One Long Kiss

by Susan Ward

  My organs tighten. “How do you know all that?”

  “I investigate everyone before I hire them,” he says matter-of-factly. “Just like I let you read my confidential file to find if I could trust you.”

  Let me read? My head spins. “I want out of this car. I want out of this car now.”

  “You can get out of the car if you want, but it won’t change anything. You’ll still be working for me tomorrow, just like you were working for me yesterday. You can’t afford to quit and I have no intention of firing you. Why not spend the break with me as I’ve asked? You don’t have to worry. I’m not interested in a sexual relationship with you.”

  OK, he’s mocking me, and I feel my anger surge. “You’re absolutely crazy. I wouldn’t fuck you no matter what. I’m not even happy to be sitting next to you.”

  Those black eyes swivel. I shiver. “Perfect. Then we understand each other. Consider this a working holiday. Nothing more.”

  “I’ll try really hard to restrain myself,” I hiss hotly.

  Alan laughs and I slouch back into my seat.

  “So where precisely are you taking me for our let’s get to know each other extravaganza?”

  Alan smiles. “That’s what I like about you. Bitchy. Blunt. Direct. I have a country house near London. I think you’ll like it. If not, it’s a short hop into the city. Taxi fare manageable even on your budget.”

  I glare at him. “Can we rewind? I want you to explain how you think it is I work for you? Sandy hired me.”

  He leans forward and grabs a bottle of scotch. He holds it up to me, and I shake my head and watch as he neatly fixes himself a drink. He takes a slow sip, staring at me, and it looks like he’s debating what he should say to me.

  “I own a majority stake in Harris Productions,” he murmurs, inflectionless. “It was my idea to hire someone like you. Someone to have my back out on the road and keep things balanced with the band. A buffer, so to speak, between me and everyone. One person always with me that I can completely trust.”

  My temper flares. “So all that crap about a handler was bullshit?”

  “More or less. But I do need someone to talk to me straight and to protect my interests. No one ever talks to me straight, tells me the truth. They are all too busy wanting something from me to ever be honest.”

  I roll my eyes. “Fuck, you’ve got a lot to learn, kid. I’m poor. I’m the last person you should trust not to want something from you and to tell you the truth.”

  He looks amused, but he ignores my comment. “I’m in the process of acquiring a majority stake in the label. I don’t have control yet, but I own enough that they are worried about me. The one thing I learned from the film industry was to own yourself. I am in the process of doing that.”

  Well, that’s a lot of mysteries solved in one sitting. Why everyone tolerates him. They’re not greedy. They’re afraid of him, and a marginal parameter of my brain warns that I should be to.

  I recall the tidbit in his file about his trust fund, how his mother is battling not to release it to him. This makes no sense.

  “You have that much money?” I ask. “Enough to buy the label? Sandy Harris’s company? Anything you want?”

  He nods. “My father passed last year. I inherited a sizeable estate from him.”

  Strange that that wasn’t in the report. There was no mention of a father.

  I frown. “So why are you recording and touring with those jerkoffs? Why do this? Why not just live and play with all your money?”

  “Why else? It’s what I want to do,” he responds, not bothering to hide he’s amused by me. “I just prefer to do it my way.”

  “By buying your way to success?”

  He shakes his head at me. “You can’t buy success in this. You’ve got to earn it. The fans won’t buy the music if they aren’t into the music, and you won’t go anywhere. Supply and demand. Perhaps the only sincere relationship that exists anymore. They won’t buy a ticket or an album unless they like you. People don’t part with cash easily.”

  I study him. Why is it that each new thing I learn about him makes him more bizarre?

  “Can you answer me another question?” I ask.

  The smile that surfaces on his face makes my breath catch. “Sure. Ask me anything, Linda.”

  “Why do you have a putz like Arnie Arnowitz managing you?”

  His laughter flows richer, more full now, and for some reason it makes a smile threaten.

  “Arnie isn’t our manager. He’s my accountant. A very good one at this. Brilliant investor. I keep my accountant close because he takes care of the money. I keep the manager as far away as I can. I prefer the accountant.”

