, and anxiously chew on my thumbnail as I listen to the rings. Four rings. Then answered. Damn. It’s the service again. I hang up without leaving a message. What’s the point in leaving a message? If Jack wanted to be reached, I could reach him.

  Face it, Linda. The guy doesn’t want to talk to you right now and I don’t blame him.

  I brush at the light trickle of tears that fights through my steely resolve not to cry more. I’ve cried more in the past two weeks than I have the first twenty-two years of my life. I never knew love could hurt this way, but then I didn’t know a lot of things before Jack.

  The buzzer goes off on the clock again and I slam it back into snooze. I reluctantly take note of the time. Crap. 9 p.m. The guys will be going on stage soon. I should have been at the venue hours ago.

  I pull myself up into a sitting position and then slowly climb from the bed. I’ve survived eight weeks with Alan Manzone and I’m not going to blow this now. One more night. One more performance. One more dose of Alan, and I’m back to London, hopefully with the job Sandy promised me and in a few more weeks, school. Now is not the time to freak out and self-destruct.

  As I make my way to the bathroom, I note that I’m a little unsteady on my feet and that that last glass of wine probably wasn’t a good idea. Still, twenty minutes later, I leave the hotel room with full makeup and hair, stylishly dressed in a pair of black pinstriped tight pants, three-inch stilettos and a backless shimmering black halter top.

  In front of the hotel, I’m surprised to find the car parked at the front curb and Phil leaning against the passenger door waiting for me. Shit, why is Phil here? Without me riding roughshod over them, did the peckerwoods go MIA and blow off the gig? Fuck, that’s all I need.

  I hurry to the car. “What are you doing here? Why aren’t you at the arena?”

  Phil straightens up and tosses his smoke into the road. “Manny sent me back to get you, but I decided not to barge in on you. I thought you might be busy or something.”

  My cheeks flush both at the way he says busy and in how his gaze is roaming my provocative outfit.

  “I wasn’t busy. I was sleeping, you imbecile.”

  He gives me the I don’t buy that one look and opens the door. I ignore the insulting way he’s watching me and drop heavily down onto the plush leather seat.

  In a few moments, the car lurches forward and we’re making our way across the city, and I feel even a l
ittle bit tipsier than I did. Crap, the alcohol is kicking in even more.

  At the arena, I spring from the car without waiting for Phil to open the door. At the security entrance, I’m stopped. I rummage around in my leather satchel for the canvas strap with my backstage pass on it and realize I’ve forgotten it.

  I stare up at Jenkins. “I forgot my identification.”

  He stares at me and makes no move to open the door. “You know the rules, Linda. No pass, no backstage. The rules apply to everyone. Even you, love.”

  “For Christ’s sake, don’t be an asshole. You know who I am. I just misplaced the fucking thing.”

  Jenkins shrugs. “How do I know they didn’t fire you and that’s why you don’t have your identification? Everyone’s here for tonight’s show. Everyone early. Everyone here, but no Linda. What am I supposed to think of that?”

  My eyes widen in confusion and alarm. “What do you mean everyone is here? Who the fuck is here?”

  He leans into me and says in a near whisper, “The mighty Mr. Craig of Craig Management himself. Sandy Harris. The bigwigs from the label. Even that weasel Arnie Arnowitz.”

  Crap. Great, Linda, you picked the perfect moment to fuck up.

  I glare. “Let me in. Now. Or so help me—”

  He steps out of my way and opens the door. “Shit, Linda. You used to be more fun. What’s eating you?”

  I brush past him, ignoring the question. I hurry down the packed corridor, dodging my way through people amid the thundering sounds of Blackpoll on stage, deep into the second song of their set.

  I bypass the green room, rush toward the stage entrance and hurry up the metal stairs to the stage.

  I halt in a darkened area of the wing, in a tiny space within the cramped array of equipment, and I lean against a Marshall amplifier for support. I breathe in and out, trying to calm myself. Everything is fine. The guys are on stage tearing it up. The house is packed and the crowd is going crazy. No disaster and hopefully nothing to fix.

  I’m about to leave for the green room to see what’s up with all the hotshots being here, but in mid-verse Alan tilts his face in my direction and his eyes lock on me.

  A jolt shoots through me and my nerves grow taut. Those black eyes are simmering in a way that tells me he’s pissed, though I don’t know why he should be angry with me any more than I know how he knew I was standing in this darkened recess in between the equipment.

  But the second his eyes fix on me everything is suspended. Only it didn’t really suspend. He’s still singing. The guys are still cranking out earsplitting music. The crowd is on its feet, rowdy and supercharged, and everything around me has the sense of having paused and now is moving in slow motion.

  Shit, why is he staring at me that way and why is he pissed? Experience dealing with Alan tells me not to hang around here to find out why.

  I hurry down the metal stairs and start weaving my way through the crowded corridor. Inside the green room I freeze. Jeez, Jenkins wasn’t exaggerating. Everyone with a hand in Alan Manzone’s career is here. I search the gathering for a friendly face, and my gaze settles on Sandy Harris.

  Not exactly a friend, more likely a foe since I discovered Sandy lied to me and I don’t really work for him, but he is the least intimidating suit here.

  I cross the room to the buffet table. “I should be furious with you, do you know that?” I say at Sandy’s back by way of introduction.

  Sandy chokes on his scotch and turns to face me. His eyes lose a measure of their persistent good humor. “Whoa, Linda. Before you hit me, let me explain.”

  I cross my arms, arching a brow. “I shouldn’t give you the time of day.”

