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  “Alice, you can’t say anything. Not even about seeing him. Nothing. Please.” Her eyes were fixed on the bruise on my neck. “Alice, promise me.”

  “Don’t worry hon. But you owe me. Tomorrow, you’re coming out with me and Sean to this private party.”

  I wondered if it was going to mean giving up a chance to see him. God. But I’d have to keep her sweet. I did trust her. But.

  “Ok, ok. I’ll come. But clothes…I need a dress, something party worthy?”

  “Nope, taken care of. You can borrow one of mine. We’ll make sure you look good, you never know who might be there.” She winked at me. “I think you’ll need to purchase a good concealer though. I don’t wear clothes that cover my neck.”

  I blushed. There really wasn’t anything I could say.

  She laughed. “You suck at lying girlfriend. Go have your whore’s bath.”

  I couldn’t help laughing. “Having a full bath. Not just top and tail. And I’m not a whore.”

  “Yeah, whatever. I’m working tonight, I’ll see you later—around 3, right?—if you’re heading out again.”

  “Alice! Come on.” I tried not to sound pleading. I would kill her first then myself if she screwed this up.

  “I promise. It’s cool. Really. I do want details sometime, though. Is it true he’s hung like a fucking moose?”

  “Alice!”

  She went out the door, still laughing.

  I had my bath, which stung when I sunk into it. I’d have to get some cream if this kind of friction was going to be a constant. Now there was a thought. Back to reality. I got out after a while, and went back to my room, towel trailing behind me, then I dressed and put on a bit of makeup. I felt like I wanted to make more of an effort. I wanted to look like I felt, which was horny as hell, and possibly, desirable? Me? Obviously. Look at what happened. And it wasn’t going to be just once, right? I’d have to get used to that idea. And not desired by just anyone, but him. And he was so…amazing. God. Really, my vocabulary had just disintegrated along with my brain. Maybe a walk around and anotherr coffee. Oh yeah, and concealer.

  I checked my phone as I put it in my bag. Nothing from him. That was ok. Wasn’t it? I had to trust in this, give up the control. A primitive desire within me was warring with a modern need to know what the hell was going on.

  It suddenly occurred to me, that this was part of it. Giving in. I hated it. I didn’t like feeling helpless. But then I thought about him, and his smile and his hair, and the way his head fell back when he felt good and what my body wanted. And I made a decision. I was not going to do things in the usual way. I’d learn, I’d listen, I’d accept. I would speak up, and say what it was I wanted.

  But what I wanted most of all was him. And in order to get that, I’d have to play his game. And trust that what he wanted was our mutual pleasure, and not just some crazed power trip. I’d been with enough guys that saw every chance as a chance to be on top, literally and figuratively, but didn’t care how or why. Or what happened afterwards.

  He said he didn’t want to hurt me. That was a start. I looked at my phone again. Nothing. Ok. I could do this.

  Chapter 7

  So, I had walked around. I thought the fresh air and exercise would calm my overheated brain. Had a latte. Watched people start to head home. And in the early nightfall, I felt scared. And lonely. Everyone seemed to be with someone else. Intense pleasure couldn’t be worth the isolation, could it? There was no answer to that incomplete question, and I was sick of arguing with myself. I was starting to see that I’d just gone around in circles. I clutched the bag of new cosmetics I’d made myself buy more tightly. Act as if, said the sign. As if what? I didn’t know anymore, so I headed home. I’d run out of energy.

  Then the waiting game really began. I hadn’t appreciated what a good distraction the streets were, despite appearing to be a teeming mass of happy couples. Tick. Tock. You’re such a girl, I told myself. I would not look at the clock.

  6pm. Another cup of coffee. Still no call, no text. I was trying to have faith.

  7pm. Ate a yogurt. Made some tea. Tried to watch some MTV. Failed. Cleaned the kitchen. Thought about the deadline. The tapes. No. Not right now.

