Wild Licks

by Cecilia Tan

  I still had no doubt that after a few such experiences at my hand she would decide she’d had enough and pull away from me. She was too strong and smart a woman to let me have my way for very long. A time would come when I’d fail to rein in the Need, when I’d push too far. Then it would be time to separate…but perhaps not quite yet. My fantasies were straining for release as I dreamed of the possibilities we might explore together. I’d told her I would dictate where to appear and who to be when she did. If I was already her fantasy, what fantasy of mine could she fulfill?

  The possibilities were so enticing to dream on I drove right past my exit.

  Chapter Six

  Smack Your Lips

  MAL

  We took two days off after the Beach Bash and then we went back to rehearsing. I wrote some fragmentary songs while home alone, but I reserved judgment on whether they were excellent or pure dreck. When I am at my most heated emotionally, it is likely to be one or the other, but my ability to judge which was absent entirely.

  Meanwhile, I finally confronted Christina and Marcus via phone while driving to our rehearsal space late that morning. “I’ve been waiting to hear what producer we’ll be working with in the next session, you know,” I told them.

  “Well, given our timeline, we’re a little constrained by who’s available. Christina nixed the idea of Max Martin because you’d have to move to Europe for a month or two to work with him,” Marcus said.

  I grunted in agreement.

  “I do wish you’d consider giving Larkin Johns another chance.”

  I pulled over rather than risk an accident while arguing, because I could barely see from rage. “You have got to be kidding me.” My knuckles whitened as I stress-gripped the steering wheel.

  “Hear me out, would you? I know you didn’t see eye to eye—”

  “I threw him out of the studio and locked the door behind him,” I reminded him.

  “I know, and I want you to know he doesn’t hold that against you. Mal, he understands how passionately you want the final product to be good. I really believe you two have more in common than you think.”

  I couldn’t very well say that the reason I disliked Johns was his tendency to side with the record execs rather than the artists. “I’m not some pop princess who will do as she’s told,” I said instead.

  “No one expects you to be. May I point out that the two songs he produced on your last album are the two that have hit the Top Forty? ‘Kidnap My Heart’ wouldn’t have done half as well without his sound. I truly believe that.”

  “I believe you have a self-fulfilling prophecy. The two songs you gave him to rework are the two you enthusiastically pushed as singles.”

  “I should also point out that right now in the UK, four of the top five singles in airplay were all his. He’s got a really good grasp on the sound that will cross over to European markets. Not that we at Basic actually get anything from your UK deal…” He trailed off and I wondered if he was trying to hide some bitterness about that, especially since he then entreated Christina to change my mind. “Christina, what do you think?”

  “Mal,” she said, “I will fight for whatever you want. But I don’t want to cut off the band’s best chance for big sales over a personality conflict.”

  I was silent.

  Marcus spoke. “You and Larkin are both professionals. I know you could work together if you stay focused on the common goal of a kick-ass album.”

  “The difficulty lies in our divergent priorities,” I said, trying to be polite about it.

  “Well, I’d like to sit down with you and him, and the rest of the band if you want, and discuss those priorities. Unless there’s some other producer you’d like us to try to get?”

  “You know I’d prefer Bart Cubbins,” I said. Other than the tracks Johns had reworked, the rest of the album had been basically mixed by me, Samson, and Cubbins in a collaborative effort.

  “He’s not available,” Marcus said quickly. “I know, I did check. Even though I didn’t like that choice, I did check. If there were an easy alternative, I’d have suggested it, Mal.”

  “Fine. Set up a meeting in a few days.”

  “Great. Will do.”

  “See?” Christina said to Marcus. “I told you he could be reason—”

  I hung up as I sped back into traffic. Maybe the meeting would make it obvious to Marcus how badly we got along.

  Overall, rehearsal went well that day, and we were blissfully undisturbed for two whole days in a row. Almost. Late on the second day, Axel picked up his phone and said, “Now I know why bands go to the south of France or tropical islands to work on stuff.” He stared at his phone, shaking his head.

