Come Dancing (25 page)

“God, Jack, you really knock me out.” I trailed my fingers down his abdomen, twining them in the silky whorls at his groin.

“Remember when you told me I was the first person who’d ever made you come?”

I nodded.

“Is that true?” he asked me softly, his deep brown eyes pooling into mine.

“Yes.”

“That made me feel really good. I know I made a joke about it, but I still think about that sometimes. It makes it even better, knowing that. Especially when you catch fire like just now.”

“You make me feel amazing. Patrick doesn’t interest me in the least.”

“He’d better not. You shake my maracas too, baby. Make my eyelashes grow and my toes curl up.”

I took a deep breath. “I’m glad to hear that. But it’s hard to tell with you because every time we get close, you pull away from me. It’s almost funny, it’s so obvious. After we finally spent that first weekend together in July—which was amazing, at least to me–”

“It was to me, too. At last I got my hands on you.”

“You sent me those gorgeous flowers, then you didn’t call me for a week. You vanish for days, or you show up smelling like some other woman’s perfume. But isn’t the point of … all this … not to do that sort of thing?”

“What do you mean by ‘all this’?” He gave me a dark look.

I wished I could take it back. “I just meant us seeing each other.”

“Is that all we’re doing, ‘seeing’ each other? I don’t really have much of a sense of it, to be honest,” Jack said, running his hand through his hair. “I admit I have a problem with getting close. I start to feel like the walls are closing in on me. It’s not anything you’re doing; you’re the least clingy woman I’ve ever met.” He raised his eyebrow. “Which annoys the hell out of me sometimes, come to think of it. But you like to keep it cool too, don’t you, Julia? To keep yourself independent. Right?”

I felt incredibly nervous. Finally we were having this talk—
the
Talk. “You must know I like you a lot.”

“You like me.” Jack pinned me with his penetrating gaze.

“I’m starting to really care for you,” I said slowly. “And that’s scary, because I don’t want to get hurt.”

He gave a wan smile. “If it’s scary to you, it’s terrifying to me. Sometimes I wake up at night in a cold sweat.”

Jack put his arms around me, making my heart thump wildly. “I caught myself telling Mum about you the other day,” he said. “So now every time I call her, she asks about you.”

He’d told his mom about me? That was music to my ears. “Well, Dot always wants to know what you’re up to. Talk about annoying.”

“So we’re even, in terms of the nosy mothers.” Jack started to say something, but then stopped. “I guess I should tell you—” He pressed his lips together. “Look, it isn’t only about me poking you, if that’s what you’re wondering. Although I admit, that is just beautiful.” He smiled. “Are we all squared away now?”

“I think so.” I’d hoped he might use the “L” word, but I guessed that was just wishful thinking. “I don’t want you to feel claustrophobic though.”

“If I start acting weird, you can kick me in the arse.” Jack looked at me and exhaled deeply. “Listen, come to L.A.”

“To L.A.?” I couldn’t believe my ears.

“Tell that fuckwad of a boss you’re taking a long weekend. We’ll be stuck in the studio for a few days before and after, but you can come for the concerts.”

“I would love to. I’d absolutely love it!” I threw my arms around his neck and smooched his face.
Maybe he isn’t going on the prowl out there, after all
.

Jack smiled through my kisses. “I figure you can’t call yourself going out with a musician if you haven’t seen me perform.” He thought for a minute, and grinned. “Outside of bed, that is.”

Don’t Get Me Wrong

Halfway down the block, I could hear the Cramps emanating from Beirut’s propped-open doors. I’d been to the hole-in-the-wall a few times with Vicky. We liked its funky atmospherics—and where else could you listen to the 4-skins and Stiff Little Fingers, back-to-back? The green-haired bartender nodded at me as I glanced up at the huge papier-mache deity dangling from the ceiling, arms outstretched as if blessing the heathens below. Usually the displays of East Village artwork were rotated every few weeks, but “god” had turned into a permanent fixture. I peered down the length of the shotgun joint and picked out Vicky’s blond head. Taking the stool she’d been saving, I signaled for a beer.

“You lucky dog,” she shouted over the jarring chords of “Strychnine”. “Maybe I should have hung in there with Sammy after all. I can’t believe you get to go to L.A.”

