Pop Star
Page 8
“What’s wrong?” Jett asks, sensing your hesitation.
“I didn’t come, um, prepared,” you answer.
“No worries,” he replies, reaching into his back pocket. After a moment, he pulls you close once more. Suddenly you can take no more and you throw your arms around his neck and pull yourself up, locking your legs around his waist and lowering yourself onto him.
Jett lets out a huge groan and thrusts inside you as you rock gently back and forth, feeling the length of him fill you. It only takes seconds before you come, burying your head into his neck to muffle your moans. Jett comes too in shuddering gasp, pulling you to him in a long, deep kiss as he does.
At last, he pulls slowly away and sets you gently down. “Honey, that was insane.” He smiles.
You smile back at him as you smooth your hair and pull your clothes back into place. “Pretty insane alright,” you agree, and wait for him to pull himself together before removing your room card from the slot. The elevator begins to move. You reach the penthouse floor and give Jett a chaste kiss goodnight.
“Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow?”
Jett laughs but can’t hide his disappointment. “That’s it?” he asks.
“For now,” you tell him. “Thanks for making sure I got home safely.” Then you spin through the doors as they slide open.
On the way to your bedroom you crack open the door to Sasha’s bedroom and hear the heavy, even breathing of sleep. You close the door softly, make your way to your comfy hotel bed, and know you’ll have a peaceful night’s sleep after all.
* * *
The bedside clock shows nine fifty-eight a.m. when you finally open your eyes. You feel more rested than you have in months. The busy day goes seamlessly. You have a radio visit, a talk show appearance, and a press conference about your fashion line. Remarkably, no one asks about your hand. Whenever a niggling thought of Crispin pops into your consciousness you are quickly able to cast it out. But thoughts of Jett and your encounter in the elevator spring fresh into your mind at odd moments throughout the day, making your insides melt. You draw upon that energy to add a little more sultriness to your strut as you prowl the stage during the show that night. The audience eats it up. It’s a nearly perfect day. Even the peacock costume goes on and off without a hitch.
After the show, Freddie escorts you into the dressing room, which bustles with post-show excitement. Sasha enters pushing the enormous rolling costume rack in front of him, finding plenty of space for it along one of the dressing room walls. Everything about the Vegas venue is top of the line, spacious, luxurious, and professional. You can see why music legends decide to come to Vegas and never leave.
Sasha parks the second rolling rack in a corner then gives you a high-five. “Good job girlfriend. Finally that peacock was not an epic fail.”
“I know, right?” You smile as you turn around so Sasha can unhook and unzip the cinching corset of your final costume. “The magic of Vegas. Ahhhh,” you sigh as Sasha lowers the zipper. “So much better.”
“Ah! Excuse me!” Freddie catches sight of your bare back and does an about-face to walk out the door he’s just entered. “I’ll wait here,” he calls, “let me know when you are decent.”
“May be a while,” Sasha mutters, brushing glitter from your shoulders.
You grab your robe from the back of the hair-and-makeup chair and wrap it around you. “You can come in,” you call to Freddie.
Sasha looks over his shoulder as he carefully hangs the corset beside the rest of your costumes. “Freddie, have you always been such a prude?”
“I am not a prude,” Freddie tells him. “I am respectful. You could use a lesson.”
There’s a knock on the door and Freddie and Sasha answer in unison. “Who is it?”
“It’s Jett,” echoes the voice from the hall.
“One second,” you answer, then quickly run to the mirror and give your hair a quick swipe to smooth it where the extensions have made it snarl.
Sasha arches an eyebrow, “Oh, it’s like that, is it?”
“Hush, you,” you scowl. Then to Jett, “Come on in!”
Jett walks through the door with an enormous bouquet of yellow roses. “That show,” he begins, “was amazing! The lasers at the end—awesome! I need to borrow some of your tricks for the club. Outstanding performance!” he gushes. “And the costumes—incredible! That peacock one especially—just so cool.”
