Gus (37 page)

And we fall asleep. And it's sleep like I've never known, deep and restful and healing.

Saturday, January 6

(Scout)

"I don't need a fucking cigarette. Tell me I don't need a fucking cigarette." This is what I hear when I answer the phone. He sounds stressed.

"You don't need a fucking cigarette."

"I do." It sounds distorted a bit, like his mouth is full.

"You don't. How many pieces of gum are you chewing?"

"Five," he answers.

"Good man. Suck it up."

He takes a few deep breaths. "Thanks Scout. I gotta get back in the studio. I told them I needed a piss break, but I really just needed to be talked off the ledge. I'll call you back later tonight."

"You don't," I repeat. "You've got this." It's adamant.

"I know. Adios."

"Bye."

Thursday, January 18

(Gus)

I call Scout every day. She grounds me to reality, because what we're doing in the studio seems so unreal. I don't mean that in a bad way. I'm looking at this album differently than I did the first one. With the first album, we didn't have a fucking clue what we were doing. Don't get me wrong, I wasn't a pushover, but we entrusted the project to MFDM and let him drive it. I'm driving this time. I'm still leaning on him for his expertise, but the vision's all mine.

She answers on the third ring, "Hi, Gus." My heart stutters every time I hear her first words when I call. She's smiling, I can hear it. It's not a smile born out of excitement, it's a smile born out of contentment. It's my favorite smile on her.

"What's happening at chez Hawthorne this evening?" It's ten o'clock, so she's probably getting ready for bed.

"I baked some peanut butter cookies."

My mouth's watering. "Mmm ... I love me some peanut butter cookies."

"I know. They're for you. I'll get them to you soon."

"You should hand deliver them. I'd like to taste you both. My appetite's
huge
and it feels like weeks since it's been ...
satisfied
." She's always a little shy when I make any kind of sexual reference when we talk on the phone. It's cute, that's partially why I do it. The other half of me is hoping she'll open up to it eventually.

The line's quiet.

"Scout, you there?"

"Yeah, I'm here. I was trying to decide if I should deal with the cookies or go in my room and pleasure myself."

What the fuck did she just say? "Can you repeat that again
... please
?"

"You heard me." She's still smiling.

Loud and clear. "Maybe I did, maybe I didn't. I need to hear it again to be sure."

"I said, I was contemplating going into my room, taking off my panties, and touching myself."

Holy shit. I'm hard now. So fucking hard. "Jesus Christ, tell me more."

"I'm thinking about you. Thinking about us. How good you felt inside me. And it makes me hot. Sometimes I need a release. Like now."

"Fuck me," I say under my breath. I'm shutting the door on my bedroom now and unzipping my own shorts. "Please tell me you're in your room? Please tell me you're lying on your bed?" I fucking need this visual, because things are about to go down.

"Is that where you want me to be?"

"Yes. Hell yes." I've shed my shorts and underwear and I'm lying on my bed now. Dick in hand.

"Where are you?" She's breathing harder now. It's subtle, but I hear it.

"I'm lying on my bed."

"Are you touching yourself?" Goddamn, she doesn't even sound timid.

I sigh, because, yes, I'm doing a lot more than touching.
 

"Gus, I want you to feel how wet I am."

"Scout, you're fucking killing me here." Who knew this girl had such a naughty side?

"I'm ready for you."

"What do you want me to do you?" I'm into this little fantasy one hundred and ten percent.

I hear the doorbell ring, but there's no fucking way I'm pulling myself away from this. I'm the only one here and whoever's at the door is just going to have to fuck off for now. Phone sex trumps visitors.

"You didn't answer me, Scout. I need instruction."

The doorbell rings again.

I'm hanging on her answer while I'm focused on the ecstasy that's taking place firmly in my hand. I'm about to blow my load at any moment and I don't even care about the mess I'll have to clean up because I'm not putting this phone down to reach for my underwear on the floor.

The doorbell rings again.

I yell, "Jesus fucking Christ! I'm about to cum here; go away!"

"Are you talking to me?" she asks, though she doesn't sound offended, she still sounds horny as hell.

