He smiles. “What?”
“I called you Mr. Honey-Voice. I love your voice and the way you look, too.”
“Thank you, baby.”
“So then how was the interview?”
“Just as bad. John and I might as well been a couple of back-up guitarists—invisible. Shit, we started the band. We wrote and arranged every song we’ve ever recorded. It isn’t Tommy’s band, but you wouldn’t know it from the questions the guy asked. Of course, Tommy was rolling right with it, talking about things he doesn’t know jack-shit about. He hasn’t even been with us for a year.”
“I’m so sorry to hear that. Maybe the writer was looking for a new angle—they do that sometimes. You’ve been in reviewed in Rolling Stone before and maybe he wanted a fresh take on the band for this article.”
“Yeah, maybe. It’s over now. And I guess any publicity is good publicity. We still have some more to go, mostly in L.A. New York comes after that.”
I take another bite of the French toast with sour cream and maple syrup drizzled on top. I think there is a hint of something else—maybe nutmeg—in it. When I write the review I’ll have to ask the chef and maybe, if I’m lucky, he will reveal his secret ingredient.
At the editorial meeting, Tim nixes the idea of reviewing the restaurants. It’s not art. Not culture.
Chapter Twenty-Two
There are patio chairs, two patio loungers and little glass-topped tables on the terrace behind Austen’s room. I don’t remember seeing them before. He opens the sliding doors and it makes the bedroom and sun-filled terrace feel like one space. Yellow daisies spill over the rock retaining wall. Today it is warm.
“We found the patio furniture in the garage. I should have put it out here before,” he says as he puts a tape into the tape deck in the bedroom. “I want you to listen to this song from our new album. It’s on the A side.”
The song begins and I recognize Austen’s voice. He is singing lead at first and then the mix brings up Tommy’s voice as back-up in close harmony. The song is about a lady who disappears into the mist, how he thinks he will never see her again, and how much he wants her to be with him. It is about him and me.
“Austen, I love it.” I hug him, kiss him on his cheek and he holds me tight in his arms.
“I wrote it after we came back from Seattle. I thought I’d never see you again, Julia. I thought you were gone forever.”
“It didn’t turn out that way.”
“No, baby, it didn’t, but you sure didn’t make it easy for me. And it sure didn’t feel good to think that maybe you were going to be with someone else—not me. I thought I had lost you.”
Oh, he knows how it feels when someone you want to be with vanishes from your life.
“But things worked out. We found each other again and I love the song. It’s really beautiful.”
“It’s for you, baby.” He kisses me on the forehead. “Do you want to hear the rest?”
“Of course I do.”
He punches a couple of buttons and the other songs on the album come out of the speakers, one by one. The song about the lady in the mist is the only one where he sings the lead. Tommy sings lead on all the rest of them and they all sound great to me, even better than the last album. They have a stronger, more insistent beat.
Then he begins what he calls my musical education—starting with the Delta Blues and Robert Johnson, the guitar player who supposedly sold his soul to the devil at the crossroads for success back in the 1930s. Unfortunately, he died very young and obscure. He is more famous now than when he was alive because a couple of those English Invasion bands have recorded his songs, Austen tells me.
Then he adds: “You’ve heard ‘Love in Vain’ by the Stones? Robert Johnson wrote that—music and lyrics—back in ‘37.”
John and Emma join us and we listen to music, talk, and drink more of Sal’s wine. The guys get out their guitars and begin to play. Some are old Delta blues, some songs from their previous albums, even some songs written by musicians in other bands.
“I have to tip my hat to Stills for breaking the three minute barrier with ‘Judy Blue Eyes’.”
“What’s the three minute barrier?” I ask.
“Most songs played on the radio are two to three minutes long. ‘Judy Blue Eyes’ is over six minutes. I’ve heard that DJs like it because it gives them a chance to take a break, go to the john and get back before they have to go back on air.” Austen chuckles. “It’s a good song, too.”
As the afternoon stretches into the evening I realize that I had never known where R&B and rock ‘n’ roll came from. Now I know more, but not even remotely as much as Austen and John do.
Dinner is delivery pizza and more wine.
We are nestled together like two warm spoons. Austen’s arms tighten around me and pull me even closer to his body. I can feel his erection against my fanny.
“Sleep well?”
“Yes.”
I nod my head. “And I need to take a shower. I am very sticky.”
“Okay. You take a shower.” He is grinning. What does he have in mind? Some new shower sex? Something else? “You like strawberries and cream, don’t you?”
“Yes,” I reply. Oh, instead of sex, he is hungry and wants to eat. Okay, food it is. Strawberries and cream for breakfast—very sweet—like Carmel.
“Take a fast shower. I’ll be back.” He walks out of the bedroom stark naked. I wonder what would happen if he ran into Emma or John in the kitchen, but I don’t hear anything from out there.
I shower quickly, and wrap a big white bath towel around myself and use another to dry my hair. Thank heavens I have a good haircut. My hair, still damp but combed, falls into place. I brush my teeth in a flash.
He returns from the kitchen with a bowl of big, red ripe strawberries, an aerosol can of whipped cream and the same big grin on his face. He is up to something and I’m not sure what.
