by L. J. Greene
“Love you, too,” I whispered and kissed his warm back, though I was sure he had long since succumbed to unconsciousness. It was better that way.
§
Morning came painfully for Jamie.
When I entered the bedroom with a large plate of scrambled eggs and sausage, he propped himself up in a seated position, to the obvious detriment of his head.
“How are you feeling?”
It was Sunday, thank God, and neither of us had anywhere we had to be. Jamie gratefully accepted the meal I handed to him, along with a glass of orange juice, almost as gratefully as he accepted the Tylenol.
“Other than the fact that my arm is sore, and I’ve got Old Rosie banging through my brains, I feel smashing. You’re just grand for this, by the way. Thank you.” He dug in with the enthusiasm of someone who had not seen food in days, stabbing as many eggs onto the tines of his fork as was logistically possible.
“From the looks of things, you had quite a night,” I said, settling in beside him in my white satin robe.
He swallowed a large bite and paused at his work. “I’m sorry to have disturbed you. I shouldn’t have.”
“Yes, you should have. That’s what it means to have someone in your life.”
Jamie considered this carefully, like he was examining something in me, and yet, at the same time, examining something in himself. He didn’t respond directly, and though I couldn’t quite pinpoint what I saw on his face, it felt complicated.
He cleared the hoarseness from his throat. “It was a hell of a night.” Setting the plate aside, he emptied the last of the orange juice, and over the next short while, acquainted me with the essential facts of his evening.
“What I can’t understand is why Spire would bother with us. Why not just find a band with the exact sound they’re looking for?”
I wasn’t sure if this was a rhetorical question, but it was one I’d given considerable thought to myself, actually. And what I kept coming back to was this:
“A few years ago, my parents remodeled their house–kitchen, bathrooms, that kind of thing. It was a huge deal for them and my dad, being my dad, got seven bids for the work. All seven for the exact same job using the exact same types of materials,” I stressed. Jamie nodded, following. “Anyway, the bids came in wildly different. The guys who really wanted the work were competitive, and the ones who were only mildly interested in doing the job seemed to price the work at its highest. And they were the least willing to negotiate.”
“They’d do the work if they got their price–otherwise, they were fine letting the job go. I get it. The company I work for does that, too. You think that’s what’s going on here?”
“I think it’s a risk calculation. All of these contracts are structured so that even an album with mediocre success can recoup a lot of direct costs for the label. But they can vastly improve their chances of making money if they have a greater say in what you put out. I think these guys are just doing the math. They see potential revenue in you, but they’re hedging their bets.”
He nodded slightly. A small crease formed between his brows as thoughts moved rapidly though his aching head.
“Could be.”
I picked up his right hand, cupping it between both of mine.
“What are you going to do?”
He sighed and flexed his shoulders, resettling his upper body against the headboard. His face was calm and smooth as he watched me stroke the calluses on his palm. But he had an inward look that suggested he was searching for an answer in the worrisome void of an uncertain future. I could feel him gathering his thoughts and kept quiet.
Jamie didn’t need to say it, he clearly felt a crushing responsibility for other lives whose fortunes were tied to his own–the band, his sister’s education, maybe the needs of other family members, though he rarely mentioned them. In addition, the contract represented a financial gain for him personally–not just the advance, but the publishing and songwriting credits for which he could also negotiate a relatively lucrative deal.
Walking away from it meant putting all of that in question, and it meant continuing a juggling act that was obviously taking its toll on him physically. He had to take time off of work in order to tour, but the lost wages made it hard to make ends meet, not to mention taking away from the resources he could contribute towards touring, booking studio time, producing CDs, etc.
I was sure all of this was going through his mind, though he’d never, ever talk to me about money, proud as he was. But in the end, I also knew that money would never be his deciding factor. His sense of responsibility would weigh heavily in the equation, though, and would haunt him no matter what choice he made.
“I cannot sign it.”
Though the solemn words came out as barely a whisper, there was no question that he was suffering for the decision. Nonetheless, it had been made and it would stand.
“Honestly, Jamie, I think you’re right not to.”
I knew the repercussions of his decision were going to be significant. And I wanted to offer some insightful words of encouragement, but I didn’t know what else to say that could possibly make a difference, so I just squeezed his hand instead.
He shrugged, returning the squeeze, and stroked his thumb idly over the back of my hand.
“Even if that turns out to be true, there’s no comfort in it. This whole situation is my fault,” he said, lips tightening to a thin line. “I should have seen it coming and put a stop to it before we got this far.”
“How could you possibly have known?”
He heaved a sigh. “There were signs. Most A&R guys will go to the mat for the bands they recruit. Kayes never seemed to be all that committed to us. The thing is, Mel, I ignored it because I wanted so badly to believe it, too–that this was our big break. I’m just afraid now that we won’t come out of this untouched.”
“If it’s your fault, then it’s mine, too. I didn’t like Matt Kayes from the very beginning and I didn’t say anything. I didn’t want to sound like I doubted you. I’m sorry, Jamie.”
