by T. Torrest
“Yeah. Definitely.”
“Well, good. Then do that.”
I’ve been watching this exchange like it’s a tennis match, my head darting back and forth between the both of them as Jack lets out with a sound that’s half sigh and half whistle. “I’ve got to check with the guys, but I don’t think it’s going to be a problem. You have a card or something for me to get in touch with you tomorrow?”
Lutz procures a business card from his breast pocket, which Jack takes casually, trying to look as though playing a huge venue like a five-thousand-seat arena is no big deal. Good for him and all, keeping his cool, but I’m sort of panicking on his behalf. A lot.
“Hey, uh, Mr. Hamburg,” he says. “I’m not trying to talk myself out of a cherry gig here, but you always make it a habit to book unknown bands to play on your stage?”
Lutz gives him a knowing smile. “All the time. I know good when I hear it. That’s what they pay me for.” He shoots us a wink and drops a hundred on the table, motioning a ‘nother-round finger to the waitress. “Have a good night, you two.”
I can’t do anything but remain speechless while watching him walk away, but then I look over at Jack, sitting there with a stunned smile on his gorgeous mug.
“Jesus,” he says at last. “That was so smooth! That cat might be the coolest dude I’ve ever met!” He swipes a hand down his face and asks, “But holy shit. What in the hell just happened?”
I’d been a mute throughout the entire exchange, but my voice finally finds me as I answer, “I think you’ve just been discovered.”
We sit staring at each other in silent disbelief for a minute when I add, “I also think you owe my boobs a huge debt of gratitude. If it weren’t for them, I’d have been the one on that stage. And trust me, Lutzy What’s-his-face would not be asking my band to perform at his club.”
CHAPTER 22
Saturday, June 24, 1995
4:04 PM
Monty’s House
Spring Lake
Monty is lounging on a raft chaise in his pool with a plastic hurricane glass when we saunter into the backyard. He lifts his sunglasses in fraudulent admiration for the parade of women filing across the patio.
We say hello, and then I ask, “Hey Mont. How is it possible that you’ve found the time to lollygag around the pool only one hour before showtime?”
He takes a sip of his blue beverage before answering, “Look around, Livi Girl. Walter sent the staff today. My stove-slaving days are over.”
I snicker at his comment, because I’ve never seen Monty ‘slave’ over anything in his life. When he opted to entertain for friends, it was always a lavish production just for the pure enjoyment of it. For his larger parties, he often hired outside help. He must be expecting a huge crowd today.
Walter had sent a tuxedoed wait staff of twenty to precede his arrival. They set up dozens of long tables adorned with linen tablecloths, chafing dishes, and a rainbow of scattered orchids. One table is designated purely as a carving station, complete with a whole turkey and a roasted pig donning sunglasses.
In the driveway sits two, humongous, white trucks. One is basically a kitchen on wheels, allowing the previously prepared food to be warmed in any of the six ovens on board. Workers stream in and out of that one carrying fruit displays from the refrigerators, ice sculptures from the freezers, and trays upon trays of hors d’oeuvres to be passed butler-style. Even more workers are busily hauling in the booze for the three bartenders who are arranging a million liquor bottles along the rented tiki-hut bar, and filling the bathtub-sized bins next to it with beer.
The other monstrous truck is “The Pee-Pee Mobile,” as Monty likes to call it. Eight full bathroom stalls and sinks in all, accessible by either of two sets of steps: Men’s or Ladies’.
By the time Walter pulls up in his white minivan, the girls and I are clear of our initial astonishment enough to help him lug in the huge boxes of flower leis, grass hula skirts, and Hawaiian shirts. He urges the girls and me to go upstairs and change into bathing suits, adding, “Report back poolside, seventeen-hundred-hours for cocktails!”
When we come back downstairs, a DJ is setting up near the cabana as Walter’s assistant puts the finishing touches to the décor. Pineapple-shaped string lights drape over the architectural landscaping and roof eaves while two-dozen tiki torches are placed sporadically around the perimeter of the yard.
