I just go with: “A woman on the phone who’d really like your assistance in getting herself off?”
He makes a strangled sound, and I smile as I rub three fingers over the gusset of my underwear.
“Could I watch you sometime? I mean, I love touching you, but I don’t know. Watching you get yourself off sounds super-hot.”
“Maybe. I’ve never done that before. That’s kind of A-level intimacy, isn’t it? It’s not just about being naked, but about your partner seeing the things you do to yourself to get off. Like maybe give away fantasies you’ve never shared with anyone.”
I split my fingers and increase the pressure so my clit slides between them. Which feels really good even as it teases. And reminds me of the time Nick went all scholarly on the anatomy of the clitoris. But back to Nick in the present and any fantasies he may have managed to keep hidden from me.
“But I doubt you have any of those. Have you ever kept a secret?”
“Uh…not well. And you’re right, I don’t have any super-secret kinks. They’re all pretty out there. I don’t think I could even keep lies straight, so I basically tell the truth all the time. Except when it would hurt people’s feelings if I did. Then I really do try to keep my face shut. But this isn’t about me and my really out-there kinks—”
“I mean, you do like to bite my toes.”
“Who wouldn’t? They look like jelly beans, they’re freaking adorable. And I’d bite them if I were there right now.”
I don’t doubt it. And even though the first time he did it, I wasn’t sure what to expect, I’ve come to enjoy it. So, okay, we’ve both got a toe-biting kink. But honestly, who knew the nerve-endings in the pads of your toes were connected to your erotic nervous system? Not I.
“What else would you do?”
“Kiss up your legs and lick behind your knees and pinch your butt.”
“I can’t imagine why they don’t let you write the lyrics,” I murmur, even as I’m thinking about Nicky mouthing his way up my thighs and making me squirm and shiver.
“Yeah, well, I’d probably nose at your clit when I made my way up to your panties and bite you there, too. Gently. Like, super-gentle. But still, teeth.”
Since I’m not a contortionist, I use my fingers to pinch my clit, which will have to suffice. But while I do, I close my eyes and think of Nick’s head between my legs, his unruly hair sticking up.
“It probably wouldn’t take long for me to get impatient about being able to smell you but not really taste you, so I’d peel those panties down your legs and throw them somewhere. Sorry about that.”
I laugh, but do as he’s described, flinging the scrap of damp cotton halfway across my bedroom.
“And then?”
“I’m feeling pretty impatient, so probably slide a couple of fingers inside you, find your G-spot, and then tongue your clit until you came. And then, I don’t know. Probably be really turned on again, so if you were up for it, we could fuck.”
It’s not the most sensual or romantic phone sex ever, but it’s sure as hell doing the trick. And I have a little friend in my bedside table who can help me out. Okay, maybe not so little. It’s my favorite vibe because it has this perfect G-spot stimulating motion. Which seems appropriate so I drag open my drawer and put it to use.
“You have a hand free? Because I’d probably be playing with one of your nipples too, rolling it between my fingers, maybe with a little tug. I definitely would’ve pulled your shirt down so I could see your breasts because they’re fucking fantastic.”
It’s not the smoothest move, but I manage to yank the neck of my camisole down low enough to expose my breasts, and it feels…wanton in a way being naked doesn’t. Like they’re on display, and it makes me wetter, makes me buck against the vibe I slipped inside myself. Then I squeeze and knead my breast before pinching and rolling my nipple, and I’m pretty much a goner.
“Come on, Demps. I know you can be a little shy, but let me hear you. I want to hear you come. Please.”
He sounds as desperate for my orgasm as I feel, and his encouragement tips me over the edge and sends me surfing waves of climax.
“Yes, oh, yes. Nick, god. Wish you were here. Fuck, yes.”
I never claimed to have much in the way of decorum, although as Nick pointed out, I can be sort of reserved. But with him? If he’s open with me about his toe-biting kink, I suppose I can let him know how good he makes me feel and not have a care in the world that he’s going to hold it against me.