“I can’t either. Nor can I believe Harvey’s letting me leave early on Friday to catch my flight. But of course he had to dump more editing on me. I’m now immersed in a guide to toilet-training toddlers.”

“Well, I’m doing a tour for a self-actualization shrink. That’s pretty similar to what you’re working on, in terms of being a load of excrement.” Vicky smiled and licked salt off the rim of her margarita.

“Who knew publishing was such a catch-all: pop psychology, military history, juice fasts, dog-training … not to mention the latest New Age fads that ooze out of Northern California,” I added.

“But just think how well-informed you’ll be if you ever have your own toddler.”

“Reading this book is the best kind of birth control anyone could ask for.”

As the jukebox blasted the Killjoys, a healthy-sized cockroach dropped onto the bar in front of us and scuttled off.

“That’s the third one tonight,” Vicky observed, glancing up. “I think ‘god’ is infested.”

“Do me a favor; if one lands in my hair, get it out fast,” I said with a shudder.

Vicky scoured the last drops of tequila with her tongue. “I’d better head home; I have an early meeting tomorrow. We’re bidding on a top-secret book by that Jersey politician who was caught in bed with his aide. Although you didn’t hear it from me.”

“My lips are sealed,” I said.

“At least until you get to L.A.,” Vicky said with a smirk.

Although the next day was insanely busy, it seemed to crawl because I couldn’t wait to see Jack; it was our last night together before he left for the West Coast. He’d be in the studio for three days, and then I’d arrive Friday evening and leave Monday morning. After that, they had a few more days of mixing before returning to New York.

I caught the express and zipped downtown. Tom pressed the button for the elevator and introduced me to a new doorman named Walter. I stepped into the loft, but didn’t see Jack.

“Back here,” he called to me from the bedroom. He was standing in a maelstrom of clothes, guitars, boots, belts, and scattered sheets of his itinerary, with two large suitcases open on the bed. The only things he’d put into them were several packages of guitar picks and some Zig-Zag rolling papers.

“Hi,” I said, going over to kiss him. He hugged me distractedly.

“I planned to have all this done by now,” he said, running his hand through his hair. “I got stuck on the phone going over some stuff with Mary Jo, then Mark called, and then Suzanne. Then a bean-counter from the record company, telling me how much studio time is costing by the millisecond, and wanting to know why we aren’t done yet. Sammy stopped by to see which guitars I’m bringing … then I smoked a couple of joints to calm down.” He shrugged. “Maybe you could help me pull it together.”

“Sure.” He fell back on the mattress as I ticked off the days on my fingers. “You’ll be there nine days, so maybe you need ten pairs of pants?”

“More.” Jack sighed. “Anything I wear to the studio will be stiff with sweat by the time we get out of there.”

I decided not to focus on the fact that he’d be going out every night. “Okay, so maybe twelve pairs of pants, twelve shirts—six dressy and six regular. Does that sound right?”

“Sounds good. The concert stuff’s going in a separate shipment.” He shut his eyes and rubbed his temples.

I picked through his things and found an adequate supply. “No underwear? Not even a couple pairs?”

“Nope.”

“Let’s see, socks … I rummaged through his drawer, crammed full of slogan tees sent by his droves of fans: Things Go Better with Coke, Funky Mon, Disco Sucks, Better Living Through Chemistry … “Hmm, what else?”

“See if you’ll fit in there?” Jack said, opening his eyes.

I smiled. “I wish I could stow away with you; might get a little cramped by the time we flew over Iowa though. Do you want to bring this for the flight?” I held up his copy of
Wise Blood
.

“Ah,” Jack said. “Good thought, but I wouldn’t want to lose it.” He sat up and looked at me for a minute. “Actually … I’ve never told anyone this. Not a soul. But reading is kind of difficult for me.”

I sat down beside him.

“I had all the basics in school; I’m not an ignoramus or anything,” he said. “I can manage larger type, single sentences at a time. Even a paragraph if it’s written big. It’s just … the words sort of smoosh together when I try to read anything with a lot of lines in it, like a book. Menus drive me bonkers because they’re always printed so small.”

I had never heard of anything like that, unless he was near-sighted. “Do you think you need contact lenses?”

“No, I’ve had me eyes checked out.” He swiped his face tiredly. “Before we could afford lawyers, Patrick used to pass the contracts and I’d fake reading them, but I couldn’t handle the fine print. Same with sheet music; the one time I tried to learn it, the notes got all blurry. School was pretty tough too. So you see, I’m not a serious reader, as you always say about your intellectual friends. You still like me?” he asked, his pupils so dilated that his eyes appeared black.