Monty has absolutely outdone even himself with this party.
I break from the pack to take over the spare bathroom downstairs, deciding to blow my hair out straight in order to look a little more luau-y. In the time it takes me to do so, the girls have ransacked the box containing the shirts, most likely fighting over the coolest designs. I rifle through what’s left, then run upstairs to change into a top covered in a pattern of “Welcome to Hawaii” postcards. I leave the buttons undone and instead tie the tails below my bikini top, exposing my newly-tanned midriff. A black A-line miniskirt, straw sandals, and a flower tucked behind my ear complete the look.
The party is already well underway as I leave the Pink Room and head downstairs. From the backyard, Bruddah Iz’s “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” is filtering in through the family room sliders as I make my way through the abandoned house.
But as I pass the kitchen, I stop dead in my tracks when I hear the sound of a deep voice slithering, “Well, Aloha...”
I turn slowly toward Jack, and the smile that he’s extending makes my heart slam into my stomach.
“Aloha,” I say back before busting up at the sight of him. “Where in the world were you able to find a T-shirt with a picture of Don Ho?”
He smiles proudly and offers, “It’s all in who you know, baby.”
I giggle, partly because Jack is making me laugh, and partly just because I’m happy to see him. We hadn’t gotten together all week, and because he has a gig tonight, we didn’t have plans to do so until tomorrow. This is a surprise visit.
I go over to kiss him hello, saying, “I knew you couldn’t resist checking this spectacle out.”
“Wrong,” he shoots back. “I just wanted to see you.”
At that, his hands go to my waist, lifting me to sit on the counter facing him. He runs his nose along my jaw and breathes in, as if he’s trying to get his fix. I like the idea that he’s addicted to any part of me, even if it’s just my ck one perfume.
“That flower is on the wrong side,” he murmurs before removing the thing and placing it behind my left ear. “Unattached young ladies wear a flower on the right.”
I feel the brush of his fingertips against my cheek and my senses are awakened with the brief contact.
“And...?” I ask, leading him on.
Jack steps between my legs and runs his hands along the outside of my thighs. He touches his lips to the side of my neck and whispers, “And... you’re mine.”
The staked claim combined with the possessive way he’s holding me disintegrates my gray matter completely. A million witty comebacks would have strewn from my mouth had Jack’s touch against my legs not absolved my brain of all function. I seem to lose the ability to think or reason whenever he’s in such close proximity, which makes keeping up my end of our arrangement especially challenging.
I am sooo counting this as Date Number Five.
I cross my ankles against the small of his back and draw his face to mine for a kiss. His hands slide further up my legs, under my skirt, pulling me into direct contact with his hardening body.
He presses himself against me right in that perfect spot, and my throat lets out an involuntary groan. Jack is doing some groaning of his own as he slides his hands around to my backside and grabs my ass. He drags me toward him and rolls his hips into me as I pull his hair and open my mouth against his. His tongue sweeps inside, the taste of him smoky and minty and one-hundred-percent Jack.
He sticks a finger down my cleavage and pulls at the knot in my shirt until the tails come undone and hang loose at my sides. His hand roams over my bikini top and massag
es my breast, his thumb rubbing over its tip until it hardens against the thin spandex of my bathing suit.
Then he pulls the fabric to the side and pinches me, sending a shock straight between my legs.
Oh God.
I arch my back toward him and he buries his face in my chest. His tongue is tasting at the space between my breasts, his hips are still grinding against me, he is so goddamn hard and it feels so goddamn good… and oh shit… I’m almost ready to…
No!
No, no, no, no, no.
I am not going to come with Jack for the first time in the middle of a party, for chrissakes.
Before I can completely lose all control, I tear my mouth away from his temple. “Jesus, what are we doing? We’re in the kitchen, Jack!”
He continues to run his lips up and down the cord of my neck. “Yeah, so?”
I try to squirm out of his grasp, but there’s nothing doing. “So, if things keep up like this, any wandering party guests are gonna get one hell of a free show.”
