Keep Dancing

by Leslie Wells

  “You’ll get used to it,” he called over his shoulder.

  We spoke to the pilot and took our seats, waiting for Patrick and Mary Jo to arrive. As soon as they stepped on board, the engine revved and the plane took off down the runway. Patrick went into the bathroom with his onboard bag.

  “Scarfing down his coke so he doesn’t have to share,” Mark commented.

  “What’s the movie today?” Sammy asked. “That new one called E.T.’s supposed to be good.”

  “The flight’s too short,” Mary Jo said. “Only an hour and a half to Kansas City.”

  “I’ve always wondered why you can’t just rent a film and watch it at home.” Suzanne flicked her lighter at a cigarette. “Someone ought to start a business doing that.”

  “I think there’s a guy in L.A. who does it on a small scale,” Jack said.

  “You mean those things Patrick had?” Sammy asked.

  “Er, no. I mean regular movies.”

  Patrick emerged from the bathroom wearing a fluffy white robe over his tracksuit and sat next to Mary Jo. Jack reached across the aisle and fingered the edge of his sleeve. “Nice togs.”

  “Nicked it off the hotel; least they could do. Who’s up for Scrabble?” Patrick asked.

  Mark and Sammy groaned. “Not that again.”

  Jack sat up in his seat. “I’ll bet Julia can beat you. Switch places with me.”

  “Oh no, I’m not that good.” I didn’t want to get into a competition with their cantankerous vocalist, but he got up and took Jack’s spot next to me. Jack stood behind us, looking over the seatback as Patrick unfolded a travel board.

  “Helps pass the time.” He distributed the letters from a small velvet bag.

  This is the last thing I feel like doing, I thought as I arranged my vowels.

  “I’ll give you the advantage. You can lead off,” Patrick said, implying I’d need it.

  “Okay…RETSINA. The Greek drink.” I placed the letters on the board and held out my hand for seven more. I wound up with an X, making me wonder if he’d stacked the deck.

  “Hmm.” Patrick added H and E, making HER. I took the free H and made it into HEX, ridding myself of the difficult consonant.

  Patrick surrounded the last A in RETSINA. “QAT. It’s the African version of pot.”

  “I’ve had that,” Jack said over my shoulder. “Rendered me legless, as I recall.”

  I appended a vertical TRAIN, and Patrick added PIZZA. I put down an O, forming a square with the N and Z.

  “ZO’s not a word.” Patrick smirked.

  “I believe it’s a Himalayan cow,” I said.

  Patrick drew a little book out of his bag. “Let’s just check.” He thumbed to the page and frowned. “I guess you’re right.”

  Suzanne snatched the dictionary. “No cheating. I’ll hold onto this.” She stood next to Jack as Mary Jo craned across the aisle to see.

  Patrick sorted through his pieces. “I’ve got something.” He placed TWAT on the board.

  “I’m not sure that’s in the dictionary, but I’ll let you have it.” I formed PEA as Patrick chose more letters.

  “Here’s a good one.” Patrick put down the letters for PUSSY.

  “That’s not very sporting of you,” Mark said as he joined the spectators.

  “Oh, it’s all right,” I said. If he can play dirty, then I can too. I made TWAT into TWEE.

  “Is that a word?” Sammy asked.

  I looked at Patrick. “It means affected; sickeningly cute. Sort of prissy.”

  Patrick poked through his letters and wrote MERDE.

  “Well, aren’t you the head boy,” Jack commented.

  “We’re using foreign languages? I’ll keep that in mind.” I appended MORON to his French word for shit.

  “Why not?” Patrick made an OX out of HEX.

  I added VAIN to MORON. “Fine with me,” I said, drawing more letters. “I’m happy to bend the rules.”

  OI, Patrick wrote. “As in ‘Oi, you’re a pain in the arse.’”

  “Yes, I get it.” I used the R in MORON for CRETIN.

  “Hmm.” He formed the word BITCH.

  “That bumps against the D in MERDE,” Suzanne pointed out. “D-bitch isn’t a word.”

  “Go ahead. I know you need the points,” I said, enjoying Patrick’s frustrated glare.

  Suddenly the plane lurched and the letters slid across the board. “Game’s over.” Patrick scooped them up and stuffed them into the bag. Mister World-Famous doesn’t like losing to a lowly editor—or to a woman, I thought.

