by Brenda Joyce
She blinked. “Uh—just a few more questions?”
“Later. Right now I’m more interested in you.”
“What do you want to know?” She flushed.
His voice lowered to a hoarse whisper. “I want to know how you look with those clothes off, how those beautiful long legs feel wrapped around me. I want to know how you taste.”
Linda’s mouth dropped open, and she stared.
Jack put his hand on her hair and pulled her close, removing her glasses. His lips came down on hers. “You are so hot,” he whispered, one hand roaming down her body, pausing over her small, jutting breasts. “Hot, sexy.”
As he kissed her his hand descended until it was between her legs. Ignoring her dress, he palmed her. She whimpered. With one hand he unzipped his pants and pulled his swollen cock out, taking her hand and firmly implanting himself in her grip. “That’s it, baby, that’s it.”
“Oh my!” she gasped.
9
The water was steaming hot.
Melody lay back in the tub, closing her eyes. It felt so good to unwind, to sink deeper and deeper into the hot, soothing water, to release all the tension and pent-up energy of the day. And, God, what a day. She thought she had placated Price. The man probably wouldn’t blackball Jack. But he probably would badmouth him all over Hollywood. Jesus. One thing was sure. Price would never direct another Jackson Ford film.
Jack.
Even with her eyes closed, she saw him in perfect detail. Thick, brownish hair, wildly shot with gold. Green eyes, long-lashed, crinkled at the corners from too much smiling. High cheekbones in a classic face. That killer grin. She sighed as her insides melted and an old, familiar ache ran down her body.
Jack filled her days. He was her business.
Jack filled her nights. He was her lover.
In her dreams.
Melody sighed again. She wondered how the US interview was going. She hoped Jack was behaving himself. She didn’t feel like facing another day playing cajoler and umpire with an irate reporter. One who could do far more damage in far less time than Price. Please, Jack, please, just behave.
Fortunately the reporter was a woman. Even if she was fat and fifty, Jack would be charming—unless she pushed him too hard the wrong way.
Melody stepped out of the tub. She tried not to look at her body. That was easy because she didn’t have her round glasses on. She was short, with small shoulders and small hips and huge breasts. Men loved her breasts. They also loved her ass. Compared to the smallness of the rest of her, it was definitely oversized. She considered herself fat.
She also disliked her face. It was plain. Worse. Square. If someone was unkind, they might call her horse-faced. Her eyes were very blue, almost purple, but small, wide-set, and she hid them behind her glasses, which made her face seem less square. A serious, no-nonsense face. One that did not go with her body. Only her incredibly thick red hair went with her body. And on top of everything else she had freckles. Not a lot. But enough. Everywhere.
Jack had never made a pass at her in all the years she had known him. She knew he never would.
In the beginning it was because she wasn’t his type. Diane was his type. A nineteen-year-old model with a nothing figure. No breasts, no ass, no thighs—nothing. Tall, coltish. A perfect, breathtaking face. Lots and lots of brown hair, so dark it was almost black. Blue eyes, black lashes. One of a million coltish brunettes that Jack took to bed.
Melody slipped into a T-shirt that came to her knees. She smirked unkindly because Diane had been furious that Jack couldn’t see her until later, and she had broken the date instead. Too bad. She was due to be dropped soon, anyway. Most of Jack’s women lasted a night. Some lasted a week or two. Usually on a shoot or on location, like now. Melody knew it was convenient. She knew Jack was one of the horniest men alive.
But she understood him. She knew—instinctively at first, and now with the insight of years of friendship—why Jack preferred children and bimbos. He was afraid. Afraid to care about a woman, afraid to love. It was actually very sad. It was because of his mother. Melody knew he made light of her desertion, but she could read past that. She knew that somewhere deep inside he had never gotten over it. He would probably never love any woman.
Was the woman who had been calling actually Jack’s mother?
If so, Melody was determined to do something about it. Jack’s past still lived with him. It had scarred him. She knew she was making judgments she wasn’t qualified to make; after all, she wasn’t a psychologist. But she didn’t care. She loved Jack.
