by T. Torrest
As if that isn’t the understatement of the night. How can a hot rock star against my body be anything but fun? I offer a quick “I’m about to,” before giving Sam a rather abrupt goodbye and hanging up, bracing my hand on the wall above the phone to press my backside against him.
At that, he gives out a snicker and whispers against my ear, “Oh, so you wanna play, do you?”
Oh, hell yeah I do.
There’s an electric current running through my body as he turns me in his arms. He has his hands at my waist, running slowly up and down my sides, and a just-kidding smile playing at his lips.
He might be kidding around, but I most certainly am not.
I take a quick look down the hall before backing him against the wall, sliding a hand up his chest and meeting his eyes. I can see the surprise in his, because he has no idea who he’s dealing with yet.
“Do I want to play? I thought you’d never ask,” I fire back, watching a sly smile eek across his lips. Lips that I’m about to devour.
I bring my palms around behind his neck, grab a handful of that dark hair in my fist, and pull. He’s taken aback by the aggressiveness, but I don’t wait for him to figure anything out before rising on my tiptoes and meeting his mouth with mine.
His body stiffens at that, obviously caught off guard, but it doesn’t take him long to warm to my advance. Our lips are perfectly matched, our bodies fitting effortlessly against one another’s. I feel his muscles relax as he returns my kiss, and soon enough, everything goes insane.
His hands slide around my waist as he pulls me closer against his body, and well, what do we have here? It seems Mr. Happy has decided to join us.
Jack turns us around to slam my back against the wall, and holy shit, I think I’m going to die. Our lips meet again and there’s a pounding in my ears beyond the blaring music, making me dizzy. His mouth opens, and I can taste his salty, minty flavor, smell the smoky, shaving-cream scent of him, invading my senses, causing me to grip the shirt at his chest and hang on for the ride.
Or maybe I need to take him on one.
I push off the wall and back him through the nearest doorway… which turns out to be a storage closet. But there’s a lock on the handle, so I take advantage of that before kissing him again. The smell of bleach and stale beer is permeating my senses as we touch and taste one another, the heat escalating off the charts.
Just as my hand slips down to cop a feel, he asks, “Hey, whoa. Liv. What are you doing?”
The dark is pretty blinding, but I still manage to meet his face, a scowl on mine. “What do you think I’m doing?”
He grabs my wrist and places my hand at his waist. Trying to cover for my pounding heart, I slide my palms around to the small of his back, up his spine, across his shoulder blades, and go back in for another kiss. His hair is brushing against my cheek as his tongue invades my mouth, and before I can stop myself, a slight moan escapes from my throat.
I’ve been with lots of guys before, but something is different with him and I can’t quite figure out what it is just yet. He’s hot as hell, which is normally my only prerequisite for hooking up with somebody. But this guy has totally upped the ante. He isn’t just a rock star. He is a rock GOD. And from the first second I saw him on stage tonight, I knew I was going to wind up here at some point. Well, not here in a freaking closet for godsakes, but here in this guy’s naked grasp doing the horizontal happy dance.
Or, I guess, vertical, in this case. TMI?
My hands go back to his jeans, ripping at Jack’s fly, but before I can even get the first button undone, he braces his hands at my shoulders and nudges me away. “Whoa, whoa. Take it back some.”
Still in a daze, I ask, “What?”
“This isn’t happening. Not here.”
Since when does a rock star give a shit where I do him? “I locked the damn door. No one’s coming in here.”
“You got that right. No one’s coming in here. We can do better than this.”
Is he serious? He started this whole thing, and now he’s trying to put the brakes on? I’m suddenly struck with the absurd thought that he was only joking when he attacked me at the pay phones. No freaking way is that possible. Is it?
I cross my arms as my sight adjusts to the dim light, eyeing him up and down. “Is this the part where you try to convince me you’re a gentleman? Trying to pretend that you want this to be ‘special for me’? Because trust me, Jack, I’m not looking for ‘special.’ I’m not asking you to work that hard. You can drop the wooing bit.”