  “We’ve hit an air pocket.” The pilot’s voice came on as the plane made a sudden dip. “Everybody should sit down.”

  Mark held onto his armrest. “Blimey! Gives me the abdabs.”

  “This tin can’s going up and down like a whore’s drawers.” Sammy’s face was bilious. Jack held out a sick bag to him, but Mark snatched it and vomited into it as Suzanne rubbed his back.

  “Now that was a tactical chunder,” Patrick said. He seemed unaffected by the rollercoaster ride.

  Holding onto the seatbacks, Sammy made his way to the rear of the plane. The turbulence kept up until we landed in Kansas City.

  As soon as we got to the hotel, Jack had to do a few interviews with Patrick. I hadn’t eaten anything all day, so the cellophane-wrapped brownies in our room were a welcome sight. Grateful for the hospitality treat, I wolfed down two of them as I unpacked our things. Since the water in the tap was brown, I washed them down with a beer.

  While I was hanging up some of Jack’s shirts, I started to feel sort of weird. At first I wondered if it was a delayed reaction to the bumpy flight, but then the wooziness increased. I lay on the hotel bed—this time without a ceiling mirror—and tried to stabilize my whirling mind. Stray thoughts were rattling through my brain: train…vain…moron…merde…Kim gives free…Marissa relaxes…Jack enjoys…

  Some time later, I felt a weight on the mattress. I opened my eyes and saw Jack gazing down at me.

  “Hey. You all right?”

  I heard a faint echo fading away: ight-ight-ight… I tried to tell him that I felt fine; in fact, I realized, I felt amazing. All the colors in the room were swirling together to form the most incredible dribs and drabs. Jack’s chain sparkling in the lamplight became a waterfall rippling down his chest. I tried to reach for it, but the stream scattered and I fell back on the pillow.

  “Julia.” Jack cupped my face in his warm hand. His touch created an incredible rush, starting with a heat wave in my loins that surged upward through my abdomen. My nipples felt like tight peony buds ready to burst into bloom. I sat up and yanked my blouse over my head, getting stuck on my elbows until Jack helped me pull it off.

  “Feeling lurgy?” he asked. “I can open a window.”

  “I’m good.” I got up on my knees and then made it to my feet, the mattress rolling under my bare toes. Suddenly I had the urge to strip. “Can you sing something?” I asked, hearing my voice swoop around the room.

  “Sure. Are you okay?” Jack got his guitar and sat in a chair. “What do you want to hear?”

  “Something sssexy.” The “s” sizzled off my tongue and settled around my ankles. I undid my top jeans button and did a belly-dancer hip-roll that I didn’t know I had in me. Where’d that come from? I wondered abstractly.

  Jack started strumming and crooning. “My woman’s gone crazy, she’s acting like a shady lady…” He looked at me. “What’s got into you?”

  “I have to get these clothes off!” Suddenly the fabric’s weight was really bugging me. I undid another button of my jeans, then dipped my hand inside and touched myself through my panties—wow. I stood there with my mouth open, stunned by the buzzing sensation. I undid another button and pushed my jeans down to the top of my thighs. Jack was still strumming slow-hand chords, his dark gaze locked on me.

  “Ummmm.” I shut my eyes and gave myself up to the dance, moving my hips to the rhythm; back, forth, back, forth…The denim created a
n unbearably pleasurable friction in my crotch. I slid the jeans down to my ankles and kicked them off. Then I turned around, my back to him, and swayed my hips in time to the music.

  “I may have to join you up there in a minute,” I heard Jack say.

  “No! Keep playing.” Turning to face him again, I gazed down at my breasts, which appeared to be bursting out of my bra. I stroked my nipples through the silky fabric and watched in amazement as they hardened into pink gumballs. God, that feels incredible…I undid the clasp and squeezed myself, sending a current of pleasure jolting through me. I glanced up at Jack. He had put down the guitar and was staring at me.

  “If you’re trying to turn me on, it’s working,” he said. “Can I get up now?”

  “Jus’ a minute.” The only thing left was my pale blue bikini underwear. I slid one side down my hip, then back up. I slid down the other side, feeling the tightening in my folds, the bunched material becoming unbelievably wet.

