The Redhead Series

by Alice Clayton

  “Jack, Jack Hamilton, nice to meet you,” he answered as the two shook hands.

  Michael looked him up and down and raised his eyebrows again at Jack’s lack of clothing. I loved that Jack didn’t feel the slightest bit embarrassed that he was considerably less dressed than all of us.

  “So, are you staying here with the girls?” Michael asked, nodding at Holly and me.

  “Well, I stayed with Grace last night. And Holly loves having me here, don’t ya, Holls?” He laughed, ruffling her hair.

  “Oh, yes, it’s just one big whorehouse here, and I’m the madam.” Holly chuckled. “Actually, Jack’s an actor, and I represent him. He has a huge movie about to open this fall.”

  “Ah, so you and he work together,” Michael said. “Grace, playing this one a little close to home, aren’t we?” He winked at me.

  Jack looked over at him and tensed a little. He pulled me even closer.

  “O’Connell, shut up,” I said teasingly, pulling away from Jack and crossing over to where Holly stood by the fridge. We exchanged glances and settled against the counter to watch this unfold.

  “So, Michael, was it? You’re a writer?”

  “Yep, I’ve written for film and TV for years. This is my first musical, but with Grace as my lead, how can I go wrong?” he answered coolly.

  “Well, Grace is amazing, that’s for sure,” Jack replied.

  This was weird.

  “How about I make us all some lunch? Who’s hungry? I’m hungry!” I said, whirling around and looking in the fridge for something to make.

  I made food for the four of us, although it was a little difficult with a Hamilton stuck to my hip. Honestly, he couldn’t have been more obvious if he’d just peed on me.

  While I bustled about making sandwiches, Michael, Holly, and I talked about old times. It really was nice to talk to him again, and he was reminding me how much fun we all used to have together. He was telling the story about how one night we all got drunk, snuck into the theater, climbed up through the fly system, and went out on the roof.

  “When the cops showed up, Grace, you were white as a sheet!” He howled with laughter.

  “Because I had just vomited over the side of the building.” I laughed back.

  Holly had tears streaming down her face. “Oh, God, I forgot about that. You really had trouble holding your liquor then.” She grinned.

  “You also had trouble holding on to your clothes. You were in your bra when the cops got there. Wow, all that lace,” Michael sighed.

  I swatted him with the dish towel I was holding. “Shut up. I was not!”

  “Oh, yes, ma’am, you were. You tried to convince the cops that it was your costume—that you had just performed in Cabaret and it was really a very tiny corset.” He laughed.

  “That’s true, Grace. You were half-naked up there,” Holly said in agreement.

  We all laughed while I finished making lunch, and we settled in to eat. Jack was quiet most of the time, and as the meal went on, I noticed he wasn’t touching me as much as he had earlier. I grabbed his hand at one point and he smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

  He was watching me and Michael.

  When Michael and Holly got ready to leave, Jack and I followed them to the front door.

  “Grace, I’m really glad we got things straightened out. It will be so great spending time with you again. I can’t wait for you to move to New York.”

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  I heard Jack’s intake of breath, and I saw Holly’s eyes flash to him. Michael leaned in to hug me good-bye, placing a peck on my cheek. Then the two of them left.

  I closed the door behind them, waiting a little longer than I needed to before turning to face Jack.

  His face was confused. “You’re moving to New York?”

  “Temporarily.”

  “When?”

  “Nine days.”

  His face hardened and he spun on his heel, walking upstairs.

  When I got up to my room, Jack was standing by the bed, furiously making it. I watched him as he worried the sheets up, trying to make them smooth. I went to the other side and tried to help him, but he jerked them out of my hands.

  “Thanks, I’ve got it,” he snapped.

  Since I couldn’t smooth the sheets, I attempted to smooth this. “Wow, third morning making a bed and you’ve almost got it. Nice, Hamilton. Impressive,” I said jokingly, retrieving a wayward pillow from the floor.

  He didn’t smile. He fussed about for another minute, and then he finally rounded on me.