“Every girl is looking for special.”
“Not this girl.”
He crosses his arms, mocking my pose. “Then what are you looking for?”
“Fun,” I shoot back without hesitation. He eyes me in disbelief, so I add, “Do you have a problem with that?”
“Maybe I’m done with fun.”
What is with this guy? “What’s your game, player?”
“No game. Why?”
“You come on like gangbusters, but then the second you find out I’m into it, bam! Light switch off.”
That makes him chuckle. “Oh, you’re a real maneater, aren’t you? My mother warned me about girls like you.”
“You’ve never met a girl like me, pal.”
“Wanna bet?”
We’re staring each other down, and I’m trying not to let him see how humiliated I feel. Here I am, practically throwing myself at his feet, and he’s turning me down.
Rejection can suck a bag of dicks.
He lowers an eyebrow and sighs, “Look, Liv. I’ve done this too many times to know that nothing good ever comes out of a situation like this.”
“Out of what? A one-night stand? Who says I’m looking for anything more than that to come out of this?”
“Who says I’m not?” He lets out an exasperated breath and runs a hand through his hair. “Look. I like you. Can’t we just, you know, get to know each other? Do you have a problem with that?”
Yes. He’s messing with my whole M.O. I don’t do the ‘getting to know you’ thing with rock stars. I have mind-blowing sex with them and then go on my merry way. Why is he making this so difficult? “I don’t date musicians.”
“And I don’t fuck groupies.”
We stare each other down, caught in a heated standoff. Who the hell does he think he is?
“First of all, I’m not a groupie. I’m a music-loving girl with a healthy sexual appetite who knows how to say ‘thank you’ properly.”
“Thank you for what?”
“For being talented as hell, you idiot!”
That brings an unreadable smirk to his lips. I don’t have the patience right at the moment to try and explain anything more than that to him, so I continue with my rant. “Secondly, you’re not fooling anyone with this chivalry bit. You’re a red-blooded male with a working cock that rose to the occasion the second my lips hit yours.”
Why the hell is he just standing there smiling at me?
I shake off his smarmy face and line up the kill shot. “Thirdly… Since you don’t fuck ‘groupies,’ feel free to go fuck yourself.”
At that, I storm out, leaving him standing there gawking at my retreating form.
When I get back to our group, Vix asks, “Where have you been?” with an expectant look that she’s about to get some good gossip.
I’m still feeling the sting from Jack’s rejection and don’t know what to say, so I go the evasive route. “What are you talking about? I made a phone call and he used the bathroom.”
“Yeah, but he’s really cute and you were gone a really long time. Nothing happened?”
I don’t normally keep my escapades a secret, but I have no idea what the hell that just was with Jack. I can’t really describe the kissing incident as ‘nothing,’ but as far as I’m concerned, it may as well be. “A whole lot of nothing happened.”
I catch a glimpse of him up on the stage, breaking down the equipment with the rest of his band. I immediately avert my g
aze and down the last of my drink. Monty’s babbling something about Jack meeting us back at the house with his van and how he and Tommy will be hitching a ride with Vix and me.
By the time the four of us make our way outside, it’s late and it’s cold and I’m ready for bed. But Monty makes us stop at a local bar for package goods and then Vix has to make another stop at Wawa for cigarettes. By the time we pull the car into the driveway, it’s close to three o’clock and we all drag ourselves in the front door, exhausted.
Jack beat us home apparently, because there he is, sprawled out on the sectional couch in the family room, playing a sweet melody on an acoustic guitar. I don’t recognize it, but instantly decide that for all the songs he’s played tonight, this one is my favorite. The fact that I’m currently pissed at him gets forgotten as I lose myself in the pretty tune.
“That was nice,” I say automatically when he’s through, and Jack lifts his head to meet my gaze.
His eyes spark as he says, “There you are. What took you so long?”