  Suddenly Jack was kneeling on the bed. He yanked down my panties and put his mouth on me. All he did was breathe one long hot breath, but it made my knees buckle.

  “Want to lie down?” he asked, his face still at my crotch, the motion of his lips uncurling a spiral of heat from my core.

  Jack put his strong arms around me and lowered me onto the sheets. Flicking my nipple lightly with his tongue, he reached down with one hand and undid his jeans. I felt him spring at me, nudging my thigh.

  “Not yet,” he said as I reached for him. He kissed his way down my chest, circling his tongue around my navel, lapping the softness of my belly. My hips were lifting of their own accord, my body overtaken by an uncontrollable craving. As his tongue approached I became one pulsing need, my whole being concentrated on his lips. I sang out when he put his mouth on me. After only three strokes I was coming, waves of sensation rippling out into a tidal pool spreading across my abdomen, surging up to my breasts.

  “God, Julia,” Jack murmured. He slipped his tongue inside me and then ran it slowly up the middle, making me gasp. I was still coming when he slid his full length into me. I cried out as he moved faster and faster. Then we were both chorusing, his climax ending in a long, melodic moan.

  I woke up incredibly hungry. Jack opened his eyes as I shifted his arm out from under me.

  “What’re you doing?” he asked.

  “I’m going to have another brownie.”

  Jack gave me an odd look. “You ate those?”

  I shrugged. “I had two. I was starving.”

  “Julia. They’re hash brownies from a groupie we know. I was gonna give them to Sammy.”

  “You’re kidding. I thought the hotel left them for us.” No wonder I felt so strange.

  “Is that the first time you’ve had it?” Jack asked.

  I nodded, feeling incredibly dumb.

  “If you thought that was good, you’ll have to try mescaline sometime,” he said.

  “It was amazing, but I don’t think I’d do that again.” I rubbed my pounding head and carefully lay back on the pillow. “Did I really put on a strip-tease?”

  “You could earn a living in Vegas. Not that you’d want to. Listen, why don’t you rest up a little? I’m gonna get my face on for the show. And I’ll see if we can get some room service.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  I Wanna Be Sedated

  I awoke sometime later to Jack gently shaking my shoulder. “Knees up, mother brown. We’ve gotta get going. Do you want any of this?” He held up a wrapped sandwich, but I felt too logy to eat. I pulled on my jeans, washed my face and swallowed two aspirin, trying to avoid moving quickly so as not to set off the pounding in my head.

  Sammy was waiting for us in the limo. He peered at me when I borrowed Jack’s sunglasses for the ride. “What’s up with you? You’re usually fulla beans.”

  Jack put his arm around my shoulder. “Julia got hold of those brownies. She didn’t know they were à la thai stick.”

  Sammy gave me a sympathetic smile. “Been there, done that. But I always say, if you can’t run with the big dogs, stay under the porch. Here, have a little hair of the mutt.” He cracked open a bottle of whiskey and handed it to me.

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” I croaked as I took a big slug.

  By the time we got to the backstage area, I was feeling somewhat better. On the wall next to the huge mirror was a peeling poster of Four to the Floor from their tour several years ago. I went closer to take a look. Jack was glaring at the camera, hair below his shoulders, a joint pasted to his lips. Mark and Sammy wore similar expressions; Patrick had a boa around his neck and was baring his teeth.

  “That’s a divine boa on Patrick,” I said to Jack.

  “Yeah, that was his Marlene Dietrich phase,” Jack said. “We got along better back then.”

  “You won’t be getting along at all if she keeps talking to the newspapers.” Mary Jo stood next to us, hands on her hips.

  “Excuse me?” I said.

  “I guess you have a few contacts at the papers, too.” She held out a copy of a national gossip rag. FLOOR FEUD! shouted the headline. BICKERING BASHES BRITISH BAND. The piece stated that the group’s lead vocalist Patrick Bagley and guitarist Jack Kipling were arguing over the tour’s sponsorship by a deodorant maker, and disagreeing about everything from the songs to hotels to costume changes.

  “What do you mean? I didn’t plant that!” I couldn’t believe what she was implying.

  “Oh really? Take a look at this.” She indicated a quote with her fingernail.

