Zipless (2 page)

* * * *

Easier said then done, Lou thought, after stumbling a terrible distance in the dense heat and noise.
How far is a few blocks, anyway?
Yellow taxies tooted their horns as sweat trickled down the back of her neck. “How can it be so hot at night?” she asked breathlessly.

“New York City in a heat wave,” he said, grinning. “I grew up in the south, so I can handle it.” He stopped at an open window and ordered something from a man behind the counter. “Here,” he said. “An Italian ice. That’ll cool you down some.” He looked down at her. “Guess you’re really struggling with this heat. I think you should sit down for a spell.”

“Aye, I think that’s a good idea.”

He led her down a dark alley and sat her down on some steps. Lou kicked off her shoes and started scooping the bright yellow ice into her mouth. “Yum. Perfect.”

He glanced at her, smiling. “Maybe we should get a cab? The heat. Your shoes.”

“Aye, in a wee minute.” She looked up at the imposing walls that towered high above them. “New York City! Never thought I’d get here.” After all the years of managing the band, scratching out a living, driving their van to gigs in the back of beyond, forcing them to practice and take it seriously… They’d come so far. And, in a few nights, the band would be on one of America’s most popular television shows. The label was dithering over offering them a contract, but they were keen. She knew that. They’d paid for this trip and as soon as she could get them to sit down and negotiate, Guyville would be on their way. A recording contract, an American tour—

“What’s your name?” His honeyed voice interrupted her mental meandering.
 

Lou thought. Did a zipless fuck include an exchange of names? She could never remember the exact etiquette. She decided on her childhood nickname. “Maggie May.”

“Like the song?”

“Aye. My mother used to sing it to me. Even though it was rather inappropriate for a wee girl.” She giggled. “She’d mumble through the bits she didn’t want me asking questions about.”

He was looking down at her with a curious expression. “It’s a good name for you, I guess. Famous. Musically-related. Evocative.”

Lou nodded. Poor man thinks I’m a groupie, but what the hell. I’ll play along. A little chord strummed in her mind. Her favorite, B7th, the most bittersweet of chords. A lyric attached itself.
I met him in New York, with his jeans so tight. I knew that it was wrong, but it felt so right
… She shook her head. No. This wouldn’t be bittersweet. This would be carnal, unwise, wrong and utterly fantastic. He would always be zipless to her; a walk on the wild side. God knows, after the struggle of the last few years, she deserved a treat.

He bent and put his mouth next to her ear. “My name’s—”

Lou quickly slid a spoonful of ice into his mouth. Knowing his name would spoil it. “I’ve already given you a nickname.”

He swallowed and raised one eyebrow before straightening.

“Zippy.”

He choked.

“It’s an ancient Scottish term of endearment,” she said, giggling. She looked up at him. He was gorgeous. If she was in Scotland, chatting with her best pal, she would have described him as “pure gallus,” and Frannie would’ve cackled and begged for details. Lou saved up a few choice morsels to share with Fran at a later date: tall, dark, handsome, addictive smile, dab hand with an icepack, wears honest-to-goodness cowboy boots and a voice that dripped like a sweet, slow syrup. But could he possibly taste that sweet? Lou stood up on the bottom step next to him and wound her hands around his neck. She looked into his eyes, then, as his hands slipped around her waist, she lifted her mouth to his ear. “I want to taste you, Zippy. Quite badly.” She took a deep breath of the hot, heavy air, heard the rushing traffic at the end of the alley, and then went in for a sip.

* * * *

Maybe she was a pretty good groupie after all. She was one hell of a good kisser, that was for sure. Her sweet lemon-flavored lips didn’t hold back, moving on his with unbridled gusto. Her lithe, cool tongue darting in to taste, then retreating coyly, invitingly. The song continued to write itself in his head.
Your place or mine said a woman so fine, with a smile so sweet that I could not decline. She kissed me in an alley off Twenty-Third Street, standing on the tiptoes of her shoeless feet.

He walked her backward up the steps until they were hidden in the doorway, advancing until her back bumped against the door. Then he took control of the kiss, burying his hands in her soft, sleek hair and angling her face. He felt it again, that soft vibration of her body, as she tipped back her head and opened her mouth for him, her hands diving into and gripping his hair. He’d best slow down a little; he didn’t want to come on too strong, but the moment he tried to pull back, she tugged on his hair and dragged him into an even deeper kiss. She wasn’t shy, running her hands down his back until she cupped his ass, which she explored enthusiastically. She pulled his hips against hers with a fierce little tug.

He heard her moan. No. It had been him. But then she did it too. A soft, sweet sound that was almost,
almost
a purr. He ran his fingers over the nape of her neck, over the small of her back, along her jaw line, over the pulsing of the heartbeat in her neck, over the heated skin just below the hem of her mini skirt. He wanted more, more, more, but not here, not in a doorway of an alley off 23rd. He was classier than that. He hoped. His suite, back at the Chelsea, was waiting for them, with its big bed, room service and a good bottle of wine. He wanted her there like ten minutes ago.

He wrenched his head back to suggest they get a cab, but once again that voracious mouth of hers captured his. She whipped him around and shoved him against the door, then proceeded to kiss and touch him for some infinite amount of time, refusing to stop, pulling him to her time and time again, until finally she stepped away gasping for breath, staring at him, wild-eyed and disheveled.

“I…um…my jaw hurts. How long have we been here?” She leaned against the door next to him, her knees visibly trembling, and propped herself up as if she had difficulty standing.

“About an hour, I’d say.” He tried to slow his breathing. He sounded like a panting dog. “Ready to go to my place?” He adjusted his ravaged clothing.
Oh, please, say yes. I’m dying here.

