Zipless (4 page)

“Of me?”

“Of you asking for my number. That’s just not me, you see. I don’t do relationships.”

“I wasn’t asking for one.”

“I was being proactive.”

Chris scratched his head. “So you don’t do relationships, but you
do
do mutual masturbation up dark alleys?”

She grinned. “It wasn’t mutual.” She stretched out a hand. “But I’ll take care of that right now.” He pulled her to her feet and she led him to the bathroom.

Bad idea. He should walk away. One should not be tempted by women named Jolene, everybody knew that. But he went anyway and, hours later, as he lay wide awake in her bed, while little Jolene slept in his arms, he wondered. Why no relationships? And why did he even care? Was it because of the way she’d whispered “come for me, Zipman,” making him laugh out loud at the same time she’d brought him over the edge of ecstasy?

Or was it when he’d informed her he’d run out of condoms? She’d gone to a closet, grabbed a bag, and dumped a hundred or so condom packets into his crotch. Then, with a wild grin, she’d climbed on top of him and fucked his brains out.

He watched her sleeping. Most of the black makeup had washed off her eyes in the shower. She looked younger, more vulnerable, her face so relaxed as a small smile curled her lips. Exciting, mysterious and sexy, but no beauty, really. He studied her pointed chin, the nose that was a little too big for her face. Funny, though, how attractive he found her. She was dead to the world, sleeping off the three orgasms she’d shuddered and squeaked her way to. The sex had been good. Hell, it had been great. But the nicest part had been when she’d kissed him just before falling asleep. Finally, no lust, no passion. Just sweetness. She’d even said a polite thank you, before bluntly reminding him that she’d be gone when he woke up and to please not contact her again. She’d looked sad when she said it. But he’d agreed. Probably for the best.

The next set of lyrics came to him.
She was a sweet Maggie May with a slice of Jolene, but when she slept in my arms, her face was serene
. He kissed her cheek gently so as not to wake her up. With all the makeup gone, her skin was flushed and lightly freckled, a stark contrast from the thick black eyelashes, the strong dark sweep of her eyebrows, and the black spikes of her hair against the pillow. He sighed. He wished he had time to get to know her better. Sometimes, when she was excited or angry, she seemed to lose control of her English, lapsing in to some unintelligible Scottish dialect. He wanted to know the meaning of some of the strange things she said.

She stirred in his arms and he feigned sleep. If it was time for her to go, he didn’t want to have to say goodbye. He listened as she moved around the room, getting dressed. She kissed him before leaving. A soft touch of her lips, then a sad-sounding whisper.

“Game’s a bogey, Zippy.”

What the hell did that mean?

He got up and dressed as soon as she closed the door. On her pillow, he left a note.

I don’t want the game to be a bogey.

He added his cell number and signed it
Zippy
.

The ball was in her court now. Maybe she’d call. Maybe not. He left the room whistling, first “Maggie May,” which morphed into “Jolene,” then finally changed into the song he was writing. He headed back to the Chelsea, where his guitar was waiting for him.

Chapter 3

Band practice was its usual disaster of poorly tuned guitars and bickering over which song to start with. Lou walked in and took control. “Bluto, tune that bloody guitar. Alasdair, your bass doesn’t work unless it’s plugged in. Put down the vodka, Chiz, and pick up your sticks. Paolo, get your lips off the girl. Banshee, go find a quiet corner to sit in.”

She pulled up a chair and gave them her severest frown. “Let’s start with “Barlinnie Blues.””

“Can we do it reggae style?” Alasdair suggested excitedly, while the rest of the band groaned.

“No, we can’t. It’s a bitter condemnation of the Scottish prison system, not a holiday in the Caribbean.”

Alasdair, as always, fell into a sulk. Lou sighed. She should never have lent him her rocksteady reggae collection.

Bluto kicked into the opening riff, and Lou sat back. Was Zippy still sleeping in her bed?

Chiz missed his entrance. Bluto stopped playing. Alasdair turned his back on the band, continuing his almighty sulk.

Lou scowled at Chiz. “How much vodka?”

“Not much, Lou, I swear.”

“Let me see the bottle.”

Chiz held it up slowly. “See, still half a bottle left.”

How the hell had she managed to bring them this far? Chiz with his drinking. Alasdair forever wanting to do something different. Bluto and his careless laziness. Thank goodness for Paolo. He was waiting patiently for his band mates to get their shit together.

“Okay, let’s start again.”

Bluto started the opening riff again and this time Chiz hit his mark. Lou sat back. Would the Zipman try to see her again? What should she do if he did? Bluto hit a bum note, but kept going. Chiz was playing sloppy. Alasdair seemed to be trying to insert a rocksteady reggae beat into a bluesy rock number. Paolo was waiting for his moment. Bluto opened his mouth to sing the opening line. Then promptly forgot the words. He mumbled them until he suddenly remembered. Lou rolled her eyes. They were playing like a bunch of amateurs. This was going to be a long practice.

“Lou. Can I talk to you?” Banshee had pulled her chair next to Lou’s.

“Not now. Can’t you see I’m busy?”

“It’ll just take a minute. I’ve written some songs, you see. And I wanted to ask your opinion. You know, get some advice.”

Chiz dropped one of the sticks, then fell off his chair as he tried to retrieve it. “Not now, I said,” Lou yelled at Banshee. Bluto launched into the chorus, but instead of singing “Barlinnie,” about Glasgow’s notorious prison, he sang “Balvenie,” an equally famous brand of whisky.