You smile and take the bouquet, while Sasha extends his hand to Jett. “Jett. Nice to see you again,” he says.
Jett looks at you then back at Sasha. “Uh-oh. I feel like I’m in hot water.”
“Noooooo,” Sasha gives Jett a penetrating look. “But you did keep Honey out way past curfew.”
Jett doesn’t seem to know whether Sasha is serious or joking. A nervous silence fills the room.
“I . . .” Jett begins.
Sasha breaks into a slow smile and elbows Jett in the shoulder, “I’m playing with you!” he laughs. “Honey’s a big girl. And as I said I am not her bodyguard. Besides, your admiration of my costumes has landed you right back in my good graces.”
Jett’s shoulders drop several inches as he visibly relaxes.
“But don’t let it happen again.” Sasha glares.
“Okay, Sasha, that’s enough,” you tell him.
You give Jett a smile. “Thank you for the flowers. They’re gorgeous.” You try to remember what yellow signifies. Friendship? You wonder whether Jett is trying to send you a message. Either way, they are beautiful. “Sasha, would you have time to put these in water before you go?”
Sasha spins around to look at you, “Am I going somewhere?” he asks, all innocence.
“I mean, if you are leaving”—you emphasize the word leaving—“I wonder whether you could put them in water before you do. Leave, I mean.”
Sasha walks over to take the flowers from you. “You don’t have to paint me a picture, Henrietta.” He removes the bouquet’s cellophane wrap and balls it up before tossing it in the trash can. “I know when I am not wanted.” He plunks the flowers into a vase and clears his throat to get Freddie’s attention. Freddie doesn’t get the hint and continues to sit on the sofa and flip through a magazine. “Earth to Mr. Angel,” Sasha calls.
Freddie looks up at last.
“You ready to go?” Sasha asks him.
“Oh, oh yeah,” Freddie says when he notices you waiting patiently for him to leave. He tosses the magazine onto the table and follows Sasha out the door.
“Sorry.” You turn to Jett. “They can be a bit of a handful.”
“No worries,” he says. “They obviously adore you.”
You smile at his empathetic and easygoing response. You’re really starting to like this guy. “So,” you begin, “I was thinking about making another trip to the casino. You up for it?”
“Um, sure,” he answers hesitantly. “But I should warn you that beginner’s luck really is often just that. And Freddie was dead-on with his warning. Believe me, I know.”
“I’m not expecting to sweep the roulette table again, I just want to unwind a little. That was fun last night.”
Jett arches an eyebrow and smiles. “I’ll say.”
You’re not sure whether he is referring to the run at the casino or the elevator ride after, and you don’t ask him to clarify.
“I just need a quick shower or else I’ll be molting body glitter all night,” you tell him, walking to the beautifully-appointed bathroom. “Though I have to tell you this tub is really calling my name. You wouldn’t believe what a workout that performance is.”
“I do believe it,” Jett says. “You are pure energy up there for three hours. It must be exhausting.”
“It can be. But actually, it’s pretty exhilarating.”
Jett follows you into the intimate space and stands behind you, then gently pushes an edge of your robe down off of your shoulder. He plants a single kiss on the soft spot where your neck and shoulder meet, sending a shive
r up your spine. “Let me run the bath for you.” He reaches down and turns the water on full-force.
You step in and perch on the edge of the tub. The warm water on your sore feet feels divine. Jett reaches for a bottle of complimentary body wash and pours it into the tub, creating a froth of foamy bubbles. Clouds of steam roll off of the water’s surface as it begins to rise little by little, engulfing your ankles and inching up your calves.
“Warm enough?” Jett asks.
“It’s perfect,” you answer.
Jett moves to stand behind you and pushes the robe down farther so that both of your shoulders are now bare. He places a strong hand on each shoulder and begins to knead, working away the tension. He moves to your neck then pushes the robe even lower so that he can work on your upper back. The warmth of the water and the warm strength of Jett’s touch is an intoxicating combination.
“That feels so good,” you tell him.