Jamie Callahan studied me silently for a long moment, his beautiful light hazel eyes serious, but drenched in tenderness, as they noted every detail of my face. Sitting with the sheet low on his waist, he exposed a torso of the most perfect lines and proportions. He reminded me of Atlas, bearing the weight of the heavens on his shoulders–endurance personified. At times, I thought he felt his burden in a very similar fashion. Unlike Atlas, though, Jamie never sought to hand it off.
Lifting one strong arm, roped with veins and now adorned with ink, he cupped my cheek in his hand.
“You, my Melody, are above all blame for all things. And if you still believe in me despite the mess I’ve made, then I count myself to be an exceptionally lucky bloke.”
“I believe in you now more than ever. You will make it because it isn’t in you to give up. And because you are so incredibly talented and deserving. But I will say this, I’d like you to point me in the direction of the tattoo parlor that gave you that while you were drunk.”
“What are you going to do?” He lowered his hand, but his eyes sparkled with amusement.
“File a complaint, that’s what.” I wasn’t amused.
“With who?” His mouth was now twitching at the corners.
“I don’t know yet–the city of San Francisco, the Better Business Bureau, someone!”
“You don’t like the tattoo?”
He was going for casual nonchalance, but he fell somewhere shy of his goal. He didn’t have much of a poker face.
“Actually, I like it a lot.” I didn’t want to touch the tattoo itself before washing my hands again, but I ran my fingertips down the sides of his arm, tracing the veins that curved through the soft springy hair. “The workmanship is beautiful. And it’s fitting for you.” I lifted my gaze to hazel eyes that were watching me so intently. “I just don’t like the possibility that someone might have taken advantage of you when you weren’t in a position to be making good decisi
ons.”
His lips curved in a shy smile, expressing something much more heartening than amusement. Then he leaned forward and kissed me softly on the lips, a feather-lite kiss that made my heart feel ten times bigger. He was warm, with a faint scent of cider that hung about his body, and with a taste of oranges that lingered on his mouth.
“Well, I’ll save you the trouble. I got the tattoo before going to O’Malley’s.”
“Hmph,” I said, and reached up to stroke the golden stubble that had sprung from his jawline overnight. “Okay, then. Good to know it was premeditated.”
He smiled. “Good to know you care.”
“You know I care, Jamie.”
He was suddenly serious. “I’m still trying to figure that out.”
He reached for me and pulled me over to straddle his hips. Then, he took my hands in his, and his thumbs caressed each ridge and hollow.
Dark auburn lashes lifted to reveal artist’s eyes that saw me in a way no one ever had before him. I wanted to know what he saw with those eyes. Every time I guessed, I was wrong; his perspective was so completely different from mine.
The artist’s palms drifted over my white satin robe, his fingers spread wide, exploring, memorizing every line–the short lines that curved around my breasts, to the long ones that ran down my hips, around my backside and up my inner thighs. He cupped the soft hair between my legs tenderly and possessively.
Then, he pulled at the tie around my waist and it slipped easily open.
“Take it off,” he murmured.
“Jamie,” I whispered and obeyed.
He drew his finger down my throat, pausing to feel my racing pulse, and he leaned in and pressed his mouth to the throbbing beat. I closed my eyes and exhaled audibly; being so close to his body was, as always, electrifying. One rough callused hand continued to drag down over my hardened nipple, circling it, teasing it.
“You are so very lovely,” he said, each word spoken reverently through its own breath.
I could feel his arousal burning beneath me, but he was in no hurry. He was memorizing my body as he continued on a path down my belly to where he found me wet and wanting. Open to him.
It felt as if he was composing a song in real time–my song–carefully selecting a note or a chord for every detail he saw, many of which I knew I might never see, lacking the capability to appreciate things in the way he did. My body was his private muse, and he would play me with expert hands. I welcomed it–loved it, actually.
Reaching behind, he lifted me to my knees to take my breast in his mouth. I took more pleasure than I could have imagined in watching his tongue drag over the creamy rise of my skin, and then suck my nipple to a fully erect state. A rush of air left my lungs.
I wrapped my arms around his head, his gorgeous hair brushing against my forearms. I could feel his shoulders flex as he pushed back the sheets from his lap and then moved his hands to my hips to work me down onto his waiting and ready cock.
There was no preamble; we were both primed and aching for completion. I let my head fall back as he thrust, steely and pulsing, inside me. His skin was so warm and slightly damp across his chest. He was holding himself in check, and the effort was costing him.
But as we moved together, he implored me to find my rhythm, to take what I needed from his body. I did, with an urgency that drove me to nearly the point of exhaustion. We melted hard into each other, his tongue penetrating my mouth in the same decisive way he took my body.
I was beyond words or thought.
He had the curves of my ass in his hands, and with one finger, he took me unaware with an intimacy I was not prepared for. I gasped in response, struggling to unscramble a torrent of sensations.
“Let go,” he commanded. “And let me see you.”
I closed my eyes and cried out, tumbling uncontrollably–my absolute pleasure sealed in that one beautifully filthy touch.