"You?
God no
. There's someone ringing the doorbell and they won't go away. I guess they don't realize I'm in the middle of jerking off to a sexy woman on the phone right now."

"Answer the door, Gus." That sounded forceful.

No fucking way.
"Fuck no. Keep talking."

"Listen to me. I've been driving for two and half hours. I've been thinking about you
all day
. I've been thinking about sex with you
all day
. I'm so horny I can't process a coherent thought outside of what I want you to do to me. I'm wearing a dress and I already took my panties off in the car and put them in my purse. Please let me in before I masturbate on your doorstep."

I pause, but only for a second, before I end the call, leap out of bed, and streak to the front door naked. After fumbling with the locks, because my hands aren't getting the messages my brain's sending them because it's too focused on sex, I fling the door open. And sonofabitch, there she is. She's standing on my doorstep in a sleeveless, little black dress with her purse in one hand and a giant Ziploc bag of peanut butter cookies in the other hand. She looks good enough to eat. I just might. "Nice dress. You look incredible," I say, staring at her bare shoulders.

"Thanks." She's staring at my package and grinning. She raises the bag of cookies without taking her eyes off my junk. "I brought cookies."

I reach up and take the bag out of her hand. "Thanks, Girl Scout." And then I reach for her other hand. "You should probably come inside and let me ravage you before one of the neighbors catches sight of my boner and calls in the cops for indecent exposure."

She steps in without hesitation.

As soon as the door shuts, she drops her purse and I drop the cookies. My lips are on hers or hers are on mine, I'm not sure which happens first. Our frantic movements are feverish and rushed. I can't get enough of her mouth, these lips.
 

"I missed you," I say between kisses.

Her fingers are raking my back. "I missed you, too. So much."

I start gathering the bottom of her dress in one hand, inching it up while my other hand cups her breast. She's not wearing a bra and her nipple's already hard when I squeeze it through the fabric. When my hand meets skin underneath her dress, I smile against her lips. "Your panties really are in your purse."

She nods. "I thought it would save time."

I grab her thighs and lift her up onto the small table behind her next to the door. Pushing the material up and out of the way, I'm looking at her spread wide open before me. "Are you on the pill?"

She nods.

"Are you cool doing this bare? I don't have any condoms here."

She nods again.

I don't waste any time in pulling her ass to the front edge of the table and plunging into her.
 

A near pained gasp surges out of her and she wraps her legs around my back.
 

I'm holding her hips in place and pounding into her before pulling out almost completely and plunging in again. With each thrust my thighs are slamming the table against the wall. There's definitely going to be damage to the table or the wall, maybe both. The pace is punishing, but she's asking for it. "Harder, Gus."
 

Her mouth is on my neck, on my chest, and when she tugs at my nipple with her teeth a surge of intense pleasure runs through me. "I need you naked. Now."

She makes quick work of her dress, pulling it easily over her head. She's breathing hard with exertion and passion, and it's so fucking sexy. I slow my hips and lean down, running my tongue around her nipple before taking it in my mouth. I lightly tease the tip before sucking and pressing it to the roof of my mouth and biting down gently.
 

She moans and her hands find either side of my head holding me in place. I continue my exploration on the right before giving equal attention to her left.

She's squirming on the table, trying to get relief to the ache that's consuming her.

"Are you there, Scout?"

"Almost." Her eyes are closed and her mouth is open slightly. She draws in a deep breath, holds it, and forces it out long and loud. It repeats and each time she does it grows in volume and her features tighten infinitesimally. It's a climax building, and I'm watching the same intense pleasure I'm feeling mirrored in her expression. "
So. Close
."

I pull back until just the tip of me is still inside her and then I push back in slowly. When I'm all the way in I urge her to lean back slightly, cup her ass in my hands, and tip her hips so I can go even deeper. When I make a final push I gain further access and she sighs. I'm as deep as I can go.

"You feel so damn good," I whisper as I repeat the movement, because
holy hell
.
 

Her eyes are closed when she responds. "
So damn good
," which gives way to a low moan that builds and builds to, "Oh, God! Oh my God! So good! God, yes!"