  “Explain to me why you didn’t bother to tell me that this show was in New York,” he said, frustration showing through.

  Is it wrong that I still noticed how hot he was with no shirt on?

  “It was only an audition at first, and there were so many other actresses up for the same role I didn’t think I had a shot in hell. And then when I found out I was cast, I didn’t . . . well, I didn’t know how to tell you.” I looked at the floor, suddenly really sad that I was going to be leaving him, right when things were getting amazing.

  “Grace, I know we haven’t known each other that long, but hell! This was a fairly big piece of information to leave out.” He sighed.

  Thinking about that text from last night, I almost asked him about it, when I noticed him pulling up the duvet, upside down. I smiled in spite of myself.

  He was throwing a bit of a tantrum, and I was reminded of his age. He was my little emo, but the fact that he was obviously upset at the thought of my leaving touched me.

  I needed to touch him. I climbed onto the bed, crawled across, sat on my knees in front of him, and wrapped my arms around his waist. I laid my head against his chest, and I felt his arms come up around me. That felt better.

  “I know . . . I’m sorry. Is it that hard to believe that I didn’t want to tell you? I’ll miss you. I’ve kind of gotten used to you. Who will tell me my tits are fabulous?” I said into his chest, feeling his little hairs tickle my nose. I could tell I’d made him smile, even without looking up.

  “Fucking Nuts Girl. Are you really leaving in nine days?” he asked, his hands skimming along the skin between my tank top and running pants.

  “Yep.”

  “And how long will you be gone?”

  “I don’t know. It depends on how well the show does. I would say at least ten to twelve weeks.” I pressed my face into his skin. He smelled like my bed.

  He sighed and was quiet for a moment. Then he finally bent down and kissed the top of my head. “Right, then. Let’s not get all dodgy about this. This is great news for you. I’m happy for you, Grace. You know that, right?” he asked seriously, tipping my face up to his.

  “Yes, I know. The timing just sucks.”

  “I agree.” We gazed at each other for a moment, then he broke the silence. “Now, I believe you requested some shower time? I have cleared my morning and am ready to attend to your washing up whenever you are so inclined.” He smiled, letting me know the squall had passed.

  “Yes, please. I am soooo inclined,” I answered back, kissing his stomach and beginning to move south along his happy trail. His hands came up to my hair and I pulled him down onto the bed, his arms propping him up over me as I struggled to undo his jeans button. I unzipped and . . .

  Hello, commando.

  “Hey, I just made this bed, and you’re going to mess it up,” he said.

  I looked around at the pillows haphazardly thrown, the sheet trailing out on the side, the upside-down duvet, and smiled. “I love that you tried, but what you are an expert at in this bed has nothing at all to do with making it. Now, get down here,” I said teasingly.

  He mumbled, “This is why it’s crap to make a bed,” as he laid his full weight on me and my legs came up around him.

  It was an hour before we made it to the shower.

  Then at least another hour before we made it out.

  That afternoon he told me that he had no real plans for the rest of that
week and that, if it would be all right, he would like to spend as much time with me as humanly possible. Who was I to argue?

  So we cocooned. We wrapped ourselves in a little bubble of lust and railroaded right through what should have been our first twenty dates, all in four days’ time.

  We ate at Fatburger for lunch almost every day. He was a freak for it. I made him go running with me at Griffith Park, but only twice. He had trouble keeping up with me the first time, and the second . . . well, let’s just say we went a little George Michael behind a tree.

  We drove for miles up PCH. He drove while I sat back relaxing, watching him in his sunglasses, looking sexy as all get-out. We listened to music, trading iPods back and forth, playing each other our favorites.

  We watched hours of DVDs. We watched The Office (UK and U.S. versions) and Flight of the Conchords, and we spent an entire afternoon watching a Corey marathon: The Lost Boys, License to Drive, and Stand by Me.

  We spent a morning at my new house, helping to place all my furniture. I couldn’t believe how beautiful it had turned out, and I wasn’t even going to get a chance to enjoy it.