  I set my guitar down and signaled the others to take a break as well. “What is it this time?”

  “Christina got us on the guest list for Jolene Hingham’s birthday party.” He cracked his neck and sighed. “Biggest see-and-be-seen event this season, she says.”

  “Two questions,” I said. “One, when? Two, who is Jolene Hingham?”

  “Three,” Chino piped up. “All of us or just you two?”

  “All of us,” Axel said, “tonight, and she won best supporting actress last year for playing the schizophrenic best friend in West Texas.”

  “Ah. So not the one with the lips puffed to match her tits,” I said. “The redhead.”

  “Yes, although I don’t think she’s normally a redhead,” Axel said. “So don’t go making a fool of yourself at the party saying happy birthday to the wrong woman.”

  “Will we even have a chance to greet this woman? How big is this party?” I asked, looking over Axel’s shoulder to see if Christina had sent any further information.

  Up popped the official invitation and I heard a few other phones chime in the room: Christina had forwarded it to all of us. The bright yellow graphic was a rose—the yellow rose of Texas?—and the font was some kind of coiled rope design. Not the sexy kind of rope, the fake cowboy font kind. “Please tell me there isn’t a rodeo theme.”

  Axel looked back at me in sympathy. “I would, but I’d be lying. Hoedown all the way, it looks like.”

  I held in a groan.

  “Aw, c’mon, Mal,” Chino said, bumping me with his shoulder. “At least we get a break from tuxedoes.”

  “You can still wear black,” Axel pointed out. “Put on that concha belt you got in New Mexico and all the rest of the silver and turquoise stuff.”

  “I suppose.” It was just as well that we were being yanked out of rehearsal, I thought, given how it was going. I wasn’t pleased with how the band was sounding and my own playing irked me. I picked up my phone to check the details of the location and saw I had a text.

  From Gwen. How fortuitous?

  I was going to stay home and watch Netflix tonight but did you see they got rid of all the BBC shows?

  Just kidding. Tonight’s the birthday party for one of Simon Gabriel’s clients, Jolene Hingham, and I’ve been encouraged to make an appearance. Make it with me?

  I strongly suspected that the female grapevine had carried the suggestion from ear to ear rather than it being a complete coincidence, but I supposed it didn’t matter. I texted her back:

  Apparently I’ve also been invited to the party. I would hate to disappoint Ms. Hingham and I would hate even more to disappoint you. I shall pick you up at 7pm.

  P.S. The BBC is overrated.

  * * *

  GWEN

  “What’s so funny?” Ricki asked, because I was staring at my phone, grinning like a fool.

  He said yes. He actually said yes!

  “Mal agreed to be my date tonight,” I said, setting the phone down on the kitchen counter and trying to act cool about it. “So I guess I’m going to this party.”

  “Well, I know I am.” Ricki bent over to put the milk back into the fridge and then put a hand on her back as she straightened up. “Argh. What’s the point of being the CEO who wears yoga pants if I never get to do any actual yoga?”
>
  “The problem with working at home is you never go to the gym,” I said, resisting the urge to do a little twirl while still looking at Mal’s message. Why was I so elated? It’s not like we were actually dating, right? But any chance to be near him thrilled me down to my toes. I wondered what he was going to wear. For that matter, what was I going to wear?

  “You know,” Ricki said, distracting me from wardrobe thoughts, “we still haven’t formally invited the rest of The Rough to join the Governor’s Club.”

  “Have you talked to Axel about it yet?”

  “Yes. He’s fine with it. He let it slip to Mal already, of course. Those two keep no secrets from each other.”

  “Oh, really,” I said neutrally, thinking it didn’t seem likely Mal actually told Axel as much as the other way around. Axel was a much more open person. “Well, you’re in charge of invites.”

  “All right. But I won’t do it tonight. It’s too public. There won’t be a chance.” She downed the small glass of milk she’d poured for herself. “What are you going to wear?”