Jack’s tongue dips into the hollow of my throat as his voice vibrates against my skin. “Let ‘em watch.”
His hands are still buried under my skirt, so he grabs at my string bikini bottoms and starts to pull them down my hips. I’m almost lulled back into a deep enough daze to let him, but it looks as though it’s my turn to be the rational one. I grab his face between my hands and force him to meet my eyes. “We have to stop, Jack.”
His exasperated growl shakes the damn walls. He moves out from between my legs and slumps across the counter next to me, his forehead banging against the granite on every word, “We. Can’t. Keep. Doing. This.”
I hop off the counter and put myself back together, giggling as he stands and pulls one of the butter knives out of the drawer, pointing it at his chest. His eyes are pleading as he says, “Just one swift roundhouse kick to this thing, and you can end the torture. Please, baby. Just put me out of my misery.”
“You started it, Celibacy Boy,” I shoot back as I bound toward the sliding door. I look back to see Jack still manning his post behind the counter. “Aren’t you coming?”
“Yeah. In a minute.”
I furrow my brows in confusion, and he smirks out, “Hey, I love a luau as much as the next guy. It’s just that I can’t really go out there like this.”
I clamp a hand over my laughing mouth.
It was so easy for my mind to be rational about Jack whenever I was away from him. I think I must have some involuntary shut-off switch on my brain, cutting off all reason within a few seconds of his touch. I’m astounded at how he can make me feel exhilarated and scared both at the same time. He can go from resolute seriousness to lighthearted joking to bold sensuality inside of a minute; the philosopher, the comedian, and the lover all rolled up into one irresistible human body.
And you’re mine, I think to myself.
* * *
I find myself bolting upright in bed, an uneasy echo of noise still ringing in my ears.
I must have had a nightmare.
At first, I’m not even sure where I am, but as my eyes adjust to the dark, I remember that I’m at Monty’s.
Checking the clock on the nightstand I can see that it’s close to four in the morning.
Great.
I’m about to slink back under the covers when I hear Jack’s voice singing one floor below me, and jump out of bed before he can wake the whole house. I scamper down the stairs to find him slumped on the floor in a corner of the foyer. “What are you doing?” I whisper-shout over him.
“Sitting,” he offers with full attitude, as if I’m the crazy one.
“You’re drunk.”
“Nope!” he says way too loud, so I mime a shush to try and get him to lower his voice. When I have no other words for him, he can tell that I’m annoyed. “Babe. So I had a drink’r two on the way over.”
“You had more than ‘a drink or two’.”
“No, I swear. I had like three drinks and then Freddie dropped me off.”
“Uh huh.”
“Whass that look? Four drinks and you’re givin’ me the stink eye?”
I should be angry, but instead, I’m doing everything in my power to keep from cracking up. Sad fact is, Jack has obviously had more than a handful of drinks, but goddamn if he doesn’t make a very cute drunk. “Okay, rock star. Let’s get you to bed.”
“Whose bed? Yours?”
I purse my lips to keep from laughing and answer, “Normally, I’d take you up on the offer, but I don’t make it a habit to take advantage of someone who’s had too much to drink.”
“I tol’ you, I’m not drink!”
Shaking my head in exasperation, I crouch down and throw his arm around my shoulders. I get a grip on the belt loops of his jeans, trying to ignore the bumpy hardness of his abs. “I can’t do this by myself. You’re going to have to help me out, here. Come on. I’ve got you. Ready?”
I count to three, and Jack manages to get his feet under him as I help haul him upright. It’s a scary trek up the stairs, and I have to keep reminding him to hold the handrail. One wrong move and this pile of Jell-O is going to tumble backwards and break his fool neck.
By the grace of God, I manage to get him into the Blue Room in one piece. I deposit him on the bed, where his body lands diagonally, his feet still planted on the floor. Short of waking up someone else to assist me, this is the best I can do.
“Sleep wi’ me,” he asks. “Naked.”