“Mmm,” Jett replies, then follows the work his hands have done with soft kisses, caressing your neck, moving down to each shoulder, then slowly to your back. When the water nears the lip of the tub, Jett pauses to turn off the water.
You stand slowly, your back still to Jett, and let the robe fall completely from your body before you lower yourself into the water. The bubbles just cover you, the foam surging over your breasts. Your bandaged hand rests on the bathtub’s edge.
Jett moves around the tub to take you in, and you break into laughter when you see his smile.
“What’s so funny?” he asks.
You stop giggling long enough to answer. “Your lips are all glittery!” you laugh.
Jett spins around to look in the mirror. “Well, we’ll have to do something about that.”
“Come here,” you tell him. You grab his hand to pull him down toward you and attempt to wipe some of the glitter from his lips. He ends up with a foamy beard, which makes you laugh even harder.
“Sorry!” you apologize. “I’m just making it worse.”
“Soap and glitter,” Jett grimaces. “Not a good look.” He reaches for a washcloth.
“No, let me,” you tell him, grabbing his hand again. This time, you pull hard and manage to dunk half of Jett’s sleeve into the water. “Oops,” you say, “Now you’re all wet.” You shrug your shoulders. “Might as well join me.”
Jett grins widely. “You don’t have to ask me twice,” he says, and quicker than you would think possible he sheds his shirt, skims off his pants and boxers, and slides into the tub with you.
“Mmmm,” he moans, “this feels heavenly.”
He sloshes bubbles and water as he scoots around behind you and, using the washcloth, begins to scrub your back in slow, sensuous circles. You press against the washcloth, savoring the feel of the slightly abrasive cloth against your skin. He works the cloth along your shoulders and up to the nape of your neck, then back down along your spine, pausing to rub circles along the small of your back.
As he rises to his knees and moves closer, you feel the warm, hard length of his manhood press against your lower back. You press back against him as he kisses your neck. When you turn to face him, he lifts the washcloth again, scooping up a mound of bubbles, and works the soapy cloth in circles around each breast. Your nipples harden in response to the friction and Jett leans in to kiss you, gently at first, then hungrily, pressing your body back against the edge of the tub. Leaning over you, Jett moves down to kiss your neck, along your collarbones, then he lifts each breast and brings it to his mouth, using his tongue to outline your nipple then moving in to suckle. At the same time, Jett takes the washcloth and brings it below the water to stroke your most sensitive area, slowly increasing the intensity of the motion.
A moan escapes you as you give in to the pleasure. Jett fishes into the back pocket of his discarded jeans and after a moment you reach with your good hand to grasp Jett and pull him to you. He enters you in one smooth motion and creates waves in the water as he rocks. You hardly notice the bubbles sliding over the edge of the tub as Jett thrusts deeper, bringing the washcloth back up to stroke one breast as his mouth works on the other. You come in a shuddering wave and Jett joins you, pressing his face into your neck and letting out a long, low moan.
Jett seems to float away from you as he lifts his face to yours and kisses you deeply. He looks into your eyes for a long moment and smiles. “Honey, I—” he begins, then stops short.
“What?” you ask him.
“I, um, think we got water all over the bathroom,” he says sheepishly, surveying the soapy floor.
Jett wraps you in a fluffy towel and gets to work mopping up the bathroom floor with every remaining towel available, as you wonder what he was about to say.
When you—and the bathroom—are fully dry, you slip into a thong and a black jumpsuit with a halter top, touch up your lip gloss, and run a brush through your ponytail. The body glitter now mostly gone, you look pretty much presentable, and you feel rejuvenated.
Jett turns to you, buttoning his shirt. “You are absolutely stunning.” He smiles.
“Thanks,” you say. “You’re not so bad yourself.”
Jett takes you by the arm and together you walk out the door toward the casino, to try your luck for another night.
“Let’s try blackjack this time,” you tell him.
“It’s a trickier game. You sure you’re up for that?”
“No, but I’m hoping my beginner’s luck will strike again, since I’m a beginner at blackjack.”