Banshee tried to shove some papers in her hand.

Lou shoved them back. “Will ye please just go the fuck away!”

The band jangled tunelessly to a halt. Lou looked at them.

Paolo had held out a hand and kept them silent. “Apologize, Lou.”

“What?”

“Apologize to Banshee. Now.” Paolo gently put his guitar back in its stand. “You’ve been rotten to her for no good reason from the moment you met her. Apologize.”

“But—”

“Last chance!”

They stared at each other. Paolo, always so calm and patient, was furious with her. “I’m trying to manage—”

“You’re no a manager, Lou. You’re a fucking dictator. A little Mussolini. I’m sick of it. We’re all sick of it!”

Lou glanced at the other band members. None of them would meet her eyes.

“I’ve got you this far—”

“Aye. Singing your songs the way you want them played. Wearing clothes that you want us to wear. Naming us stupid bloody Guyville. Picking out our instruments. And now. Now! You want to pick my girlfriend for me. I’m sick of it.” He walked over to her and paused a moment, before bending and kissing her on the cheek. “I love you, Lou. You’ve done everything for me. I know that. But I’m done. I’m done.” He turned and walked away.

“Paolo, wait.”

He stopped at the door. “I’m not like you, Lou. I can’t just live on music and the occasional one night stand.” He took Banshee’s hand in his, and Lou swallowed hard when she saw how tightly they held on to each other. “Maybe you should think about what else is important in life.”
 
He and Banshee walked out the door without looking back.

Lou turned back to the band. “Am I really that bad?”

“Well, you don’t take too kindly to input,” said Bluto.

“Or feedback,” Chiz added.

“Or even suggestions.” Alasdair had finally broken his sulk.

Lou took a deep breath. “I’ll apologize to Banshee. And I’ll do better. I promise.”

Bluto propped his guitar against a speaker, then came and sat down next to her.

Lou rested her head on his shoulder for a brief moment. “I’ll book a practice for this evening. But first I’ll go back to the hotel and make things right with Paolo.”

Bluto took her hand. “I think it’s too late for that, Lou.”

She stared at him. “Och, don’t be silly. He’s just throwing a strop. I’ll take care of it. He wouldn’t leave the band. Not on the eve of our big breakthrough.”

Chiz pulled up a chair and took a swig from his vodka bottle. “He’s been talking about it for a while, Lou.”

“What? He never said anything to me.”

Alasdair pulled up a chair. “Aye, well, it was hard for him. Letting ye down, like.”

“Letting me down? What do you mean?”

Chiz took her other hand. “We all know how important this band is to you, Lou. After your mother died and you had to leave Uni and come home. Well, this was all ye had.”

Lou shook her head. “No, no. It wisnae like that.” She thought, taking herself back to that time. “Paolo was sixteen. I wanted something to keep him out of trouble. And you lot, too. You were all into music. The band was just a way to keep you on track. It was never about me.”

“Aye, lass.” Bluto patted her hand. “That’s the way it started. That was eight years ago.” He sighed. “But along the way…it wasn’t about us anymore.”

“It was. It was too!”

Chiz snorted. “Remember that song ye made us do?”

“The Bloody Rag!” they all intoned in unison.

Lou ducked her head. Not the best decision she’d ever made, to have the boys do a song about the challenges of being on your period. “I’m sorry. That was a terrible song.”

“It was a brilliant song,” said Alasdair. “That catchy melody. When you played the recording for us, we thought it was clever and funny.”

“But it wasn’t when we did it,” said Chiz. “I couldn’t show my face in the pub for months.”

“But we were all much nicer to our girlfriends after that,” Bluto added, with an encouraging smile.

Lou squeezed Chiz and Bluto’s hands. “I’ll do better in future.”

Alasdair grabbed the vodka bottle and took a swig. Then another. “Lou. It’s over.”

She shook her head.

Alasdair handed her the bottle. “It is, lass. The way Paolo sees it, you gave up Uni and your dreams to move home and get a job and take care of him. And then you poured everything into the band. He’s being cruel to be kind by breaking up the band. Then you’re forced to get a life of your own and pursue
your
dreams.”

Lou took a swig off the vodka. “Pursue my dreams? I dream of the band. How does breaking it up—”

“Louisa Marzaroli!” Bluto turned her face to look at him, not gently. “When you went away to Uni what was your plan?”

Lou looked at him, confused. “Study music. See if I could get a career out of my songs.” She shrugged. “Teach if I couldn’t. Your point?”

“And then your ma got sick. You came home to take care of her. You buried her. You took a shit job and took care of your wee brother and his pals.” He kissed her cheek. “Eternally grateful, by the way.”

“Still not seeing your point, Bloot.” She scrubbed at her eyes. The big galoot had made her cry.

“And all that desire to create, to teach, to lead…” He looked upward, searching for the words. “That desire to fucking
be
something. All that got poured into the band, when it should be
you
on that stage, singing your songs about menstrual cramps and the fucking price of tampons, and the state of the prison system, and the death of your ma, and…and…and—”

“Okay. I get your point now. But—” She grabbed the vodka and drained the last of it. “The stage fright, Bloot. I cannae dae it. I cannae.”

“Jesus Christ, woman. If I can get up on a stage and sing about going on the pill to make the bleeding slow down, in front of a crowd of drunken Scotsman, then you certainly can, madam.”

“Months before I could show my face in the pub again,” Chiz repeated, with a traumatized expression.

“All my brothers still slag me about it,” Alasdair added.