She had loved him from the first moment she had ever laid eyes on him.
She would never forget it. She had just moved into a run-down studio in West Hollywood and was working in the publicity department of a small firm. She had been living in her apartment for a week and had assumed she had only four neighbors. The fifth apartment on her floor appeared to be vacant. It was Saturday, around noon. She was coming up the stairs with two bags of groceries, and so was he.
He was red-eyed, staggering slightly, unshaven, and smelled distinctly of beer and sex. He was beautiful. His smile was instinctive—and sensual. As she put down her bags she watched him fumble with his keys, cursing mildly, swaying against the wall. Her next-door neighbor was a drunk—but the handsomest drunk she had ever seen.
A week later she had run into him again and introduced herself. This time he wasn’t so far gone—maybe slightly high but impeccably dressed, shaved, and cologned. They had wound up chatting. He was, of course, an actor. Their friendship grew in small stages from there, despite the constant trooping of women in and out of Jack’s apartment. Sometimes they would share a beer or a joint, if they ran into each other after work.
The night Jack was thrown in jail, it was Melody he had called.
And it was Melody as much as AA who had helped him through withdrawal.
When he had straightened out and she began to realize his potential, it had been her idea to manage Jack on her offwork hours. She had been with him from practically the beginning, and she would be there until the end.
Melody climbed into bed. It was the best time of the night. Once she was under the sheets, she pulled off her T-shirt, letting it drop on the floor. She fondled her breasts and thought about Jack. She closed her eyes, her fingers teasing her nipples into erectness, imagining Jack’s mouth on them, sucking and tugging. In her fantasy he was crazy with desire for her, telling her how beautiful she was, how much he wanted her, how he loved her. She slid her hand between her thighs. She could almost feel Jack’s mouth, his tongue. She moaned his name when she finally found release.
As she lay waiting to fall asleep she thought about what she really wanted, what she was really hoping for. Certainly not a reconciliation between Jack and his mother. But Jack had to face her and the past in order to leave it behind.
And then what?
Maybe he’d stop fooling around with eighteen-year-old bimbos and find a mature woman he could love and trust.
Like her.
10
She hadn’t returned his calls.
Vince Spazzio padlocked the gate on the construction site and sauntered over to his truck. He threw his shirt on over his broad, gleaming chest, heavily slabbed with a dozen year’s accumulation of muscle. He climbed in the cab, lit a cigarette, and checked his mirror, pulling out.
Belinda hadn’t called. A vast disappointment filled him.
She only called him at work, of course, because of Mary. Maybe she would call tomorrow. He hadn’t seen her in four days. He could barely stand it.
He was almost tempted to drive over to her place, but he knew better. She’d have a fit if he appeared uninvited.
He wondered what Mary would have for dinner. He was starved. He was always ravenous after a hard day’s work. Belinda. God, he loved eating her. She was beautiful. More than beautiful. He loved and hated her at the same time. He wondered what she was doing tonight.
Didn’t she want to see
him?
Traffic was usually a steady five miles per hour on the San Diego Freeway when Vince commuted, but not tonight. He had worked until dark, fiercely. It was not so much to avoid going home to Mary as it was to take his mind off Belinda. But that was impossible. He turned on the radio. Maybe she’d met someone else. That thought filled him with panic.
He pictured Belinda naked and wet with sweat on a bed amid rumpled sheets, awaiting some faceless lover. Her own face was glazed with lust. Her breasts, full but high, had hard, erect nipples. Her legs, strong, powerful, curved, were spread and waiting. The flesh between her thighs was pink and swollen and slick.
Vince hit the brakes hard and managed to avoid bumping the car in front of him as the traffic slowed. He was going to have an accident. Every day, five days a week, he drove home and thought about Belinda until he had a hard-on, until he was miserable, because most of the time he couldn’t have her. He turned up the station. How long could he go on like this?
He parked in the driveway of his two-bedroom house in Costa Mesa, next to Mary’s Volkswagen Beetle. The lawn would need cutting this weekend, he thought. The petunias he had planted were wilting from lack of water. Cursing, he went to the hose, turned it on, and dragged it over to water them. You would think she could at least water the goddamn petunias. He strode into the house.