“All right,” Jett sighs, “but I’m not sure that’s how beginner’s luck works.”
This time, you purchase your own chips. A bottle of champagne and two frosty glasses are placed in a tall stand beside you as you wait for the first deal. “They love nothing more than a second-night high roller,” Jett tells you.
Your luck at blackjack isn’t as good as it was at roulette. You win the first two games and then begin a solid losing streak. You decide to stop when you’ve lost what looks like about half of your chips.
“Had enough?” Jett asks.
“Of gambling, yes.” You smile. “For now.” A wave of exhaustion has come over you and suddenly your injured hand is throbbing again, the natural anesthesia of post-show (and other) endorphins having worn off. “I’m actually pretty tired.”
“Let me walk you back to your room,” Jett offers, ever the gentleman.
You give him a long kiss goodnight in the elevator before the doors to your suite slide open.
“Will I see you tomorrow?” he asks.
“You better,” you tell him.
“Good, then,” he says. “Goodnight.” As the doors begin to slide shut Jett sticks out a hand to stop them. “Hey, Honey, I just realized I don’t even know . . . how long are you here?”
“For the week,” you answer. “Then I’m off. To God knows where.” You try to laugh off the unexpected tremor in your voice as you realize all at once that you don’t even want to think about leaving. The feeling is entirely new.
You head straight for the bathroom and wash your face, then snuggle into your bed under the downy covers.
There’s a soft knock on your door, and Sasha enters without waiting to be invited in. He sits gently on the edge of the bed. “Well hello, stranger.” He pulls the comforter down so he can see your face.
“Hello yourself,” you tell him, reaching out to take his hand, which is warm and familiar. You smile in the dim light, thinking that Sasha is like a best friend and brother rolled into one wonderful, sarcastic package.
“Good night?” he asks you.
“It really was,” you tell him. “Jett’s pretty great.”
“Oh lord, here we go again.” Sasha rolls his eyes. “How’s the hand.”
“It’s fine,” you laugh and give his hand a gentle squeeze. “Now let me get some rest.”
Sasha tucks the comforter snugly under your chin and gives you a light kiss on the forehead. “Sleep well, Henrietta.” He rises and is out the door, silk robe swishing
behind him as he leaves.
You press your head into the pillow and wait for sleep to come but unnerving thoughts jump into your mind uninvited. You can’t help replaying your last phone call with Crispin and you wonder what he and Trixie are doing now, whether they have even stopped to think about you at all. Worse, you worry Crispin’s relapse will send him spiraling out of control. Even though he’s hurt you terribly, there’s still a part of you that cares about him.
Why is it that late at night when you’re all alone that your worst fears get the better of you? You know there’s nothing you can do about it, but the more you try to sleep, the more you seem unable to escape your mind’s anxious wanderings. You flip to your back, roll first to your left side then to your right, all the while trying to avoid looking at the clock. After an hour and a half you’ve had it. You fling the comforter back and go to find Freddie.
A shushing sound that could be waves, rain, or white noise comes from Freddie’s bedside table. You lean down to whisper, “Freddie?” into his ear. He barely stirs.
“Freddie?” you try again, this time a little louder. Still no luck. You put your hand on his shoulder and shake him gently. “Freddie, it’s me, Honey.”
Freddie smacks his lips and smiles. “Honey,” he says without opening his eyes, “what’s up?”
“I can’t sleep,” you tell him.
Freddie sits up sleepily and pushes the covers down.
“No,” you say. “You don’t need to get up. I just wanted to borrow one more of those sleeping pills you gave me.”
“Sleeping pills,” Freddie slurs. You wonder whether he might be talking in his sleep, or maybe he’s taken a sleeping pill himself. “I don’t take sleeping pills.”
“Whatever you gave me,” you tell him. “Can I have one of those?”
“Sure, Honey.” He rubs his hands across his eyes and rolls back into the bed, pulling the comforter up to his chin. “Help yourself. Take whatever you need.”