Keep Dancing (22 page)

“God, Julia,” Jack murmured. He slipped his tongue inside me and then ran it slowly up the middle, making me gasp. I was still coming when he slid his full length into me. I cried out as he moved faster and faster. Then we were both chorusing, his climax ending in a long, melodic moan.

I woke up incredibly hungry. Jack opened his eyes as I shifted his arm out from under me.

“What’re you doing?” he asked.

“I’m going to have another brownie.”

Jack gave me an odd look. “You ate those?”

I shrugged. “I had two. I was starving.”

“Julia. They’re hash brownies from a groupie we know. I was gonna give them to Sammy.”

“You’re kidding. I thought the hotel left them for us.”
No wonder I felt so strange.

“Is that the first time you’ve had it?” Jack asked.

I nodded, feeling incredibly dumb.

“If you thought that was good, you’ll have to try mescaline sometime,” he said.

“It was amazing, but I don’t think I’d do that again.” I rubbed my pounding head and carefully lay back on the pillow. “Did I really put on a strip-tease?”

“You could earn a living in Vegas. Not that you’d want to. Listen, why don’t you rest up a little? I’m gonna get my face on for the show. And I’ll see if we can get some room service.”

I Wanna Be Sedated

I awoke sometime later to Jack gently shaking my shoulder. “Knees up, mother brown. We’ve gotta get going. Do you want any of this?” He held up a wrapped sandwich, but I felt too logy to eat. I pulled on my jeans, washed my face and swallowed two aspirin, trying to avoid moving quickly so as not to set off the pounding in my head.

Sammy was waiting for us in the limo. He peered at me when I borrowed Jack’s sunglasses for the ride. “What’s up with you? You’re usually fulla beans.”

Jack put his arm around my shoulder. “Julia got hold of those brownies. She didn’t know they were à la thai stick.”

Sammy gave me a sympathetic smile. “Been there, done that. But I always say, if you can’t run with the big dogs, stay under the porch. Here, have a little hair of the mutt.” He cracked open a bottle of whiskey and handed it to me.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I croaked as I took a big slug.

By the time we got to the backstage area, I was feeling somewhat better. On the wall next to the huge mirror was a peeling poster of Four to the Floor from their tour several years ago. I went closer to take a look. Jack was glaring at the camera, hair below his shoulders, a joint pasted to his lips. Mark and Sammy wore similar expressions; Patrick had a boa around his neck and was baring his teeth.

“That’s a divine boa on Patrick,” I said to Jack.

“Yeah, that was his Marlene Dietrich phase,” Jack said. “We got along better back then.”

“You won’t be getting along at all if she keeps talking to the newspapers.” Mary Jo stood next to us, hands on her hips.

“Excuse me?” I said.

“I guess you have a few contacts at the papers, too.” She held out a copy of a national gossip rag. FLOOR FEUD! shouted the headline. BICKERING BASHES BRITISH BAND
.
The piece stated that the group’s lead vocalist Patrick Bagley and guitarist Jack Kipling were arguing over the tour’s sponsorship by a deodorant maker, and disagreeing about everything from the songs to hotels to costume changes.

“What do you mean? I didn’t plant that!” I couldn’t believe what she was implying.

“Oh really? Take a look at this.” She indicated a quote with her fingernail.

A source close to the disgruntled guitarist stated, “Jack is sick of catering to Patrick’s whims—in fact, he’s sick of him altogether.” She quoted Kipling as saying, “If Patrick would just focus on the music, he’d give better concert. As it is, his voice is weak and he’s lost his groove. Instead of doing deals with deodorants, he should make sure his singing doesn’t reek.”

“No one but you and Suzanne knew about all that. The argument about the sponsor, the hotels, and so on.” Mary Jo sized me up with her hazel glare. “That comment about Patrick sounds like it’s straight from the horse’s mouth.”

“The Bush woman heard them bickering at dinner in St. Louis,” I said defiantly. “Maybe it was her.”

“Kim doesn’t know Jack. She isn’t capable of stringing together two words that sound like him.”
Implying that of course, I did.

“I would never—” I began as she sidled away.

“Read it to me.” Jack was squinting at the tiny print.

I read it out loud. “I have no idea who did this, but it wasn’t me.”