  “No, you probably shouldn’t. But one question. Would you have stayed with the tour after the first week if you’d known you work for Manny?”

  I don’t want him to divert me from my indignation, but to my disappointment I think back to my first week here and reluctantly admit that if I had known I work for Alan I would have hot-footed it out of here.

  I wag a finger at Sandy. “Don’t try to get around me. Don’t try to handle me. It was a rotten thing you did, getting me to accept a job under false pretenses. And I want a straight answer. Where does that leave me?”

  He looks startled by the question. “I gave you my word. Anything you want if you managed to keep this tour on track. You’ve done that, Linda. You’ve done a brilliant job with the band and handling Manny.”

  I ignore the compliment. “When you gave me your word, you also said I was working for you. Now I discover practically everyone in the music industry in the UK works for Alan Manzone.”

  Sandy gives a short laugh. “Hyperbole, Linda. Don’t start losing that head-on-your-shoulders attitude now. Drama does not become you.” He sharply raises a brow. “And I don’t work for him. I needed to raise capital. He invested. He’s strictly hands-off. That’s my agreement with Manny, and it’s worked out very well. I don’t work for him and neither do you.”

  I feel a slight measure of relief, but everything sounded different when Alan explained how things were and I’m not sure if I should let down my guard just yet.

  “The job in London is yours, Linda, if you want it.” Then, boyishly cute grin in place, he adds, “That is if you want to still work for me.”

  I maintain my cool surface expression, but it’s hard to with how attractive and appealing Sandy Harris is.

  I give him a pointed look. “Work for you, yes. Him; no. Never. Not in this lifetime.”

  Sandy laughs and his grin deepens. “I guess now wouldn’t be the time to ask you to go out on the road with them again in January.”

  I shake my head at him. “Whoa ho, don’t even think it. Don’t even ask.” I study the scene in the room. “What the heck is going on?”

  Sandy’s brows hitch up, surprised. “You haven’t heard?”

  My eyes widen. “Heard what?”

  “The guys get four months off, back to the studio, hopefully to create something, then they are off to the States. Twelve months opening for Destruction.”

  “Destruction?” I say, stunned.

  “Yep. The band is on its way. January US, and then—who knows?” He looks a little shocked himself at how things are working out for Alan. “If the US tour is a success, it will be in large part because of you, Linda. You have really become the balance with these guys. They wouldn’t be where they are so quickly if you hadn’t pulled them together.”

  I roll my eyes, but internally I’m glowing from the compliment. “Don’t blow smoke up my ass, Sandy. That doesn’t become you.”

  His gaze sharpens. “No, Linda. It’s the truth.” He smiles. “We’ll talk when you get back to London. The job in the PR department is yours, but come January the guys would like you to go out on the road with them again. I would like you to go out on the road with them again. I know it isn’t what we talked about. But it is considerably more money and definitely a big opportunity if promotion is a career you’d like to stick with.”

  I’m stunned. “You want me to stay assistant road manager for the US tour? I can’t go out on the road. I’m starting school in a month.”

  Sandy smiles, amused. “Give it some thought, Linda. You don’t need to decide now. We’ll talk when you get back to London.”

  The atmosphere of the room shifts abruptly, the loudness and energy of an exploding rocket, and I turn to see the band enter the room, sweaty and long-limbed bodies wired with unspent adrenaline. Flash bulbs explode from all sides, and the crowd around me starts to move, closing in on Alan Manzone.

  The circle around him becomes an enthusiastic, talking, laughing horde. Even Sandy has rushed from me to join in the fray around Alan.

  I’m about to slip from the room when I feel him watching me. I whirl back toward Alan and those black eyes lock on me and my heart stills. He is watching me in that way he has, like he’s hunting prey, and then I notice the glint of anger there as well.

  Everything inside me begins to twirl. Oh
shit, he’s still pissed. Why is he pissed?

  I start making my way toward the exit and he closes the space between us, standing between me and the door. He doesn’t say anything and my heartbeat turns into a confused, frantic rhythm.

  “I can’t believe you didn’t come tonight,” he says in a tight, clipped way. “Don’t ever do that again, treat me as though I’m nothing. In the least you should treat me like a job that’s important to you, because I am.”

  My body stiffens. Pissed was an understatement. Crap, he’s beyond pissed. Somehow I’ve struck a nerve in him, and the way he’s staring at me is unsettling.

  “What the hell is wrong with you? Obviously I came for the show. I’m here.”

  For some reason that kicks up his anger a notch. He grabs my arm, dragging me from the room and steering me through the packed corridor, mindless of the sharply fixed stares following our trek. He pulls me into the band dressing room, slams the door and releases me.

  Alan plants his hands on either side of me against the door, the heat of his body close and surrounding me without contact. I try to move back, but there is no way to put space between us. I raise my eyes slowly to his face and I wish I hadn’t. His eyes are flashing and hard, and some functioning parameter of my brain warns me that somehow I’ve fucked up big time.

  “How dare you treat me that way?” I hiss, cautious and unsure, but my voice is thick, feverish.

  “If you’re going to behave like a cunt, I’ll treat you like a cunt,” he says harshly. “Maybe you’ll figure out a few things faster if I handle you in a manner you understand.”

  I move a hand to slap him but he stops my arm midair, and before I can figure out my next play, he flattens me against him. The currents running through his flesh are scorching, and he molds me so intimately against him that I can feel every detail of his body through our clothing. My breath quickens and his mouth closes on mine, his lips moving in an urgent demand, his tongue flooding me as his fingers run across my trembling flesh in a never-ending flow making every inch of my flesh grow hot.