  A source close to the disgruntled guitarist stated, “Jack is sick of catering to Patrick’s whims—in fact, he’s sick of him altogether.” She quoted Kipling as saying, “If Patrick would just focus on the music, he’d give better concert. As it is, his voice is weak and he’s lost his groove. Instead of doing deals with deodorants, he should make sure his singing doesn’t reek.”

  “No one but you and Suzanne knew about all that. The argument about the sponsor, the hotels, and so on.” Mary Jo sized me up with her hazel glare. “That comment about Patrick sounds like it’s straight from the horse’s mouth.”

  “The Bush woman heard them bickering at dinner in St. Louis,” I said defiantly. “Maybe it was her.”

  “Kim doesn’t know Jack. She isn’t capable of stringing together two words that sound like him.” Implying that of course, I did.

  “I would never—” I began as she sidled away.

  “Read it to me.” Jack was squinting at the tiny print.

  I read it out loud. “I have no idea who did this, but it wasn’t me.”

  Jack tossed the paper into a garbage can. “I’ll talk to her.” He went over to where Mary Jo was having a heated discussion with Patrick and spoke to them for a few minutes, gesturing toward me. Surely Patrick doesn’t think I ratted them out! I told myself. But the dirty look he gave me made me feel like I’d grown a long, ropy tail.

  Just then Suzanne and Mark rushed in, out of breath.

  “Strike me pink!” Mark exclaimed, climbing into the chair. “Is it that late already?” As the makeup girl fussed over him, I motioned for Suzanne to step away from the others.

  “Did you see that article Mary Jo’s passing around? I had nothing to do with it!”

  “You didn’t by any chance talk to one of those reporters?” she asked. “They can really twist what you say into something entirely different.”

  “I wouldn’t talk to those people. I’m not that stupid,” I said miserably.

  Suzanne patted my arm. “These things happen. Try not to worry about it.”

  Patrick sauntered over as Mary Jo continued her conversation with Jack. “I didn’t realize you’d take a little game of Scrabble so seriously. I guess you wanted to take me down a notch.” His sneer made fine lines in the heavy stage makeup.

  “That wasn’t me!” I said, my face turning hot. “I’d never blab about Jack to anyone.”

  Patrick gave me a knowing look. “It’s all right, sweetheart. Those pa
pers aren’t fit to line a birdcage. I’m sure you didn’t mean any harm.”

  “But I didn’t—” He turned on his heel and stalked off before I could finish. Suzanne placed her hand under my open jaw and gently closed it. “It’ll blow over. Come on, let’s grab our seats.” Mary Jo still had Jack cornered when we left.

  We got there just in time before the men came on. They launched into their first number to the same roaring acclaim as the night before, and then ran through a fantastic mix of past and present hits. Hearing so many great songs, one after the other, made you realize just how incredible the band was; most groups were lucky to have two or three at most.

  Midway through, a roadie dragged out a stool and Jack tuned his acoustic guitar as people wistfully called out the names of their favorite songs. Jack began the haunting intro to one of their biggest ballads from a few years ago; a torchy melody that was unlike anything they had ever done. I loved the occasional squeak of his fingers on the Gibson’s strings as he joined Patrick in crooning the lyrics. Even though I’d heard it a million times, the words still got to me:

  I feel the echo of you in my mind, long after you left me for the last time…

  They ran through the set list in an order similar to the previous show, with a few numbers reversed. It all sounded great, but I was distracted by the fact that I was now the black sheep of their in-crowd. Jack had once told me that Patrick didn’t like him to be with any one woman, feeling that it took away from the band. I wondered if Patrick had had someone plant the article—I wouldn’t put it past him. He’d always seemed to look down his nose at me; I guess because I wasn’t a model, an heiress to a brewery, or one of his fancy hangers-on. But then I realized that the piece made Patrick look bad, too—and his whole deal was looking all good, all the time. I didn’t believe he’d instigate negative press that could reflect badly on him.

  I tried to snuff out my worries along with the hundreds of flickering lighters at the final encore. Sheepishly I followed Suzanne backstage, wishing I could just disappear into our hotel room without having to face the others. Luckily a big group of people talked their way past security and rushed in, so it was impossible for Mary Jo or Patrick to focus on me.