  We talked for hours. I told him all about my new show and how nervous I was about it. He confessed that he was getting a little worried about all the hype Time was creating and whether he would be painted with the same teeny-bop brush as other actors his age.

  Since we were barely sleeping at night, we snuck naps in each afternoon. We cuddled in my bed, usually with me wearing one of his shirts. It was how he preferred me to be, if he couldn’t have me naked.

  It always started out with me on my back and Jack draped across my chest. I’d scratch his head and he’d trace little circles on my arm. Gradually his breath would get heavier—I had learned to recognize his sleep pattern. Right before he fell asleep, I’d turn on my side and he’d fit his body around mine, holding me close against his chest, his hands holding my breasts.

  We stayed in and I cooked for us every night. Holly would usually join us and then retreat to her room as Jack cleaned up. He felt that he should do the dishes since I cooked, and I let him. I found that I could watch him do almost anything and be happy.

  We’d usually go for a swim after dinner, and he kept a bottle of wine on the side of the pool for us while we splashed and played. Sometimes, if I was lucky, we’d skinny-dip.

  We sang songs as if we were at freaking camp. I finally got him to play guitar for me, and he was amazing. Watching those fingers all over that guitar with the same tenderness and attention that they gave to me was amazing. And hearing him sing? He had a sweet voice, but rough at the same time. A little mushy, thick, and wonderful. He was truly talented and his voice hypnotizing. He played some of his favorites and some that he had written. He played songs I knew, so I could sing along. It was nice. He would strum absently while he watched me get ready in the morning, and when I’d make the bed (I’d taken back this particular duty) he’d write me my own little action soundtrack, his playing mimicking my motions. When he thought I should be moving faster, he played faster.

  We kissed constantly. We kissed for hours. Whether we were at the table, in the shower (which was now always a synchronized event), in the hallway, or on the couch, we kissed. Slow and sweet, furious and frenetic, wanting and needing, we kissed.

  We touched constantly, unable to keep our hands off each other. Whether it was hands being held across the hot tub or his hand on my thigh while we were driving, we were in contact, always. He would sweetly keep his hand in the small of my back when we were walking anywhere. I’d curl my legs around him when we were watching a movie, and he’d nudge at my hand like a cat until I scratched his head.

  There was virtually no part of his body that I had left unexplored, and he’d done the same for me. We were in an almost constant state of arousal. He kept my Hamilton Brand fresh each day, providing new nibbles if it was fading. A look from him made my pulse faster, and we became so good at meeting each other’s needs that it almost was inconsequential that we had yet to really have . . . sex.

  I needed it. And I knew he needed it. It was only a matter of time.

  But we both wanted to wait for it to be special. Because in this heightened, super-sped-up, crazy world of ours, we were moving beyond whatever this had started out as.

  And I found myself falling completely and totally in love with him. It was so good, it almost hurt.

  This was all kinds of fucked up.

  Late one night, on the fourth day of Grace and Jack Lockdown, we were lying in my bed watching Say Anything. It was the part where Lloyd plays the song to Diane through the window and I sighed deeply, feeling Jack’s fingers as they gently moved through my hair.

  “Oh, jeez, not you, too.” He laughed.

  “What? Not me what?” I asked, tapping on his knee.

  “You girls all love that scene. You all want the boy with the radio outside the window,” he said teasingly, planting a kiss on my head.

  “That’s not true. I mean, I love that scene. It’s iconic. And I love that song . . . my God, I love that song. But I don’t need the grand gesture.”

  “The grand gesture?”

  “Yeah, you know—he runs through the train station to bring her the flowers before she leaves. Or he drops down on one knee in front of a room full of her friends to propose and try to win her back. He says he loves her in front of a football stadium, because he never had the guts to say it when it was just them.

  “I don’t want all that schmaltz. It’s the little things, the daily choices. That’s the love.” I picked at a loose thread on the blanket. It was the closest I had come to telling him how I really felt. “I tell you what, if someone ever played a Peter Gabriel song outside my window, I do believe I would lock that very window.”