The strawberries and can of whipped cream go on the night table next to the bed, then he strips all the linens from the bed except the bottom sheet. He puts his arms around me and pulls me down on the bed, tossing the towel aside. We are lying side by side. He starts kissing my face and I can feel his hands on my breasts, his fingers squeezing my already hard nipples. Oh, this is better than strawberries for breakfast.
“Baby, I want to do something special with you,” he whispers.
“Do what?” Why is he saying this? I tingle with a trace of apprehension.
“Just turn over, lie on your back, Julia. I’ll show you.”
He sits up and reaches into a drawer in the nightstand and pulls out a long strip of pink fabric.
“Austen, what is—“
“Babygirl, you’re going to love it.”
“Love what, Austen?”
“I want to tie your wrists to the bed—“
“Tie me to the bed?” This is getting a little scary. I turn my head away from him.
“Oh no, Julia. I know that look. Don’t turn away from me. Look at me. Have we ever done anything you haven’t loved?”
“No.” I answer softly, looking into his eyes.
“You’ve loved all of it—right?”
“Yes.” His eyes still hold me.
“You’ll love this, too. Put your hands above your head. Trust me, Julia.”
It’s still scary, but I place my hands over my head and he loosely ties one wrist with one end of the pink fabric. Then he threads the fabric through the ornate brass headboard and ties the other end to my other wrist. Then he kisses me on the mouth, intensely. I can feel that he is very aroused.
“You look good in pink.” He grins wickedly.
He pulls on my ankles and the knots in the fabric tighten around my wrists and I am stretched out fully. I feel very vulnerable.
He squirts some whipped cream on the strawberries, then, smiling, feeds one to me. It’s juicy and sweet and cold from the refrigerator.
“Good?”
I nod, smiling.
Then
he pops one into his own mouth and licks the cream off his lips.
“And another one for you…” He puts a strawberry in my mouth. Some juice trickles from the corner of my mouth and he licks it off.
“And another one for me.”
He still has that grin on his face.
“And another one for me.”
“What about me?” I ask with a fake pout on my face. “Do I get another strawberry or am I supposed to just lie here, tied up, and watch you eat them all?”
“Oh, you want more strawberries, do you?” His smile has been replaced by an impish look. He takes another berry from the bowl, squeezes it between his fingers and rubs it on one of my nipples. It’s cold and I squirm a little.
“Oh. Cold.” I gasp in a whisper.
“I’ll warm them up next time,” he murmurs as he picks another berry from the bowl.
He squeezes the red juice from another berry and rubs it around my other nipple. The berry juice trickles off my breast and down my side. He leans over and licks the juice from my side before it can run onto the sheet. I squirm again.
“Oh no, can’t have you jumping around here.”
He straddles me just below the waist. I lift my head and look down at him. He is even more aroused.
The juice from the next berry drips from my neck down my middle. The next makes a path down to my belly button. Oh, I know where this is going, I say to myself, smiling.
He gets off me and with two more berries finishes the strawberry trail right down between my legs. I squirm again—icy cold. He looks me over, smiling.
“Not quite enough.”
He takes another berry, squeezes it and draws a circle of red berry juice around one breast. Another berry for the other breast. By now I can tell he is ignoring any juice trickling onto the sheets.
“Good,” he murmurs like an artist, satisfied with his creation.
The whipped cream comes next. He sprays a dollop for each nipple, then a trail of fluffy white cream from my neck on down. The aerosol from the can tickles. I giggle.
“I forgot your mouth.” He squirts whipping cream around my lips, then sets the can aside. He leans over me and licks the cream from my lips, then with his tongue pushes some into my mouth. I flick my tongue toward his. Then he licks some more from my lips.
“Like this, Julia?” The tone of his voice has changed from playful to serious.
“Yes.” I whisper.
“Trust me, baby, it’s always going to be good. Always.”
Then his tongue licks the cream and strawberry juice on my breast, circling one nipple, round and round. I gasp as my body responds, clenches inside. He licks some more. He moves to the other breast, slowly licking the cream and berry juice from it as my nipples grow harder and harder. My breathing grows shallower. I can feel an ache grow deep down. He tenderly sucks my nipples, first one, then the other. He begins licking the cream and berry juice from my neck and down my body and my hips begin to move.
“Oh no, babygirl, lay still or I’ll have to tie up your legs, too.”
I try to be still, but the effect of his tongue and lips on my body is amazing. Down and down he goes. Then he comes to the end of the strawberry trail between my legs. He holds my hips down with his hands, and his elbows are pressed into my upper legs. My wrists are still held taut above my head. I can’t move even though my body is already aching for release.
His tongue licks away the cream and begins to probe into me, again and again. His tongue circles and circles. My back begins to arch under the relentless attack by his tongue and lips. It goes on and on. I can feel the growing tension inside me, it’s almost unbearable.
“Oh god, Austen.” I gasp as I feel my orgasm building.
Then he rises up and plunges his erection into me. Again and again he thrusts deep inside, faster and faster. I am panting, gasping. His breathing is heavy and raw. He drives harder and deeper into me and it’s fast—we climax at almost the same time.