That’s what Jamie did in all things–pushed me just to the edge of my comfort zone, then inched one step further because he knew that I craved to feel more, enjoy things more, risk more. Reckless, just enough.
My undoing was Jamie’s, as well. He thrust powerfully up inside me, again and again and again, until he tumbled, too, spilling himself exhaustively with a hoarse grunt.
His body stilled, but his fingertips continued to dig into my hips, holding me tightly to him. A rough cheek lay vulnerably on my slick breast, and neither of us could do more than breathe.
“I need you, Mel,” he whispered against my skin.
I was still regaining my wits, so I can’t say that I fully understood or appreciated the depth of his declaration in the moment, nor how hard it may have been for him to make it.
Jamie always said things easily, big things, without any self-consciousness or regret. But somehow, this felt different. He had come to me last night in a way he had never come to me before. Perhaps in need of something he thought only I could give him. I wasn’t sure what, but I had the strong feeling that we were finally becoming a part of each other, truly connected. Not just through our bodies, but by something much, much older.
And despite everything that had happened the night before, and everything troubling him still, sleep came very easily to the artist after that.
Chapter 21
Mel
I HEARD ALMOST NOTHING FROM Jamie over the course of the workweek, though his one 2AM message on Wednesday led me to suspect he wasn’t sleeping well. And Killian didn’t offer much when I returned the call, but he did leave me with the distinct impression that things in the apartment were tense. Understandably so. And it was a worry.
Per Jamie’s instructions, I arrived at Slim’s in the SoMa district of San Francisco at 8PM. Slim’s is one of the best music venues in the city, with a cool New Orleans vibe and standing-room-only capacity of about 800. Jamie had left instructions with the stage crew to show me back to the dressing room when I arrived.
Generously named, the dressing room was a small, utilitarian space, but served its purpose well for a vocal warm-up and a quick change of clothes. Unlike many you encountered in the club scene, this one had no leaking water, no peeling paint and no odd, unpleasant odor.
The band was all there, dressed for the show when I walked in. What was immediately apparent, though, was that no one was talking to each other. Jamie’s back was facing the door, his guitar on a table in front of him, and he was in the process of changing one of its strings. The rest of the guys were just reading a book or listening to some music. I gave them a quick wave and headed for Jamie.
“Hey.”
“Hi,” he said, leaning in to give me a perfunctory kiss before picking up the peg winder from the table and continuing his work.
It was very clear that things weren’t right. But I could hardly bring it up with all of them sitting right there in the room, and wouldn’t anyway. What was there to say? Sorry this situation sucks; don’t be mad at each other.
Instead, I did the only thing I could think of: I reached up and rubbed Jamie’s muscular back over the black Henley t-shirt he was wearing. He barely acknowledged the contact.
I stood dumbly and watched him anchor the lower half of the guitar string with his thumb, just below the post. Then he placed the string winder on the tuning key and quickly cranked it. He probably could have done it in his sleep; and if I were a betting woman, I would have guessed he wasn’t even thinking about the process as he completed it, far off as he seemed in that moment.
“Well, if it isn’t Cadence.”
Jamie and I both turned around at the familiar voice to find Matt Kayes standing in the doorway.
“What are you doing here?” Jamie asked dryly.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Greg get up slowly from his chair and set his headphones aside. Nash put down his book.
“Scouting another band.”
Jamie nodded wordlessly, and began to turn back around to his guitar.
“You guys were fucking idiots, you know that?”
>
Jamie’s eyes flashed at the insult and his body became uncharacteristically still. He set down the tool he was holding and faced Matt directly.
“You should go.” His face was even and calm, but there was strain beneath the cool exterior.
Killian instinctively moved in closer, looking as though he required very little provocation to intervene physically.
“I will.” Kayes said, though his shorter, pudgy frame seemed to be bristling with anger, as well. “But you know what really pisses me off?” he continued. “I told you. When I called you about the deal memo, I told you–don’t make me look bad. You fuckin’ prick.”
Jamie’s bulk loomed at my shoulder, and he stepped forward to stand directly in front of Kayes, who was now right next to me, though he probably didn’t realize it.
Jamie’s voice was steady, but his gaze was locked on Kayes’ face as he answered unambiguously. “I think you managed that all on your own.”
Kayes’ mouth twisted sharply and he seemed to be contemplating various forms of replies.
Meanwhile, Nash stood up from his chair, a towering presence that, despite his mild nature, only added to the tension in the room.
Inside the venue, Slim’s guests were now filing in in droves. We could hear a low roar of conversation and activity that echoed off the brick walls and metal beams of the high-ceiling concert hall. But in the tiny cement dressing room in the back, adorned with an old couch, a few folding chairs and a small table, nobody moved.
I was standing so close to Kayes that I could see his eyeball twitch. And the more I studied him, the angrier I became. He was still wearing his big Rolex that he seemed so proud of, and exhibiting a look of indignation that I didn’t think he had any right to. He was as guilty for all of this as anyone. He wasn’t Superman; he was a bargain hunter. And shame on him for it. He didn’t even like musicians.