Mary sat at the kitchen table with another woman, her friend Beth. There was a half gallon of wine between them, almost empty. There was also a sliver of mirror, a vial of coke, mostly empty, as well as a razor and straw. The two women had been talking animatedly, laughter punctuating their conversation, and now they stopped completely.
“Hi, Vince.” Mary smiled. She was drunk. She had long, straight dark hair, a roundish face with nice features, big brown eyes. She wore a tank top and jeans. She was about fifteen pounds overweight.
“Mary.” He nodded at Beth, who was tall, plain, and slender. He curbed his annoyance at the fact that Mary was high again. “I’m going to take a shower,” He paused before leaving. “What’s for dinner?”
Mary looked guilty. “I was hoping we could grab a bite somewhere, just a burger.”
Vince felt anger rising in him, and it burst forth. “Dammit! I’m fucking starved! I work my tail off all day while you’re sitting around on your ass getting fucked up! I’m tired—and hungry.”
“Fuck you, Vince,” Mary said coolly. She pulled the mirror over and dumped some of the vial’s contents out. She started to cut lines.
Vince strode over. “Do you know the fucking flowers out there are dying? Do you even care? And just where the hell did you get the money for that?”
“It’s Beth’s,” Mary said, and Vince wondered if she was lying. Ignoring him, she evened out four lines.
“I can’t deal with this,” Vince exploded, grabbing her arm and pulling her to her feet. “Look at you! You’re a fucking mess! Look at this fucking house! It’s a fucking pigsty! I spend a hundred and fifty thousand fucking dollars on a house for my wife, and she treats it like a slum.”
“Let go,” Mary cried, her voice breaking and tears welling in her wide brown eyes.
“Oh, shit,” Vince said, releasing her. He strode into the bathroom. As he turned on the shower he heard Beth say something, then heard Mary’s trembling reply. Maybe he had come down too hard on her, but Christ, this was out of hand. How the fuck could he get her to get a job? In the beginning he hadn’t wanted her to work. Stupid. Italian macho shit. Now he would give anything if he could just get her out of the house, get her to do something worthwhile.
There had been a time when he had thought she was beautiful. He probably would never forget the day he had first seen her. He’d been building an addition onto a Bel Air mansion that belonged to Mary’s stepfather (number two). He had a crew that existed of two. They were still in the framing stages. The wing jutted out from the rest of the house and was only a hop and a skip away from a free-form pool. Mrs. Crandall—Mary’s mother—was lying out, as usual, a completely straight woman in an almost nonexistent bikini, nut-brown all over. Even her hair was nut-brown. The first time she had come out Vince and his guys had looked, of course, being normal men. There was nothing to look at though (unless you liked very thin women built like boys), except for her face—which was triangular, nut-brown, and attractive. Still, no tits, no ass—nothing. Vince had quickly redirected his crew’s attention to the window they were framing.
“Holy shit, look at that,” Fred had said one afternoon.
Vince looked and got an instant hard-on. Mrs. Crandall was in her usual position, which was no big deal—she never came on to them or anything, not like some of the Hollywood wives who loved fucking carpenters. She looked down her perfect, possibly fixed nose at the help. But a young girl with long, straight hair, a perfectly grabbable ass, and huge knockers was making her way toward Mrs. Crandall. She was wearing a skimpy halter top and short shorts. Her legs were not bad, a little plump, shapely, really, but who could get past the tits? Vince couldn’t. He wanted to look away, but he just couldn’t.
“Hi, Mom,” the girl had said.
Her name was Mary. She was Mrs. Crandall’s daughter. She was in her early twenties and every guy’s wet dream. Especially his.
Vince had grown up poor in southern California when everyone seemed to be rich. Or at least richer than he was. He was raised in a slum neighborhood in L.A. He had two sisters; his mother was a waitress; his father had died (or so Mom said) before he was born. He had grown up with rats, yellow water, and peeling paint, just blocks away from movie stars dripping diamonds in silver limos.