  “No idea. It’s supposed to be Western style? I have some nice cowboy boots somewhere. I’ll have to look.”

  “Likewise. You want to go in the limo together?”

  I shook my head. “Mal says he’ll pick me up.”

  She laughed softly. “Like a real date.”

  “Tsk. It’s that we know what kind of shenanigans you and Ax get up to in limousines. Wouldn’t want to ruin your fun.”

  She blushed but didn’t argue. Ha.

  * * *

  Mal was right on time, pulling up in a sleek red sports car. As Jamison opened the passenger door for me, I was pleased to see I’d matched his color scheme—or lack of one, since every stitch of clothing Mal was wearing was black. So was mine. I’d found a black suede skirt in my closet with a vest to match. Over a white blouse and with super-dark cowboy boots it was suggestive of Western without being costumeish.

  He had his hair loose, his shirt unbuttoned all the way down, his chest covered with multiple necklaces and adornments, giving him almost a Native American aesthetic but mostly just pure “rock star.” I slid into the passenger seat and before he could say anything, I leaned over and gave him a peck on the cheek. The scent of his skin was familiar and made my insides purr.

  He glared at me a little but didn’t say anything, merely put the car into gear. The moment Jamison closed my door, he pulled away from the house.

  “You look quite nice,” he said, but it was a generic compliment.

  “Did they teach you to say that sort of thing on society dates?” I asked.

  A short bark of laughter escaped him. “Yes. Was it that obvious?”

  “It’s okay, Mal,” I said for my own benefit as much as his. “We both know this is all for show.” I reminded myself to keep my cool and that he didn’t know I was the painslut who had agreed to let him do whatever wicked thing he wanted to me. A sudden wave of heat passed through me, though, as I wondered, What if I told him? I suddenly didn’t know which idea was more dangerous and thrilling, keeping the secret or shocking him by revealing myself. I took a breath; I’d have to think about it later. On our way to a public gathering wasn’t the time to shake things up. “You don’t have to try to pretend on my behalf.”

  That provoked a softer laugh from him. “You’re much more of a…realist than I expected.”

  “I grew up in show biz,” I said. “You’ve got to learn where to draw the line between fantasy and reality or you’ll go crazy.” Come to think of it, maybe that was one of Dad’s biggest problems. To this day, he still has trouble distinguishing image from substance. I was suddenly glad he was in St. Maarten for a couple of months. I didn’t want Mal to meet him and get a bad impression of my family.

  Okay, now who’s pretending? I thought. Mal wasn’t a suitor for my hand. We were publicity dating, that was all. Even if I did tell him that arm-candy Gwen Hamilton and his exotic fucktoy were one and the same, wouldn’t that make it even less likely this could turn into a “bring him home to Dad” sort of relationship? I suddenly found my head spinning, like I couldn’t get my bearings on my feelings. It seemed very warm in the car, like I was getting drunk purely from breathing his pheromones. I wanted to touch his forearm as he rested his palm on the gearshift.

  “Oh, oh wait!” I said suddenly as I realized he’d taken the wrong fork through the estate. The main gatehouse was to the east and he’d taken the west loop.

  “Did I go the wrong way?”

  “You did, but it’s okay.” Maybe I wasn’t the only one disoriented. “This’ll come back around. We’re not late or anything, are we?”

  “We will be fashionably timed,” he said with a nod.

  “Well, welcome to an impromptu tour of the Hamilton estate,” I said, waving my hand. “Here is a hill. Over there, another hill.”

  He cracked a grin; then as we came around a bend and a building came into view, he asked, “Is that a stable?”

  “Yeah. From the brief time when we had a couple of horses. But no one in the family was equestrian enough to keep it up, so it’s been empty since about the time I went off to college.”

  “A shame, but understandable. Horses require a lot of attention and upkeep. They’re not like a car you can simply leave in the garage until you want to go somewhere.” He craned his neck to look at the barn a bit better as we cruised past. “I had an equestrian phase as well. It stopped when they wanted me to go fox hunting.”