And the next thing I know, my release comes. It's powerful and so fucking satisfying, like I've been storing it up for years. There are so many things I want to say ... to shout. But for some reason I hold it in and all that comes out is a hum from deep in my chest. It amplifies what's going on with every other part of this connection we have.

I never take my eyes off of her, and when she relaxes and finally opens her eyes they are so full of bliss that it takes my breath away.

"Hi," she whispers and smiles. And that smile? I want to look at that smile every day for the rest of my life. It's like a still frame of contentment. "I think I like L.A."

I smile back. "Hi. I miss home, but the sex is fucking
outstanding
here," I add with a wink.

Scout stays for another hour. We sit on my bed and talk and eat her cookies with a big glass of milk that we share for dunking, which should seem boring after a property damaging session, but it's not. I love talking to her. The transformation she's made since I first met her is amazing. She used to hide from the world, living inside herself. It was like she was living dual roles. On the inside she was confident, strong, and self-assured, but on the outside something got lost in translation.
 

"Tell me about your parents," I say. I don't know if she will or not, but I feel comfortable enough around her now to ask her anything.

Her mouth is full of cookie, so she waits until she swallows to answer. "There's not a lot to tell really. Last time I heard from my mom she was in India. That was a couple years ago. My dad lives in Brooklyn. I haven't seen him in a year or so."
 

She doesn't sound sad. She tells the story like she's reciting a grocery list. So I press on. "What was your childhood like? I assume your parents are divorced?"

She shakes her head. "My parents were never married. My dad was a musician. He played small bars around Brooklyn and busked to scrape by, still does as far as I know. He's actually not bad, but he has issues living in the real world. You know, where you're required to be sober more than drunk." She raises her eyebrows to drive her point home. "Anyway, I guess my mom was kind of a groupie. They hooked up a few times. She got pregnant. They stayed together until I was born and then my mom split."

My first thought goes to Ma. She's a rabid protector of me and anyone else she sees as her child. I know all moms aren't like her, but I can't fathom a mom abandoning her kid. "She left? Like
left
, left?"

She nods. "Yeah, I've always thought of her as a gypsy. I don't think she's ever had a job. I know she's never had a place of her own. She just drifts through the world. She makes friends and has lovers. They take her in until she gets the itch to move on to the next. I hear from her every couple of years. I've never met her in person, only seen her in a photo my dad has."

"Shit. That's fucked up, Scout."

She shrugs like she agrees and disagrees with me. "It is what it is. I'd rather not have her in my life, than have her and feel like a burden. My dad raised me. It worked out."

"What's your dad like?" I'm almost afraid to ask because I know she said she didn't live with him after the accident.

She blinks a few times like she's trying to remember him. "He loves alcohol. He loves music. And he loves me. In that order."

I know this isn't easy for her to talk about, so I ask her a question to keep her talking. "You grew up in Brooklyn?"

"For the most part, yeah. My dad never had his own place, so we moved around a lot. Stayed with friends of his, girlfriends, sometimes a bar owner would set us up in a room above the bar for a month or two as payment for him playing at night. I never knew any different, so to me it was normal. I was alone a lot, but it forced me to be independent."

"And what about after the accident?"

The look in her eyes is far away. "The accident." She pauses. "My dad got a gig in upstate New York. He borrowed a car and we drove there. I sat backstage while he played ... I remember reading
Little House on the Prairie
while I waited." She smiles faintly at the memory. "He drank for a few hours after he finished playing. I read some more. When he came for me and told me it was time to go home I knew he was drunk." She shrugs. "He was always drunk, so I didn't know I should be scared. We got in the car. It was snowing outside and I remember how cold the backseat was when I lay down on the vinyl. I didn't put my seatbelt on. I didn't even think about it. I'd only ever ridden in a car a few times before. We always rode the subway at home. Anyway, I fell asleep, and woke up in the middle of wreckage and fire." She's staring off into space and her eyes are glassy. Her voice is quiet, but so intense it holds me fast; I have no choice but to listen. "It was
so
hot. That's the thing I remember the most ... even more than the pain ...
the heat
." She licks her lips before she continues. "I was trapped in the car. My dad was outside. I could see him walking around. I screamed and screamed for him, and then I passed out."