14
Nick
* * *
“I have a treat for you guys tonight.”
A roar goes up in the crowd, because who doesn’t like treats?
“You get to meet someone pretty special to me.” Even under the bright stadium lights beating down on us, I feel my cheeks heat. I may look like a tough guy with my tats, but I’m such a softie. And I’ve got a particular soft spot for this redhead.
I talked to my roadies about this before the show and we tested it, and it should all go according to plan. But still my chest is tight while I dial and wait for Dempsey to pick up.
“Nicky. Hey. Thought I wouldn’t be hearing from you until late tonight, aren’t you playing a show?”
I have to plug an ear to listen to her, because it’s really fucking loud here, and she notices it, too.
“Are you…are you still at the show? It’s so loud.”
“Um, yeah. I wanted to introduce you to some people. You’re not, like, naked or anything, are you?”
She laughs, and so does the crowd. And of course, there are some catcalls, too. I thought this would go off flawlessly, why?
“No, I took a shower this afternoon after Wash was here so I’ve been dressed for a while. Why?”
“Go into your office and turn on your video chat. I told you, I want to introduce you to some folks.” Twenty thousand of my closest friends. I give Jimmy a signal and there’s a beat, but then there’s Dempsey, all wavy red hair and dark brown eyes, wearing a bright yellow cardigan and a grey T-shirt. Her face is several stories high. And if this has worked right…
“Holy shit!”
She covers her mouth, and her eyes get huge, and she scans what’s hopefully a big ol’ shot of the stadium.
“Everyone, say hi to Dempsey.”
Obediently, the tens of thousands of people in the stadium chime in: “Hi, Dempsey!”
“Dempsey, say hi to everyone.”
She laughs into her palm but then uncovers her mouth and smiles as big as I’ve ever seen her and waves. “Hi, everyone!”
They cheer, and then I strum a chord on my guitar.
“So, Dempsey and I have been hanging out lately.”
Another chord, another cheer, and Dempsey’s face gets about as red as her hair.
“And I like her a lot.”
Man, I should always ask girls to be my girlfriend on a gigantic screen. This is awesome. And if she turns me down, I have twenty thousand people to make me feel better about it.
“You can see she’s real pretty. But she’s also smart, like way smarter than me, and she’s a really good cook. Plus, she’s super-organized and she’s amazing at her job. She helps people and keeps them safe. Basically she’s a superhero, but with spreadsheets. And she’s funny, too. And a good kisser. Like, real good.”
“Nick,” she says in a half-joking, half-warning kind of way.
Right, should probably stop there. No one else needs to know what other skills Dempsey has. Like that she gives a fantastic blowjob and she looks like an angel in ecstasy when she comes.
“Anyway, we’ve been hanging out and we like each other, and neither of us are shy, but we haven’t quite figured out…”
I play another few chords, and I fucking hope someone’s taking notes because this could be a song. I’m writing Dempsey a love letter in real time and playing half of it on my guitar. It’s messy, but she doesn’t seem to mind that. About me, anyway.
“Well, maybe it’s just me. I
haven’t figured out a way to tell her that I like her a lot, and I want her to be my girlfriend.”
The crowd goes absolutely wild, and Dempsey buries her face in both her hands, shaking her head so that her hair sways.
“What do you think, New York? Should Dempsey be my girlfriend?”
There are a bunch of shouts of yes, and a few random dickwads yell no. But then Benji’s taking up his mic and starts up a rhythmic cheer of “Yes, yes, yes, yes.” The guys like Demps a lot, even though they’re still scratching their heads over why she doesn’t come meet up with us while we’re on tour. I haven’t exactly told them why not yet, just that she doesn’t travel. Which is true.
No time to think about that now, though, because the people in the stadium catch on to Benji’s cheer and add stomps and claps, and soon everyone is chanting in time.
“Yes, yes, yes, yes.”
But the far more important part is still up in the air.