“You’re a composer; you have more poetry in your little toe than any writer we publish. You’re a Flannery O’Connor of music.”

Jack smiled. “I figured I ought to tell you, in case you saw it as an insurmountable character flaw.”

“Well, I’m not musical except for liking to listen to it. Does it bother you that I don’t play an instrument?”

“Hey, you can play my trom-bone any time you like,” he said, grabbing me.

After a while, Jack stirred and faced me on the pillow. “Are we all sorted out about the other night?”

“I am if you are.”

“You’re telling me the truth about Patrick, right?”

I couldn’t believe he was still questioning it. “Do you think I’m the kind of person who has sex with a man in a bathroom?”

Jack contemplated this. “You’ve had sex with me in my bathroom.” He grinned.

“It isn’t funny.”

“I know it’s not. I told Patrick I’d break his fucking neck if he ever did anything like that again. He just acted like I couldn’t take a joke.”

“Some joke.” I couldn’t get over his supposed friend behaving so sleazily, but I still wasn’t sure what the policy was on seeing other people. “What about you; all you did was have a drink with Trina?”

For a fleeting moment Jack got an odd look on his face, but then he smiled. “She tried putting her hand on my leg, but I told her I wasn’t that type of guy. So I’ll pick you up at the airport Friday,” he changed gears. “The driver will meet you at luggage claim and bring you to me in the car.”

“I can’t wait to see you play.” I took his brush from the bedside table to unsnarl a tangle. Out of habit I checked the bristles. Seeing a silvery glint, I lifted it up to the lamp. An ache started in my gut. “What is this?” I asked, extracting a long blonde strand.

“What is what?”

I held it up. “Blonde. Which is not your color. Or mine.”

Jack plucked the hair from my hand and held it under the light. “No idea.” He let it fall and went over to his dresser.

“Is it Trina’s?” I asked, getting agitated.

“Why would you think that?” he said, rummaging in the drawer.

“So it just floated in the window?”

Jack turned to face me. “What’s the big deal? Mary Jo was here yesterday afternoon; who knows, maybe she tried on the wig. Maybe it’s Patrick’s.”

Unless his bandmate’s hair grew abnormally fast, it definitely wasn’t his. “How many people are usually over here?”

“Different guys come over to mess around on the guitars. And other people.”

I thought of the coked-up gang from the other day. “And their girlfriends?”

“Whoever they bring along. What is this, fifty questions?” he asked with an edge in his voice.

I guessed the hair could have come from one of his friends’ women, although I didn’t see why they’d be in his bedroom. It sounded like there was a constant flow of people in and out. “I’m just trying to get a picture of what you do with your time.”

“The needle moves from dull to exciting, depending on what’s happening.” He picked up my bag from the chair and dug around in it. “You got that editing pen? I’m gonna make sure no one gets near you while I’m gone,” he said, uncapping the marker. “Now hold still …”

Before I could stop him, he started writing on my stomach.

“What are you doing?” I felt him draw a line to my breast, then another down my abdomen. I sat up to see what he’d done. “PROPERTY OF JACK KIPLING” was scrawled on my middle, with arrows pointing to my body parts. “I’ll have to scrub that off when my lovers show up,” I said.

“You’d better not,” he growled. “Listen, I’m tired of having to holler up at you and have you throw that sock at me every time I come over. I’m not gonna be much of a musician if I’m blinded in one eye by a goddamn key. Make me a copy while I’m gone, all right?”

I could barely contain my bliss. “I’ll think about it. Okay, my turn.” I pushed him back on the pillow, uncapped the pen and considered for a minute. I started writing on his ridged abdomen, making him writhe. “Ooh, that tickles.”

“Try to hold still.” I finished composing my message.

Jack got up on his elbows to look. “I can’t make it out upside down.”

“I’ll read it to you.” I smiled. “DON’T FORGET TO TAKE YOUR SYPHILIS MEDICINE.”

Sugar on My Tongue

After fielding a bunch of routine inquiries, the ninth call of the workday came as a surprise. “I’ve waited a whole month,” Art said. “Have you caught up enough with your editing to meet me for a cappuccino?”