Jack tossed the paper into a garbage can. “I’ll talk to her.” He went over to where Mary Jo was having a heated discussion with Patrick and spoke to them for a few minutes, gesturing toward me.
Surely Patrick doesn’t think I ratted them out!
I told myself
.
But the dirty look he gave me made me feel like I’d grown a long, ropy tail.

Just then Suzanne and Mark rushed in, out of breath.

“Strike me pink!” Mark exclaimed, climbing into the chair. “Is it that late already?” As the makeup girl fussed over him, I motioned for Suzanne to step away from the others.

“Did you see that article Mary Jo’s passing around? I had nothing to do with it!”

“You didn’t by any chance talk to one of those reporters?” she asked. “They can really twist what you say into something entirely different.”

“I wouldn’t talk to those people. I’m not that stupid,” I said miserably.

Suzanne patted my arm. “These things happen. Try not to worry about it.”

Patrick sauntered over as Mary Jo continued her conversation with Jack. “I didn’t realize you’d take a little game of Scrabble so seriously. I guess you wanted to take me down a notch.” His sneer made fine lines in the heavy stage makeup.

“That wasn’t me!” I said, my face turning hot. “I’d never blab about Jack to anyone.”

Patrick gave me a knowing look. “It’s all right, sweetheart. Those papers aren’t fit to line a birdcage. I’m sure you didn’t mean any harm.”

“But I didn’t—” He turned on his heel and stalked off before I could finish. Suzanne placed her hand under my open jaw and gently closed it. “It’ll blow over. Come on, let’s grab our seats.” Mary Jo still had Jack cornered when we left.

We got there just in time before the men came on. They launched into their first number to the same roaring acclaim as the night before, and then ran through a fantastic mix of past and present hits. Hearing so many great songs, one after the other, made you realize just how incredible the band was; most groups were lucky to have two or three at most.

Midway through, a roadie dragged out a stool and Jack tuned his acoustic guitar as people wistfully called out the names of their favorite songs. Jack began the haunting intro to one of their biggest ballads from a few years ago; a torchy melody that was unlike anything they had ever done. I loved the occasional squeak of his fingers on the Gibson’s strings as he joined Patrick in crooning the lyrics. Even though I’d heard it a million times, the words still got to me:

I feel the echo of you in my mind, long after you left me for the last time…

They ran through the set list in an order similar to the previous show, with a few numbers reversed. It all sounded great, but I was distracted by the fact that I was now the black sheep of their in-crowd. Jack had once told me that Patrick didn’t like him to be with any one woman, feeling that it took away from the band. I wondered if Patrick had had someone plant the article—I wouldn’t put it past him. He’d always seemed to look down his nose at me; I guess because I wasn’t a model, an heiress to a brewery, or one of his fancy hangers-on. But then I realized that the piece made Patrick look bad, too—and his whole deal was looking all good, all the time. I didn’t believe he’d instigate negative press that could reflect badly on him.

I tried to snuff out my worries along with the hundreds of flickering lighters at the final encore. Sheepishly I followed Suzanne backstage, wishing I could just disappear into our hotel room without having to face the others. Luckily a big group of people talked their way past security and rushed in, so it was impossible for Mary Jo or Patrick to focus on me.

Jack started making his way through the crowd. Everyone he passed wanted to touch him, fawn over him, extract a piece of him. A pack of women approached him with a feral gleam in their eyes, as if they wanted to pounce on him and devour him whole. Two six-foot-tall ladies with suspiciously big Adams’ apples swooped over and managed to kiss both Jack and Patrick full on the lips before Mary Jo had them escorted out.

Finally Jack made it to my side. “Do I have lipstick on me face?” he asked.

“A little.” I wiped it off with my finger.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been kissed by a man before,” he mused.

“How was it?” I asked.

“Not half bad, except I got whisker burn.”

He seemed to have forgotten the gossip rag for the time being, so I tried to do the same. “I loved the slow number in the middle,” I said. “The emotion in it gave me the chills. You really sounded fantastic.”

“Yeah, but Patrick’s voice was a little weak, don’t you think? And he definitely lacked groove.” He laughed at my forlorn expression. “Just kidding. Forget about that dumb article. C’mon, let’s get the others and head out. We aren’t gonna bother trying to eat anywhere.”

On the way back to the hotel, the limo got caught in a massive traffic pileup. “Sorry about this,” the driver said as we sat stalled in an endless line of cars. “Looks like the stoplight’s broken.”