I dismiss my elation that he’d actually been looking forward to my return and curse the involuntary flip in my belly.
Tom must not realize that the question was directed to me, because he answers, “Getting the beers, brother,” as he proceeds to hand the cans out to everyone.
When he offers one to me, I decide I’m ready to turn in instead. It’s kind of awkward being in the same room with Jack right now, and I’d rather be anywhere but here. Vix and I grab our bags from the foyer and head for The Pink Room. We use the adjoining bathroom to brush our teeth, then change into PJs and collapse onto the king-size bed.
Just as I feel myself drifting off to sleep, Vix says, “Jack’s digging you.”
I manage a drowsy, “Whatever,” and then begin to dream.
CHAPTER 7
Saturday, May 27, 1995
9:07 AM
Monty’s House
Spring Lake
The plan is to slip out early this morning. Gathering up our things, Vix and I and tip-toe downstairs, intending to leave a thank-you note for Monty before we sneak out the door. But there he is, already at the kitchen island reading the newspaper. Tommy’s grabbing some juice out of the fridge, but Jack is nowhere to be found. Still sleeping, I guess.
Phew.
“Morning,” I offer to our host. “Wow. I can’t believe you’re already awake.”
Monty doesn’t even look up from his paper. “Walter snores.”
I giggle as I ask Tommy, “And what’s your story?”
Tommy slams the fridge door closed. “Walter snores. Seriously, dude. How do you put up with it? I could hear him from the next room!”
Monty lowers the paper and removes his glasses. “I wear ear plugs. They’re very effective at blocking out his snoring. What they don’t do is block out the sound of maniacs banging down my bedroom door, yelling about the snoring.”
Tom lets out with a growl before slumping onto a stool.
Monty gives a shrug and goes back to his paper. “Coffee’s on, girls. Help yourselves.”
Vix and I start to explain that we’re getting ready to cut out, but just then, Ronnie bursts through the door. He has an opened beer in one hand and a brown paper bag in the other as he shouts, “Good morning! Anyone get laid last night or was it only me?”
“Oh My God,” Vix and I reply as I add, “You’ve got issues.”
“No, I’ve got breakfast,” he shoots back, unloading the bag from under his arm and tossing it onto the island. “You’re welcome, assholes,” he throws in as everybody pounces on the Taylor ham, egg, and cheese sandwiches.
Ron takes a swig of his beer as Vix huffs through a mouthful of food, “I can’t believe you’re already drinking.”
“What do you mean, already? I never stopped,” he answers back.
Like I said: issues.
* * *
As it turns out, our beach house is cuter than I had expected, with flower boxes at the green-shuttered windows detracting from the few spots of peeling, white paint.
I really hope that the girls got a good jump on the clean-up last night. Me and Vix kind of bailed on that task this year, but God willing, the three of them were able to bring the house nearer to hygienic without us.
The owners of the place had actually agreed to let us get in there a day ahead of season so that we could clean it up in advance. What did they care? Free maid service trumps all.
While none of us ever looks forward to donning a pair of yellow rubber gloves and brandishing a scrub brush, some things just need to be done. I don’t know what kind of people just pack up and leave a house looking like the inside of a garbage pail, but we always seem to wind up with quarters previously vacated by filthy renters. Let the muck sit through the winter and it made for one hell of a chore at the beginning of summer.
No joke: In our house last year, I spent no less than two hours doing nothing but scrubbing down the shower stall.
Yeah. Ewww.
A few weeks later, we actually met the guys that had rented the place the year before. They were coming off the beach one day and saw Tess, Vix, and me sitting on the porch. They stopped to chat and just offered the incriminating information up. Vix completely lambasted them about what dirtbags they were, leaving us to clean up their disgusting mess. I mean, you should have seen this shower! And I won’t even get started on the kitchen.
One of the guys actually had the balls to ask Tess where we were going that night and would we like to meet up with them. Vix sent them on their way and they trudged down the road to their current rental, probably intending to trash that place, too.