He sinks down onto me and rubs his face in the pillow, wiping off the little cream left on his face. Limp as I am, I turn my head and lick off a spot of cream on his cheek. It is sweet and faintly salty—salty from me, I realize. And it tastes good.
He reaches up, unties both my wrists and rubs my wrists and arms to get my circulation going again. As he lies beside me, his breathing begins to slow.
“Fun, huh?” he smiles.
I start giggling and lick a little more of the remaining cream from his face. “Yes.”
“Want to do it again sometime?”
I nod my head and smile.
Chapter Twenty-Three
“Matt and Judy are stopping here on their way to Hawaii,” Austen tells me. We are parked outside the cottage on Sunday evening. “Matt has some papers for me to sign. I’m going to take them out to dinner and want you to come, too.”
“I’d love to. When are they going to be here?”
“Saturday. They fly out Sunday morning.”
First, that song he wrote about us. Now meeting his brother and sister-in-law? Does that mean he is serious about me, about us? Maybe this is more than a summer romance? How I hope it is. I’ve already had the experience of what my life would be without Austen and I don’t like it. But what would a future with him be like? I need to know more. I wish he was going to live here longer, so we could get to know each other better.
* * *
“You’re going to meet his family?” Ali asks and runs her fingers through her thick blonde hair. She’s been letting it grow and it is down below her shoulders now. I still get haircuts regularly and, looking in the mirror, decide I don’t need one before Saturday.
We both are home this evening for the first time in what seems like ages.
“His brother and sister-in-law. His brother is a lawyer and has some paperwork for Austen to sign. Austen says he will probably be a judge there some day. Their grandfather was a judge.”
“What are you going to wear?” Just like Ali these days; the first thing that comes to her mind is clothes. Her fascination with street fashion and photography is growing by the week. The most recent photos she showed me actually look very good—better than some of the ‘candid’ shots I’ve seen in Rags. She seems to be learning fast, but then in the time I have known her she has taken rolls and rolls of photos with her old Instamatic. And those photos were better than any I could have taken.
“I don’t know. Something conservative, I guess. Definitely not that black top of yours where my boobs show.”
We giggle as we look through both our closets for the right outfit for meeting a boyfriend’s brother. No super-short skirts. Not that dark purple A-line. I decide on a plain black dress from my Seattle days; it is tailored, not too short and I’ll wear the jacket from my salt-and-pepper tweed suit with it. Simple single pearl earrings.
“Perfect. Not the rock ‘n’ roll girlfriend, but perfect anyway.” She stands back and looks at me, appraisingly, as if I were some kind of model she has dressed for a photo shoot.
“It sounds like your relationship is getting more serious. I always thought it was mostly about sex—which you didn’t want to talk about—but it showed on your face, Julia. A summer of great sex. Now it’s sounding more like it might be a summer of love. Maybe even more.”
“I don’t know, Ali.” I shake my head. “We never talk about the future beyond what we are going to do this weekend. But he wrote a song about me. It’s on their new album.”
“Wow. That sounds serious to me.”
“It’s a beautiful song and he sings the lead on it.” I add pensively: “Maybe we have a future…”
“Julia, you have to learn to take things a day at a time as life unfolds.”
“What is this? New advice from Miss You-Have-To-Think-Long-Term? Where is this coming from?” I am utterly astonished.
“Charli took me to visit a yogi from India yesterday evening. It was an amazing experience. I began to see my life and the world so differently. He said planning ahead
may block to where you really should go in life, where your true path is.”
“Oh my god, Ali. What are you talking about?”
“I can’t explain it, Julia. You will have to come with me and Charli to see him. He talked about letting go and tuning into the here and now. It was really profound.”
I shake my head in disbelief. I wonder if Ali has jumped into a pile of nonsense this time.
* * *
Austen takes my hand as we walk to the car in front of the cottage. “You look beautiful.”
“So do you.” He squeezes my hand. He is wearing the brown suede jacket, black jeans, black shirt and the dark red cowboy boots this evening.
When I get into the back seat, Austen introduces us.
“So nice to meet you,” Judy says with a very friendly smile and a distinct Texas accent. “We’ve never met any girl that Austen was dating since he left Texas.”
On the way across the city to the restaurant, we talk about the horrible mass murder in Los Angeles last night. An actress named Sharon Tate and her friends were killed in their home. No one seems to know who did it or why. And she was pregnant. So sad.
“There have been some strange murders here in Northern California, too, but nothing like that,” I say.
“Austen, is your house near there?” Judy asks.
“No. I don’t live in that canyon.”
I don’t mention that Ali and I added locks to all our windows and an extra deadbolt lock to the front door today. I want to talk about something else; those murders are too awful to think about.
“I understand you went to the art museum today,” I say to Judy. “How did you like it?”
Judy seems very nice, very sweet, but her hairstyle is exactly like my mother’s and she is only 6 years older than I am. Her blue dress could have come from my mother’s closet, too. Things—hairstyles, clothes, attitudes—don’t change as fast in small towns as they do in San Francisco.
Playing for Julia Page 15