  When he talks like this he doesn’t sound like any nineteen-year-old guy I’ve ever known. Snippets from the file tick off in my head. Genius. Child musical prodigy. Child star. Oh, and Lillian the not mother of the year. A recipe for a fucked-up young man in every way.

  The crashing and burning with his family. The heroin addiction. Suddenly the pieces make sense and I can see how he got to be the weird guy sitting here with me. Regrettably, this understanding makes me feel a smidge of pity for the kid.

  I missed this when I read his file. The answer to Alan Manzone. He trusts no one—and I amend in my head—he has every reason not to.

  Five

  An hour later the car pulls into a long driveway and rolls to a stop.

  I stare out the window. Jeez, not what I expected. I assumed Alan’s house would be something modern, something dramatic. But this is quaint. An enormous brick cottage covered in vines, surrounded by a lush velvety lawn with trees and flower beds. It looks like something from a Jane Austen novel.

  I climb out of the car. Next to the front walkway is a small iron sign: Winderly House.

  I arrange my features into something purposely amused and mildly mocking. “This is where you live? You named your house?”

  Alan laughs. “No, this is where I go to get away from everything. When I don’t want to be bothered by anyone. It was my grandfather’s house. It was the first thing my mother sold after my grandfather died, and it was the first thing I bought after my father’s death.”

  The way he says that causes my heart to clench. I add another insight of him to today’s list. Underneath it all, his beauty and his many gifts, Alan is a very sad young man.

  He turns to the driver. “Can you please bring in our bags, and put Miss Cray’s in the guest room next to mine?”

  He gives me a friendly, sort of nothing smile, but its affect is the opposite. Why does he want me in the bedroom next to his?

  “Come.” He has my hand again, and starts leading me toward the house.

  I go through the front door and my eyes widen. The entry is a giant open space, by the looks of it double the size of Doris’s condo. Pristine white marble floors, a stunning expanse full of art and dark wood, and what looks to be early nineteenth century antique furnishings. On the walls there are paintings everywhere. Jesus Christ, this is the kind of shit I’ve only ever seen in a museum…Monet, Rembrandt, Rubens. It goes on and on.

  Fuck. It’s one thing to know people have money, it’s another thing when you see it. And you definitely don’t see anything like this in California. Well, not in my neighborhood. Christ, I doubt it even exists in Jack’s neighborhood.

  I shift my eyes from a Rubens and look at him. My anxiousness over being here intensifies. It feels like I’ve just been transported into a chapter of Mansfield Park.

  “Would you like to go your room and freshen up?” Alan asks.

  I shake my head, not trusting my words or my voice. This is too weird—the house, him—to compose myself quickly. He’s behaving almost like a gentleman, out of nowhere, pretty posh manners and no vulgarity.

  He gracefully gestures me forward into a room across the foyer. I hang back in the doorway as Alan sinks down on a sofa. This room is more modern, less formal, but no less opulently decorated or intimating.

  “I take it yo
u don’t bring the band here to chill out,” I tease.

  Alan looks amused. He lights a cigarette. “Why would you say that?”

  I make a face. “I can tell the guys have never been here. Heck, if they had, one of them would have stolen the paintings.”

  Alan laughs. “You don’t read people very well do you, Linda? I’d trust them with anything I have.”

  I arch a brow. “I read people extremely well. You guys, no. Normal people, yes.” I stare at him. “Is that what you’ve been doing these past two weeks? Giving me crap, trying to shock me, so you can read me?”

  He takes a puff and stares at me through the smoke. Those black eyes darken in a way that makes everything inside me start to twirl.

  “I’ve been trying to read you. It’s difficult.” Another long puff. “You are fascinating. But you are not easy to read.”

  I roll my eyes and drop down on the couch a comfortable distance from him. “I’m pretty basic. What you see is what you get.”

  “You’re anything but basic, Linda. Your affair with Jackson Parker, for instance. That surprised me with your party girl reputation. I wouldn’t have expected him to be your type.”