“And, Dempsey… Nah, babe, don’t cover your eyes.” She looks into the screen, and I press a couple of buttons on my phone, looking at the cheat sheet I wrote on the back of my hand with Sharpie. And there we are, a split screen. She can’t see the stadium anymore, but I’m sure she can hear it, maybe even feel it because the place is shaking on its foundations. “Demps, will you be my girl?”
Dempsey
* * *
Nick Fischer, you charming rogue.
He’s got that boyish, beguiling half-smile with the whole cocked eyebrow thing going on, and even though I know he’s in a stadium full of people who are still chanting “yes” at his invitation, all that blurs into the background and leaves me and him. Him with his scruff and his tats and the jeans that slump around his hips in a way that shows off a thin strip of his stomach when his shirt rides up because he’s bouncing around like an animate spring. Him with his smoky voice that curls around me like a physical presence even when he’s not here. Warm, taking up space, making my world light when I hadn’t realized it was dark.
Nick Fischer, who is far smarter, more compassionate, and kinder than he’d have you believe, or perhaps than he even knows because so many people have spent his entire life telling him he’s a fuck-up.
While I might very well regret this later and can already feel the seeds of panic starting to split and grow inside me, I can’t resist him after he’s done something like this. For me. So sitting at my desk, but still somehow in front of a crowd of twenty thousand a continent away, I say, “Yeah, Nicky. I’ll be your girl.”
I suspect all of Manhattan can hear the roar that goes up when I agree. It’s… I don’t know. Exciting. In a way that I’m loathe to admit because this is some of what I’d always claimed to hate when I was famous. The attention. The crowds. But with it separated from me by the continental US and a cell connection, it doesn’t feel so bad. I might even describe it as fucking awesome because my heart is beating hard, but with a thrill and not terror. Not yet. There will definitely be a price to pay later, but for how good I feel right now? Probably worth it. I’m tough. I can take it. That’s what breakthrough meds are for, right?
Besides looking goddamn adorable, Nick also looks elated. As though I’ve given him some kind of prize. Some fucking prize I am, but I try to smother the impulse to think badly of myself because Nick doesn’t, and I think Nick is pretty great. Perfect? Not at all. But possibly perfect for me. Even if that winds up not being true, I do think he’s got a heart of gold and is a keen judge of character, even if he’d deny it. He’s the sweetest.
So I blow him a kiss and feel ridiculous about it, but less foolish when he grins even bigger.
“Uh, okay, cool. So I hate to like ask you this big thing and then have to run, but…”
“You’re a little busy right now?”
“Just a little.”
“Mmhmm, as in, you’ve got an entire stadium full of people on hold while you talk to me?”
“Uh, not exactly. They can still totally hear us.”
Right, right. My entire conversation with my boyfriend is being broadcast to all of Madison Square Garden. My life is weird. And my stomach starts to churn knowing how many details of my life have just been exposed, but I try to swallow it because he’s so cute and he means so well. He does.
“Cool. So we’ll talk later. After your show.”
“Yeah. Okay.”
“Okay.”
It’s one of those moments where, if we were just on the phone, he’d start some inane conversation and then just go on and on and on until I said I really had to go and then we’d talk for another half-hour again. But mortification knowing that so many people are hearing this ridiculous conversation and the nausea at knowing things are going to go sideways after this forces me to say a quick last bye and hang up before waiting for Nicky’s response.
And even though I’m sure my cheeks are nuclear level aglow with embarrassment, I flop down on my bed, phone clutched to my chest and a goofy-ass smile on my face despite my trepidation about what’s going to come next. I’m Nick Fischer’s girlfriend.
15
Nick
* * *
“Thanks so much, Dave. Great to see you, Mel. So glad we could make this happen, Lina.”
Stan’s still saying his goodbyes, and I’m slumped against the hallway wall. I know I’m acting like a sulky kid in a grocery store, but if we could get this bullshit over with, that’d be great. I’ve already done my part in this dog-and-pony show—for the record, I was the dog who can ride a unicycle on top of the pony—and I am so ready to get out of here. I have been on my best behavior for hours, and I’m about ready to rip my skin off. Meanwhile, Stan and my lawyers are all smiles and handshakes and acting like sitting in a boardroom with pens and paper and laptops is fun. What the hell? Maybe Dempsey can explain to me why they seem to think this is a good time.