  8pm. More tea. Another bath? Work? I was feeling scared. I couldn’t help it. But I wasn’t going to jump first. He said he would call; I’d have to trust it. But what I wanted, the minute I closed my eyes and let all my thoughts drift back to seeing his mouth, in close up, so close up, his skin, his pores, his smell, his tongue playing complicated games with mine. No. No. No. I felt like punching something. How did people deal with desire? Not just simple want, but the twisting grabbing feeling, so close to anger? God. I jumped up and slapped the cup off the table, feeling it rather than watching it fly across the room and smash into the wall with a pleasing sonic boom. I looked at the mess on the floor and felt nothing, no remorse, no sense of attachment. In fact, what I really wanted to do was go walk barefoot on the pieces, just to feel something else, but I didn’t. I just held my head in my hands. No. I needed to hold it together. I went to the cabinet and took down a shot glass and filled it up with the single malt. Medicinal, I reflected, as the fluid burned its way through me. Good job on the giving up drinking front.

  I cleaned up the mug. Didn’t like that one anyway. I’d have to break something I liked. Maybe that would work.

  10pm. In bath. Surrounded by warmth and nice smells, my body felt somewhat appeased. I would not touch myself though. I couldn’t even think about it. I was on lockdown. The music tearing through the iPod was clearing a hole in my mind. That helped keep my mind off his eyes, those hands, lifting me up like I was nothing. Leverage, sheer will, size and power. I sank under the bubbles. Shit, the headphones. I plucked them out of my ears and went back under. All I could hear was my blood pulsing, steady, and overheated, my heart beating like a machine. I could practically feel it throbbing in my chest. Hot, physical, large. No. I burst up, gasping for air. I watched my chest rise and fall. Watching. That’s all I could do. Participate in this pain. When my breathing returned to normal, I got out, and dried myself off violently, hoping to get blood moving. I tried smoothing the new scented cream I had bought over my skin. That was helping too. I rubbed some over the most sensitive areas between my legs, it felt nice, I could just carry on, and make some of the tension go away. But I stopped. It wasn’t that hard. I didn’t want the dream, I wanted his hand, actual, nail bitten, long fingered, in me. I didn’t want substitutes. My whole life had been about the substitute, the stand in, the fantasy covering up the sub-standard reality. Faith, fuck it, I was going to have faith until I couldn’t anymore. I pushed all the hands crowding my mind out of the way and stomped off to my room.

  12am. In bed. Trying to sleep. Making sure phone was on. Oh foolish, foolish girl. You should have stripped off his clothes when you had the chance, got to see that expanse of creamy flesh from stomach to hip and all that hidden strength, touched him, held him. You blew it. Rubbing together like in high school. Oh god it was so good. Help. I punched the pillow and turned over.

  1:15. Was that a beep? Yeah, I was hallucinating now. Next I’d be seeing him, body and flesh, standing next to the bed. No, there it was—the flashing red light. Ok. Breathe. I could do this. I reached over and grabbed the phone. Yes a text. Yes from him. Yes! My body surged. I could climb walls, float above my bed. I was superhuman now. Anything possible. Calm. Read.

  Did you sleep? Caught in rehearsals. Disappointed? I am. Work first, then games. Until Saturday. Beautiful when you come for me.

  Holy fucking… Did he just fire these things off?

  So cool, yet so hot. So fucking hot. Life finally felt magical. And my body relaxed instantly against the sheets. You’d get what you wanted. Needed. I was addicted. Cocky fucker, assuming I’d be free. But he was right.

  • • •

  I woke up the next morning early, with my dreams escaping and leaving only strange incomplete memories. I was calmer. That was something.
Tonight was the party, and Alice had arranged everything and the dress. It’d be fun to go and meet some of Alice’s friends. So you can scope out who she’s most likely to tell, I thought.

  More coffee. And working on the article. That would clear my mind. Then the gym. A normal day. Doing work. I ran a check on my body. Calm. Relaxed. I thought of him. Nothing. Or almost nothing. It was nearly a relief. I’d been so wound up, the thought of him was scaring me a little. I could think now. I would not look at the text again. Not right now.

  It was a cold, clear morning. I could see the triangle of frosty blue sky from the kitchen window in between the buildings. A perfect day to regain some control and get something done. I ground some fresh coffee beans and inhaled the deep, slightly oily smell. Fantastic. I sat down, feeling something close to happy. Not so jittery. I cupped my hands around the mug. I was back in charge. Thank god. I made a piece of toast and nibbled at it. Appetite still hadn’t returned though. Food made my stomach twist. And my mouth seemed oddly discontent with chewing. Weird. I made myself finish the meager breakfast, and I grabbed my refilled mug and headed to my desk.

  I could so do this. No effect. Mind over body. Control.