  “No?”

  “No.”

  “Aha.” I pretend to be amused. “What did you think my type would be? Someone like Kenny?” I crinkle my nose. “Please don’t tell me Len?”

  I expect him to laugh, but he doesn’t. Instead, Alan eases over on the couch until he is very, very close. Too close. His eyes are stunningly bright. “Me.”

  A single word, me, and the earth falls away beneath me. Oh shit.

  “From what I’ve read about you, I’m you’re type,” he adds in an odd conversational way.

  I stare at him, my heart thudding frantically in my chest. What the fuck is going on in that kid’s head?

  “Why am I here?” I ask suspiciously.

  “I want you here.”

  My eyes begin to flash. “That’s not an answer. Well, not a complete answer. What do you think is going to happen with me here?”

  “I already explained in the car. I want to spend time with you. Get to know you. It’s that simple.”

  He brushes my lower lip with a thumb, and the touch of him shoots through my veins like a ruthless intoxicant. Every part of me is instantly on full alert, tuned into him and sharply aware that it’s been a very long time since I’ve been touched by a man.

  Shame and panic shoots through my limbs. How can Alan get my body fired up so effortlessly? I don’t even like him as a person, not really. Crap, maybe it’s because I haven’t had sex in months. A physical response. Nothing more.

  He moves his finger feather-light against the edge of my mouth and I pulse there. I jerk back from him, putting space between us again.

  “I think I should leave. Can you have Colin drive me into the city?” I announce firmly. “I think you’ve gotten the wrong idea about me from whatever it is—and I definitely don’t want to know—that Sandy told you about me. My partying days are a thing of the past. I’m a one man kind of woman. I am in a relationship with Jack. I love him.”

  My words only seem to heighten Alan’s amusement over me. He kisses me lightly on the nose, the gesture silly, deliberately so, I think. But the feel of him against my skin makes it nearly impossible to pull in oxygen. A kiss on my nose, and I tense tighter from head to toe and my heart beat soars even more. What a stupid reaction to such a lame gesture from a thoroughly infuriating guy.

  He stands.

  “Your room is at the top of the stairs, to the left, second door. We’ll have dinner in an hour,” he says.

  He walks away, not waiting for an answer. My limbs start to quake. Instinct warns me to leave now, but my disastrously low bank balance reminds me that I can’t. For better or for worse, Alan Manzone is my employer, and I can’t risk him firing me.

  After a minute or two of just sitting in the room, trying desperately to gather my rampant emotions, I spring from the couch and head for the stairs.

  Top of the stairs. Second room to the left. Christ, there better be a phone in my bedroom. I have a sudden, desperate urge to call Jack. I need to hear his voice in the worst way. Nothing settles me faster than talking to Jack.

  I slam the bedroom door behind me and try to still my frantic pulse. I spot a phone on the night table and my suitcase lying on a bench at the foot of a mahogany bed facing the fireplace.

  I drop down heavily into a chair and reach for the phone.

  Ring. Ring. Ring.

  “Hello?”

  I exhale. Jack. “Hello, stranger.”

  “Linda.”

  The way he says my name, mostly breath, make me tingle.

  “You having a good day, Jack?”

  “It’s always a terrific day when I get to talk to you.” A pause. “Are you OK?” His voice changes. “You just called yesterday. You don’t normally call two days in a row.”

  I tense and curl the cord around my arm. “I have four days off, remember?”

  “Don’t remind me. Fuck, I wish I could fly there now and be with you.”

  “So do I, Jack.”

  Silence. “So what are you going to do with your four days of leisure?”

  I’m trapped with Alan Manzone. “Nothing. Sleep. Read. Do nothing.”

  He laughs and I feel on the verge of tears. I’ve just lied to Jack and I don’t know why.

  “That sounds like a nice plan. I wish I was there to share it with you.”

  “I wish you were, too.” A long pause, and something inside me begins to spin out of control. “I know you can’t fly to me in September, but what do you think of me flying to you? If I were in Santa Barbara we could find some time together, couldn’t we?”