After high school it had gotten worse. He took up carpentry and soon was working on their homes. He had his first piece of rich tail when he was nineteen. He was working for a general contractor, who had sent him over to a Beverly Hills house to do some fix-it work. He had to put up towel holders in a bathroom (at thirty dollars an hour). The woman of the house was the wife of a hot screenwriter. She hovered over him clad in a short tennis dress. He was sweating and hard and embarrassed as hell, afraid to stand up, afraid she’d see and he’d lose his job. It was a damn good job. Not only did it pay well—he loved carpentry. But before he had even turned around, trying desperately to will his erection away, she grabbed him—and that was that.
He’d screwed at least a dozen rich broads by the time he met Mary. Mary was different. She was young. Beautiful. Not forty and jaded and bored and looking for a young stud as a kick. She had noticed him that day she was talking to her mother out at the pool. (What woman wouldn’t have? He was aware of how good he looked; plenty of women had let him know.) Two days later he had asked her out.
Six months later they were married.
When Vince reappeared in the kitchen, Mary and Beth were in the same position, still drinking and snorting. He gave them both a look of disgust and jumped into his truck. He drove to McDonald’s and had two Big Macs and a shake for dinner. Then he cruised around, thinking of Belinda, wishing he were buried deep inside her, pounding away. God, he was so horny.
To his relief Beth was gone when he got home, and Mary was in bed asleep. Or passed out. He sat down on the side of the bed, pulling off his sneakers. From behind, Mary wrapped her arms around him. “I’m sorry, Vince. Please don’t be mad.”
He could feel her cheek and hair against his bare back.
“Vince? Today just happened. I was so bored and Beth stopped by with the blow and time just got away from me. Please don’t be angry.” She kissed his shoulder.
He could feel her large breasts against his back, with their pebbly nipples. He imagined Belinda clinging to him like that, rubbing herself erotically against him. He grew hard.
“Vince?” She said his name softly in his ear.
Vince turned around, taking her in his arms. He kissed her, one hand groping along her soft flesh, thumbing already erect nipples. One thing about Mary. Drugs and alcohol seemed to make her hornier. He could never figure it out. He was the opposite.
&n
bsp; She moaned and held his head as he took one nipple in his mouth and sucked it. Then he stood, unsnapping his jeans and stepping out of them, kicking them onto the floor. He lowered himself on top of her, rubbing his blue-veined, throbbing prick against her pussy. She wrapped her arms around him and kissed him, her mouth demanding and fierce. Vince closed his eyes.
He imagined Belinda in his arms, so eager and excited. The jolt his thoughts gave him almost made him come right then and there. Belinda. He was careful to keep his eyes closed, determined to hang onto his fantasy. He slid into her. Belinda. He was in her, stroking, in and out, the sensation pure heaven. Gorgeous, gorgeous Belinda. He came.
11
Mary rolled over, awareness coming as sleep left. She stretched. Sunlight was forcing its way through the closed curtains, and she reached up to lift an edge and peer out. A gorgeous, brilliant day. A glance at the alarm clock told her it was close to noon. Perfect. Her favorite soap came on at one. She stretched again.
As her senses became fully alert a throbbing heat began to rise in her loins. She pressed her thighs together, wishing Vince were home. She thought about last night. One thing about Vince—he had a high sex drive, which was fortunate, because she did too. And he was still hot for her after two years of marriage. He had an incredible body.
Her desire increased. Last night had been fun. Booze and coke always made her crazy for sex. The funny thing was, she could never get off. Not that Vince knew. She wished she could tell him, so he could take more time with her and bring her to an orgasm. She just couldn’t climax in sex. Even straight. It was always so close, but forever elusive. She’d been faking it ever since she had started screwing around when she was sixteen.
She thought about one of the carpenters on Vince’s job, a new guy. Thinking about him made her ache unbearably. She was sure that if Vince were here now, she would come. She slid her hands between her legs and stroked herself, imagining the carpenter standing over her, naked, watching. She climaxed in a couple of minutes.