“Let’s do ‘what’s your favorite’,” Sammy suggested, breaking the seal on a bottle of whiskey from the car’s side pocket. “We haven’t done it with Julia yet.”

Suzanne looked at me pityingly. “Julia may never come back if she gets a taste of what you’re like with a captive audience.” I was relieved that the others didn’t seem to be concerned about the supposed Judas in their midst—or perhaps they just figured Patrick had it coming.

“May as well, since we’ll be stuck here for a while,” Sammy said. He took a gulp and handed the bottle to Jack. “What’s your favorite food?”

“Filet mignon.” Jack swigged and passed the bottle to Mark.

They all looked at me. “Um, Jack’s scrambled eggs.”

“Aw, that’s sweet, but you’re bullshittin’. They’re not that good.” Sammy took another sip.

“I don’t serve ’em to you with what I give Julia,” Jack said. “A nice big sausage.”

Sammy frowned. “Damn right you don’t. I don’t bat for the other team.”

“Let’s move this along. Mine is tuna nicoise.” Suzanne shook out a cigarette from her pack.

“Bangers and mash,” Mark said. The car ahead of us lurched forward, and again we were moving.

“All right,” Sammy said. “Favorite sex position.”

“Woman on top!” all three men shouted at once.

“Well, that was unanimous.” Mark looked at me. “Julia?”

“You don’t have to say,” Suzanne added. “Really, you don’t.”

I thought about it. “I’m not sure if it fits in this category, or Jack’s favorite things to eat.”

For a moment there was silence, then they all burst into laughter. “She shoots, she scores!” Mark said.

“Nice one, sweetheart.” Jack put his arm around me as I blushed.

Sammy gave me a thumbs-up. “Now there’s a vote for your tuna nicoise. Julia, I wouldn’t have thought you had it in you.”

“You’re rubbing off on her,” Suzanne said to Jack. “Which is not necessarily a good thing.”

“You haven’t said yours,” Jack commented.

“I’d have to go with Julia’s choice,” she said primly. “But with Mark, of course.”

Jack smiled. “Don’t knock what you haven’t tried.”

“You know the four types of orgasms, don’t you?” Sammy asked.

I hesitated. “I’m not sure I do.”

“There’s the good ones: ‘Oh yes, oh yes.’ Then the bad ones: ‘Oh no, oh no.’ The religious ones scream, ‘Oh God, oh God!’” Sammy leaned in toward me. “And the fake ones say, ‘Oh Jack, oh Jack!’”

I laughed as the others groaned. Jack just shook his head.

“If you think this is bad, wait ’til you’re cooped up with them in a hotel room for eight hours straight,” Suzanne warned me. “Just prepare yourself. It isn’t pretty.”

Jack glanced out the window as we went by a 55 mph sign. “Hey, we just passed a double nickel.”

Back in our suite, again it was a crowd of five. Jack got out his eight-track cassette player and inserted an Etta James tape.

“How ’bout a little poker?” Sammy grabbed a deck of cards from the table as Mark pulled up a chair.

“I’m not very good. I only played once or twice in college,” I said as Etta growled the low notes.

“Always more interesting when someone loses big.” Sammy shuffled the cards. “Down to underwear, or everything off?”

“No stripping.” Jack flopped next to me on the sofa.

Sammy looked so disappointed, I had to laugh. “Aw, that’s no fun,” he said. “How about if just us guys strip? The girls can keep their stuff on. Or maybe take off their tops.”

“Any excuse to remove his clothes,” Jack commented.

“Can’t blame me for trying,” Sammy said. The guys felt in their pockets and dumped their change on the table.

Sammy dealt as Suzanne slid ten pennies over to each of us. “That’s for your bets, Julia. Don’t go too crazy,” she said. They each pushed one cent into the middle.

Jack looked at my cards. “The person with the lowest card bets. That would be you, Sammy. Bring it.”

The others played their hands, Jack showing me what to do.

“I’m out.” Sammy started unbuttoning his shirt. “What?” he asked, looking at Jack. “I thought we were playin’ down to our boxers.”

“You don’t have on any boxers,” Suzanne said. “Just stop at your shirt. Julia doesn’t want to see your birthday suit.”

“Thank you, Suzanne. I’m gonna call.” Jack slid two pennies over.

“All right, down and dirty now.” Sammy dealt a last card to each of us.

Suzanne flipped hers over. “Three of a kind.” She slid the mound of pennies to her side of the table.