  Tears fill up my eyes.

  “Whoa, Linda. Slow down. Why are you crying? Why are you upset?”

  Oh God. Why the fuck am I crying? The second I heard Jack’s voice something frantic started to race through me.

  “I just miss you,” I whisper.

  “Are you OK?” he presses more insistently. “Did something happen?”

  Oh crap, I’ve worried him, and I don’t want to.

  “Nothing happened.”

  “Then why are you crying, sweetheart?”

  Because Alan Manzone touched me and I felt something and I didn’t want to. I roll my eyes. Jeez, that sounds so pathetic even only in my head.

  “I’m just emotional today.”

  I bite my lower lip hard in an effort to steady myself.

  “Is there anything you need to talk to me about?”

  I tense. Why does it feel like he knows something? Or is that my own guilt?

  “There’s nothing, Jack. I just wanted to hear your voice. I should let you go.”

  I expect to hear the click. Instead, he says, “Tell me about London, sweetheart.”

  I curl around the phone, feeling miserable because I’m not in London, but I talk to Jack as though I am. I’m not exactly sure why I’m doing it. But I feel better, so much better, just talking to him.

  ~~~

  I go into the bathroom to wash the smeared makeup and tear stains off my face. I pat dry, and leave the bathroom. I pull from my suitcase my baggy, slightly faded black USC sweats. Perfect outfit for dinner with Alan Manzone. No makeup and frumpy clothes.

  Maybe in trying to fit into the stylish, trendy scene of Alan’s universe, I’ve been accidently putting out the available vibe, or worse, the looking-for-something vibe. It’s time to make it patently clear I’m not doing either.

  I pause in front of the full-length mirror. I study my short, curvaceous frame and my very not beautiful features. Without my dramatically applied makeup and sexy clothes, I look like what I am. A tough girl from Reseda. Good. Time for round two. Game on.

  When I step into the hallway, the house is quiet, more quiet than I’m comfortable with. Alan said to expect dinner in an hour. I’ve been in my room nearly three. It surprises me that he didn’t come and try to get me out of the
re. I’m relieved he didn’t, I definitely needed time to compose myself, but I don’t take Alan as a sit around and wait kind of guy.

  I make my way to the stairs, struggling to pick up sound, anything that will tell me where he is in this monstrously large dwelling. I can’t hear him. I don’t know how to find him, but loudly calling out for him would be lame and definitely inappropriate here.

  I stare down into the entry hall. Why am I making such a production out of this? Dinner is most probably somewhere on the first floor.

  At the base of the stairs I hear faint music. What the fuck is that? A male tenor. Opera? I follow the sound and step into the kitchen.

  I don’t want to be enthralled by this but I find that I am. The kitchen is bathed in soft candlelight, with only a single fluorescent light above the cooking area, and there are two places set on the large center island, crystal wineglasses and china to boot, and that music, that fucking music, soft and haunting in the room.

  Alan is focusing at the stove. Whatever he’s cooking smells delicious. Jesus Christ, who would have thought the kid cooked?

  Shaking my head, I study him for a moment. He’s casually dressed in a V-neck cashmere sweater, soft faded jeans and loafers, but oh, this look becomes him.

  I struggle to organize my thoughts and find a way to launch into this.

  “What am I listening to?” I ask.

  Alan looks over his shoulder, black eyes twinkling, and smiles. “I take it you’re not a fan of opera. It is Turandot. Puccini.”

  I make a face at the way he says Puccini, like I should know it. I sit on one of the tall stools at the island.

  “I’m surprised you’re a fan of opera.” Without asking I reach for the open wine bottle and fill my glass. “What language is he singing in?”

  “Italian.”

  “Do you understand it?”

  “I should. My father was Italian.”

  I stare at him, surprised. A news flash I didn’t know. But it makes sense. He’s dark haired with olive skin, Mediterranean looking, not British looking at all.

  I take a sip of my wine. “What did your father do?”

  “He was a tenor. You’re listening to him.”