Shame, though. Vix thought the one with the Earth tattoo on his shoulder was kinda cute.
Vix and I have thankfully been pardoned from cleaning duties this year. We’re both only in for a half-share on the house, apparently since we’re the only two that will still have jobs over the summer and know we’ll only make it down on the weekends. Tess isn’t convinced. She doesn’t understand why we would give up on a single day at the beach when summer is so short. We told her that most of the adult general population of our planet is expected to work for a living.
Tess has the luxury of a very rich father who believes his daughter should “have fun while she’s young.” I’m not kidding. Those were his exact words. And while I tend to agree with the theory behind such a statement, it doesn’t really translate into real life. Not my life anyway. But Tess has elevated the premise of having fun to a new art form. God bless her; the girl is a trip.
She’s actually capable of holding a random job from time to time, if only to stave off boredom. Her thinking on this is that there’s no one to hang out with during the day anyway. Yes, I tell her, because WE ARE AT WORK. Nice, right? Whenever a boss gets a little grab-assy or if she just merely becomes bored with a job, she’ll quit and walk out. That is, until she gets bored at home again, in which case she goes out and gets herself a new job. Oh, it’s a vicious cycle, I know.
Hence her plan is to simply quit her latest job, figuring she’ll grab a few bucks waitressing at Jenkinson’s or Martell’s or something enough to cover booze and food for the next three months, just in case she uses up her allowance too quickly. Her father’s rich, but he’s no chump.
Sam is an artist, like, fine arts kind of artist. She’s got this great studio apartment right near Vix’s and mine in Clifton, and the thing is the coolest place I’ve ever seen. There’s barely enough room for her bed, because the place is crammed with her various creations: Countless drawings stacked up on her drafting tables, canvas paintings leaning along every wall, a few sculptures taking over a bit of floor space. She supplements her salary between gallery showings by painting murals on people’s walls, and even those “sellout pieces” (her words, not mine) are really, really amazing. She’s so talented, it makes me puke.
Rounding out the honor roll is Isla. She’s fun, she’s bubbly, she’s sweet… and holy hell is she lacking basic common sense. Saddest
thing is, she’s a first grade teacher. When people worry over the state of public education in this country, Isla is the reason why. But she’s got a beautiful heart and I totally love the girl, so it’s hard to hold any of her faults against her. Because who doesn’t have faults? We’ve all got ‘em, right?
The five of us have been friends since high school and we’ve rented a beach house together every year since graduating. We’ve already stayed in Point Pleasant, Ortley, Belmar, and this year, the location is Manasquan.
I’ve already decided that this is going to be the best summer yet.
CHAPTER 8
Sunday, May 28, 1995
11:09 AM
Monty’s House
Spring Lake
We get to Monty’s early so we can help set up for his Memorial Day Weekend bash. He and Walter throw the party every year in order to kick off the summer with a bang. If it wasn’t such a favorite event, and if Monty wasn’t such a good friend, I would have just blown the whole thing off.
I’m still embarrassed to think about having to face Jack after our abandoned encounter the other night. After some minor sleuthing, I found out he’ll be leaving the party early to play a gig, though, so I figure I’ll be able to avoid him for the few hours he’ll actually be here.
Tess, Isla, and Sam offer to take all our bags upstairs, so I grab my Minolta before following Vix to the back patio. I’ll be better able to deal with being in the same vicinity as Jack if there’s a camera between us.
I spot him right off, sprawled across a chaise lounge next to the pool with the rest of the guys. They’re fully clothed, which leads me to believe he, Monty, and Tom are more likely fighting off hangovers rather than attempting to sun themselves.
Ronnie, however, is lounged out on a raft—also fully clothed—in the middle of the pool.
Must’ve been a rough one last night.
Ron is the first one to spot us. “Hello, twins. Where’s the rest of your entourage?”