  “Hmm, you are curious, Grace Sheridan. Just when I think I have you sorted out . . .”

  “Ah, you’ll never sort this out. It’s a mess in here. Stay clear, Hamilton. Stay clear.” I sighed, rolling back against him.

  “So, no schmaltz, huh?” he asked.

  “Well, a little schmaltz is fine. Every girl needs a little schmaltz. I do have a small romantic bone in my body.”

  “Heh heh, you said bone,” he said, deadpan.

  “Oh, man . . .” I laughed, snuggling back down to him.

  We were quiet for a moment, watching, then he said, “Grace, do you mind if we turn this off?”

  “Fuck, no. I was just waiting for you!” I cried, pouncing on him. He laughed his surprise into my mouth but then quickly turned on that Hamilton sex that I needed so badly.

  We were ready for bed, so he was wearing only his underwear-campaign-worthy boxer-briefs, which still made me shake like a schoolgirl whenever I saw him walking across the room in them.

  He’d started to unbutton my shirt when I pushed him back in the bed. I slowly swung a leg over him and straddled him. I had barely brushed him when his hands came up rough on my hips.

  “Ah ah ah, love, slowly now,” I said teasingly as I began to unbutton my shirt for him. I settled lower down on his lap, feeling his hardness through his thin boxers. This time I had gone commando.

  I hissed at the feeling of him pressing against my skin, and I relished the idea of how he would feel when he was inside me. I rocked my hips against him slowly, purposefully, and watched as his face changed.

  Slipping the last button through, I parted my shirt for him. I was naked and his eyes drank me in. His hands left my hips to come to my breasts. I moaned into his touch as he gently rolled my nipples between his talented fingers. He tugged at me, and I cried out. His eyes were wild as he watched me above him, and I rocked harder against him, feeling the indescribable friction that our bodies were creating.

  “Fuck, Grace. That feels amazing,” he groaned, his eyes becoming even wilder, his face almost animalistic.

  I pushed him in the way that I knew only I could push him. I lowered my body onto his, pressing myself against him. I looked him in the eye and said, “What
would feel amazing is that tongue of yours. All. Over. Me.” I punctuated each word with a hard thrust, slamming my hips into his rock-hard Mr. Hamilton.

  His eyes narrowed, and he unleashed a low growl from deep in his throat.

  He lifted me off his lap with one swift movement, and I found myself with my knees on either side of his face. He grabbed at my hips, pulling me firmly down to his mouth. His tongue snaked out, and he licked me. Hard. I sucked a breath in sharply, my hips bucking as he fought to hold me still.

  “No,” he said, warning me, his eyes blazing hard as he stared up at me.

  He licked me again. Harder.

  I rocked my hips, desperate for the friction, and he growled again. He pulled me down once more, roughly, and began lapping at me, quickly, violently. His mouth closed around me, sucking greedily at me.

  I came fast and hard, in his mouth, on his tongue. Before I could even recover, his teeth—oh, my God, his teeth—teased at me. He took me into his mouth again, and with his lips pressed firmly around me, his teeth nipping and his tongue darting over me, the sensations were unlike anything I had ever felt before.

  Then he moaned.

  He moaned and he groaned, and the vibrations rang through me. I screamed his name repeatedly as I rocked my hips back and forth. His hands dug into my hips, bruising my skin, keeping me in place, not letting me go. My screams became wordless as the series of orgasms ravaged me, making me shake violently. He was groaning under me, his tone guttural and his face furious as he watched me come down.

  He was not done with me.

  He flipped me over, nudging my knees apart almost carelessly. His eyes burned into me as he dragged his fingertips from my mouth, down the center of my body, between my breasts, and below. He teased me there for a moment, watching my face as I became more and more frustrated with his swirling fingers.

  Just before I began to pull my hair out, he plunged two fingers deep inside of me. My back arched off the bed, hips wild at his touch. This was what I needed. He found that spot, his J-spot, and he stroked me intently while his other hand pressed down. He brought his face to mine and kissed me, sucking my lower lip into his mouth.