I snicker at his request and answer, “Not a chance, pal,” but I don’t think he can hear me. He’s already half-asleep and mumbling to himself, so I take one, last, lingering look at his beautiful form before turning to leave the room. “Goodnight, Jack,” I whisper from the doorway.
“Okay. G’night. Love ya.”
I stop dead in my tracks as my jaw gapes open. “Whaaat?”
“What, what?” he slurs.
“What did you just say?”
“I said ‘good night, Livia.’ Why? What d’ you think I said?”
I’m not touching that with a ten foot pole.
“Nothing.” I brush a hand over my hair and pull myself together. “See you in the morning.”
CHAPTER 23
Date #6: Sunday, June 25, 1995
1:23 PM
The Stone Pony
Asbury Park
I am more excited than Jessie Spano on a caffeine pill bender as we walk through the doors of The Stone Pony. And if I am this excited, I can’t imagine what Jack must be going through.
I’m surprised that the place isn’t humongous. It’s big enough, but its legendary status had me expecting it to be the size of a stadium. Instead, it consists of a decent-sized square bar adjacent to a raised platform of a stage which is so ordinary, it’s almost boring. It sits on the edge of an adequate open area, where I’m sure I’ll be dancing and sweating with the rest of Thunderjug’s fans before this day is through. The whole room is painted black, the only splashes of color provided by the dozens of guitars mounted on the wall and the numerous band posters wallpapered on every surface. Names like Southside Johnny. The Smithereens. Patti Smith. Joe Jackson. Nick Lowe. Bruce.
And now Thunderjug will be added to the long list of iconic performers that have graced this famous stage.
I can’t quite fucking believe it.
Jack is busy with his setup and sound check, so I sidle up to the bar and order a beer. It’s totally a beer kind of day. The place is pretty empty, and I’m hoping it will fill up soon enough. Playing The Pony is exciting enough on its own, but I know Jack’s band will have a better chance of being asked back if there’s a good turnout for their show. It’s the kind of place that can make or break a band’s reputation, and Thunderjug is just figuring out what theirs will be.
* * *
Sometime after three, Jack joins me at the bar. The room has filled up considerably in the past hour, and people are still streaming in through the door. Good.
He orders a bottle of water and
points to the plastic bag on the bar next to my purse. “What’s that?” he asks, before downing half his drink. It’s hot out there today, and The Pony doesn’t have air conditioning. I’m kind of excited, thinking about what a sweaty mess he’s going to be onstage later on.
“I caved. I bought a T-shirt,” I answer sheepishly.
“Bennie,” he shoots back like a colossal wiseass.
“I know, right? I felt like a total tourist buying it, but come on. We’re at The Pony!”
He laughs, then admonishes, “Babe. Quit reminding me. I’m nervous enough as it is.”
He downs the rest of his water, gives me a kiss, and then hops back up on stage. There are the usual twangs and adjustments as the guitars are tuned and tested, the usual squeaks in the mic as the final balance is found.
For all the pent-up anxiety the guys must be feeling, the venue is a casual one. I have to imagine it’s making for an easier time of it up there.
The large speakers flanking the stage vibrate in anticipation as Freddie takes the honors. “Hey everybody. I’m Freddie. That’s Jack. That’s Booey, and that’s Jimmy. We… are Thunderjug. Welcome to the show!”
And with that, Jack’s guitar starts in with a scratchy, soul-shredding lick as he launches in with Van Halen’s “Ain’t Talkin Bout Love.”
They’ve been rehearsing like crazy all week and it shows. This is a new song in their repertoire, but they’re belting it out so seamlessly, I can’t imagine anyone in here is able to tell.
Not that it matters. A bunch of people have already abandoned their seats at the bar in order to stand in front of the stage. Good sign.
Over the next ten songs, the room has filled up considerably. The Stone Pony is located right on the main drag of Asbury Park, and with the doors wide open, the music has lulled any pedestrians off the street and Pied-Pipered them into the building to check out the band. Before I know it, the dance floor is packed and the bar is three people deep.