“Aye. In a wee minute.” She giggled. “Once I’ve got my legs back.” She raised an eyebrow. “One more kiss while we wait, Zippy?”

He didn’t have to be asked twice. Once more into the breech, he thought, as he tasted her again and slipped his hand under her skirt. Such a delicious little morsel. So sweet, yet so bold. He sought the white cotton panties he’d glimpsed earlier.

She squeaked.

He tried to pull his hand back, but her thighs closed tight, entrapping it. She wiggled slightly, breathing hard. That little sound again.

“Did you just squeak, Maggie May?”

“Aye. Naw. I mean…”

Something Scottish and completely unintelligible escaped her mouth, before she grabbed him and started kissing him again. Her thighs relaxed and he pushed his hand between them, rubbing his fingers against the damp fabric, watching her face until he knew his fingers had found the perfect spot.

That adorable squeak again. He lifted his head. “I think there’s only one way to restore those legs of yours to working order, Maggie. Close your eyes, darlin’. This won’t take long.” He went to work, smiling when her head jerked back and banged against the door. “Easy, baby. Easy. Don’t go hurting yourself.”

Her eyes opened, stared blankly at him, and then fluttered closed again.

“Just relax. Enjoy the ride.” He dipped in for a taste of her lemony lips, felt her hands grasp his hair and her hips start to buck against his insistent fingers. Then she had the lapel of his leather vest between her teeth, with a few chest hairs caught in there too, and she was a-squeaking and a-moaning into his shoulder, her legs trembling and losing power until she slid down against the door. He moved with her, lowering himself and her, until she sat shuddering on the ground. He gave her one last firm lingering squeeze, and she rewarded him with one final squeak, a jolt of her legs, then she collapsed back against the door, heaving in great gasps of air, which in turn became raucous laughter.

“Oh, Zippy. That was…”

More unintelligible words in a thick accent. He leaned back against the door, watching her, and ignoring the increasingly painful bulge in his jeans. She didn’t ignore it, however. She opened one eye and slid a hand up his leg. “Your turn.”

He glanced around. No, not here. She deserved something a little better than that. “Not yet, darlin’. My place, a glass or two of wine, then on ’til the break of dawn. Followed by sleep, then a shower, a good breakfast, some morning delight and your cell number.”

She smiled and closed her eyes again.

“Those legs of yours ready to get in a cab?”

“I don’t think they’ll ever work again, Zip. You’ve gone and killed them dead.”

“Let’s give ’em a try.” He reached down and helped her up, holding her in place until little Maggie could stand on her own. He retrieved her purse and shoes. She took them, still smiling and a little dazed. “I’ll go hail us a cab, honey. You start walking. By the time you get to the end of this alley, your chariot will await.”

He almost skipped toward 23rd. Hell of a night this had turned out to be. Showing up at the party after being requested and nagged by the label, he’d expected another dull night listening to the latest over-praised Brit band. Instead the music had turned out to be damn good, the band promising, and Maggie May had fallen into his lap. Well, not fallen. Should he tell her he’d stuck that boot out to stop her from walking by him yet again? Probably not. He hadn’t thought she’d trip, just that she’d stop and finally look at him. Instead, she’d been too busy eying the pretty, Scottish dude with the Goth girlfriend. She really was a terrible groupie, going after the one guy in the band who had a girlfriend with him. But she was fun. And sweet. And she squeaked quite adorably when she came. And he couldn’t think of any other thing he wanted to do tonight other than get to know her better. And get out of these jeans! He stuck his hand out and a cab rolled to the curb. He turned to call Maggie, just in time to see her high-tailing it down 23rd, legs flying, arms pumping. Maggie seemed to have gotten her sea legs back.

Chris felt his shoulders slump in disappointment. Had he said something, done something wrong? Or had Maggie just gotten what she came for? He climbed into the cab and gave the driver his address. He wasn’t going to chase a groupie. He had some pride left, after all. The cab moved off and his song continued.
 

Your place or mine, said a woman so fine,

With a kiss so sweet that I could not decline.

She kissed me in an alley off Twenty-Third Street,

Standing on the tiptoes of her shoeless feet.

The song changed to a minor key.

She loved me, then left me
 

While I caught us a ride.
 

Sprinting down the street,

Leaving nothing of my pride.

She was with the band his employers were thinking of signing. He could track her down if he wanted to. Or not. Maybe just chalk it up to a small disappointment in a string of much more major ones. Looking on the bright side, he was writing again. But how would he be able to finish it? Unless the rest of the song was him going back to the Chelsea and drinking himself to oblivion. That sounded pretty good. Oblivion would be cool. He should have listened to Rod Stewart. Women called Maggie May were bad news. He shifted uncomfortably and glanced morosely at his crotch, suddenly realizing he was still holding her damn shoes.

Chapter 2

Lou woke up still fully dressed. The zip on her skirt had stuck halfway down, so she’d slept in it. It had been a night of feverish dreams—lips and hands and dark, passion-fuelled eyes. Oh, Zippy. Why did you have to spoil it by asking for my number? She sighed and glanced over at the clock, gasped, then leapt off the bed. Ten past ten! The band meeting had started in the conference room ten minutes ago. She stuffed her bare feet into her Doc Martens and rushed into the en suite bathroom. Splashing water onto her face, she got a good look at herself in the massive mirror. Raccoon eyes. No problem. Hair sticking up in all directions. No problem. Boobs hanging out of her top. Problem. She rushed through the room, hurriedly grabbing her favorite Ramones t-shirt and her keycard, before slamming the door behind her and rushing to the lift. Elevator, Zippy would call it, she thought with a smirk, as she entered through the barely open doors and started stabbing at the button for the ground floor.