If I ever escape from this hellhole. No one ever told me there would be so much fucking paperwork in the music business because I sure as shit would’ve thought twice about getting involved. Although, even with the paperwork, it’s still a pretty great job? Like I get paid to play my guitar, which I would do anyway, and I get to hang out with my buddies a lot, and I make a ton of money, and people mostly expect me to be an eccentric asshole so they’re not real hard on me when I’m a live wire who thrashes around and isn’t great at figuring out what kind of damage I’ll leave in my wake. Throw some money and an apology at the problem, and I’m golden.
But seriously, I would gnaw off my own arm if I thought that would get me out of here. These people would probably just shake my other hand, or hell, pick up my dismembered arm from the floor and shake that one. These people love shaking hands. And doing up buttons. Why do their clothes have so many buttons and how do they not screw up at least one when they get dressed? Makes me itch and get the urge to check that my pants are zipped just looking at them.
Finally, Stan disentangles us from the last tentacles of the longest meeting in the history of meetings. I’m going to fucking kill the guys for making me believe that this was a good idea. Except probably when I leave here and have a chance to blow off all the steam that’s been building up inside me, I’ll realize that this is actually an amazing idea and I’m so fucking lucky that people pay me to do this shit.
We head down the hall, and I resist the temptation to make all the shit hung on the walls crooked, and once the doors slide shut, I manage not to even press all the damn buttons in the elevator because that would make it take longer to get downstairs, and I need to get outside so I can breathe.
“Well, Nick, that went really well. We got you a great deal, and this should ensure that you’re set for the next year, at least. And I’m guessing sales on the individual tracks and on the compilation will be great. Plus everyone loves a holiday album, so between those two and the income from the show, you should be making really good money.”
“Uh-huh.”
I have so, so much more to say than that, but I also feel like if I open my mouth to
o much, I’m just going to start vibrating and not stop until I’ve leveled the building. Like that video of the bridge that collapsed? It started shaking and then it didn’t stop, just got worse until it fell apart. That would be me. In bridge form. But no one would ever hire me to be a bridge because I’m unreliable. I do try to be reliable for Dempsey, though, and I should call her.
It’s been a few days since I asked her to be my girlfriend, and we’ve both been real busy and I haven’t gotten to talk to her as much as I’d like. Also I haven’t gotten to see her since the concert—we’ve just been on the phone, which is kinda weird because I’d been taking her everywhere with me and she’d seemed to enjoy it. Maybe she’s stressed out about work? Or something else? I know she gets extra-twitchy when she’s worried about stuff, and then her anxiety acts up and it’s a whole ball of ugly. I don’t want to poke at her, though, and make it worse so I’ll try to leave it alone. I’ll be back in LA soon anyway, and I can be with her for real and that’ll make everything better.
“Nick?”
Right. Still in a tiny metal box with Stan who thinks after spending hours in a single glass and chrome room with a bunch of suits that I should be perfectly functional. What the fuck am I, a magician? Nah, man, I’m just a dog on a unicycle.
“Yeah?”
“Are you not pleased with how things went?”
“I am.”
Probably. Stan’s a shark, and he fucking loves tearing people to shreds to get what he wants so I’m sure he got me every penny possible out of this deal. Whatever, I’m sure it’s fine. I’ll look at it all again when I have two brain cells to rub together. Maybe have Demps look at it, too. Not because I want to take advantage of her being good at her job and knowing shit, but because she likes this stuff. Makes her feel good to know she’s looking out for the people she cares about in a financial way, even if it’s just to review stuff and give it her stamp of approval. I should get her one of those. And like a rainbow ink pad. Or maybe glitter. I’ll have Fi help me pick one out.
The Inside Track: A License to Love Novel Page 15