  “You mean with a live fox?”

  “Yes. My father called it a noble tradition. I called it savage. He threatened to take my horse away if I wouldn’t bow to his wishes.”

  His voice was flat and matter-of-fact, but I saw his hands tighten on the steering wheel. “Did he?” I asked softly.

  “He did. Sold my horse.” His eyes were on the road but I had a feeling he was seeing something in his past. His chin tilted up and I saw him swallow.

  “How old were you?”

  “Eleven? Twelve?” His voice turned bitter and I couldn’t blame him. “Old enough to know it was only a matter of time before I was going to leave that wretched family behind.”

  And young enough to have your heart broken by losing your horse, I thought. How cruel. “How old were you when you knew you wanted to start a band?”

  “Oh, I was already dreaming of that by then,” he said. “The ultimate thing my parents would disapprove of. I’m quite chuffed to have succeeded at it.”

  “Chuffed? That means happy, right?”

  He chuckled. “Yes, sorry. I try to speak American but sometimes I fail.”

  That made me laugh. “You never sound American to me.”

  “Oh, but I’ve learned to say things like ‘in the hospital’ and not to say words like motorway or”—he searched for a word—“telephone.”

  “Telephone? That’s perfectly American.”

  He glanced at me. “I’ve never heard an American say telephone. You just say phone.”

  “Oh, hmm. That might be true.” I pointed to the fork ahead. “Try the left one this time.”

  “Assuredly,” he said, and I laughed at how British that sounded.

  “I get the feeling your parents were kind of controlling.”

  That startled a laugh out of him. “You could say that. My father demanded strict obedience of everyone around him, staff, wife, and family alike. I can’t say I took well to it. Being forced to go fox hunting was mild compared to his efforts to get me to date the girls he chose for me.”

  “Chose for you?”

  “Yes. If I thought he was inhumane to the poor fox, you should have seen his attitude toward the young women he hoped to use as bargaining chips with their fathers.”

  “Oh my goodness, you mean like arranged marriage?”

  “I mean exactly that, except perhaps for the ones he wanted me to woo until he secured whatever he needed from their families and then he wanted me to break off the relationship in order to get some other man like
him to dangle his daughter in front of me. Sordid. The entire idea is sordid.”

  Hmm. Perhaps I understood a little better where his aversion to dating heiresses came from, even if it really didn’t apply in my case. Maybe I should hint to him just how different things were in my own family. “I’m at the opposite extreme. My father’s barely taken any interest in my relationships.” I wondered if I should tell him about the dungeon in the basement, too. Now wasn’t the time for that, though. We had a formal process about inviting and initiating people into the secret that was the Governor’s Club. We were on the highway toward the city by then, and I decided maybe we should switch to some safer subjects. “So how is the album recording going?” I asked. “That’s what you guys are up to, right?”

  He shook his head. His hair was loose and I wondered if he’d object to me running my fingers through it—later, when he wasn’t driving. “We haven’t begun recording yet. We’re still rehearsing and writing material. I don’t want to enter the studio with a producer until I’m happy with what we’ve got to show him.”

  “Ah. So you’re something of a perfectionist?”

  “No,” he said, but I had a feeling it was an obligatory denial. “I know when we sit down with the producer, their urge is always to make a lot of changes. My hope is if the songs sound truly outstanding, they’ll leave them alone.”

  “But isn’t the producer kind of like the director on a film? He—or she—isn’t the writer or actors but oversees how the whole thing comes out?”

  Mal shuddered. “Unfortunately, yes. While I appreciate a professional whose job it is to ensure we sound our best, I’m also aware that their priorities and ours may clash.”

  I realized if I kept asking him questions, he’d keep talking and that would give me an excuse to keep looking at him. He had a sharp chin and cheekbones but a sensuous mouth and gorgeous eyes. “How can your priorities clash?”