  I set everything up, headphones on, pen out. I pressed play, ready to work. And then his voice started. I had to listen to check something he had said on the tape. But I was completely surprised by the effect his voice had on me. That urban drawl, just torn between elegantly wasted and cool. Grammatical, even in between the “I don’t know” and “it’s not for me to say.” Unwilling to pin himself down, but eager, almost desperate to talk about the music. What he was trying for. How it didn’t always happen, but you had to keep trying, because that’s what art and maybe life was all about. How learning to listen to your own voice was the biggest lesson of all.

  I wished I didn’t agree with everything he said.

  • • •

  By the early afternoon, I had shaped the piece into something I was reasonably happy with. It was a struggle to tone down the fan girl quality just enough, not too much. I had to share my excitement about the music with people; it was my job, and beyond that, I felt a certain justice needed to be done. He had gotten so much bad press. Why do the mediocre fear what they can’t understand? I had to put in some philosophy in there. And quoted a bit of Jung. I wondered what the magazine would make of that, but hey, they hired me. I was the social commentator, the pop philosopher. They had to take me as I was.

  Did they? I sat back, almost stunned at my thoughts. I had always been more about what I liked to think was the truth. The soul of the artist. Only backing down when I thought it would serve the overall game, negotiating. But very rarely did I ever come right out and say something, and more often than not, my fights were for others, their injustices, not mine.

  I could run from the whole thing all I liked, but there it was, his power and his sensuality forcing open energy centers in the back of my head, creating havoc. Fucker. Away from the pleasure, it felt almost annoying, like coming home to find all the furniture rearranged. Idiotic. I read it again and saved it. Almost done. I needed some food. And Alice. And her stupid party. I changed into my gym clothes and grabbed a bottle of water and my phone. I’d run this one out. No texts. Fucker. Can’t handle this.

  I came back from the gym feeling sweaty and aching. My legs hurt from running. My ears hurt from turning up the music so loud. And I had tried to ease the tension in my shoulders by lifting heavy weights, so now they hurt too. I needed a bath, and maybe a quick nap before this shindig which was bound to be strange. Strange was following me these days, it seemed.

  I opened the door and heard Alice call out instantly. “Hey Lily! Get your ass in here! We’ve got to start getting ready.”

  I stumbled into the kitchen and said hello, grimly.

  “Oh you’ve got it so bad honey doll. You just need to see him again.” Alice punched my arm.

  “Ow. Listen Alice, cool it. You’re going to say the wrong thing and then I’ll get upset.” It just wasn’t funny anymore. It was my fucking deal. She could just shut up.

  “Ok, ok, hon. Sorry.” She looked at me quizzically. “It’s going to be fun tonight, don’t worry. Come see your dress, I’ve laid it out on the bed.” She started walking to my room, and I followed behind her.

  When we got to my room, I couldn’t help but gasp. “Alice! The All Saints dress I love! You mustn’t!” We never discussed the little trust fund that kept her walks on the wild side less dangerous than they might have been and her closet filled with fashionable frocks.

  “Of course I must. Hon, you deserve to have it, and it suits you. Come on, look pretty. For me. You’re getting tense again. I think I liked you well fucked better.” She laughed.

  “Alice!” I actually yelled.

  “Ok, ok, calm down. And I want to do your makeup too. Are you covering up the bite? I actually think it looks sort of hot, but I suppose it’s such a red flag—don’t touch, been claimed. Better cover it.” Alice had returned to her organized self.

  “Oh Alice, this dress is really beautiful. I’m going to have a bath, then we can get ready. I’m sorry I’ve been such a bitch. I really don’t know what’s wrong with me. I can’t get my bearings anymore,” I apologized.

  She just looked at me and smiled. “Not saying anything.” And winked and left me with the dress.

  It was stunning. A tie dyed blue silk, with a slight tulip skirt and a very low cut front. It tied tightly at the waist. Designed to flow over curves, yet look very cool. It was sleeveless to show off a lot of skin. But the leather jacket could cover that if I felt cold or underdressed. And there was a lot of bead work at the front. Pretty. Interesting. Not just all tits out to there. And there were bound to be a lot of girls who were working the naked under the dress style. It was rock and roll, after all.

  Yet when I looked at myself, all I could imagine is what he would think of it. He wouldn’t even see it. But if I wore it, for him, would he slide his talented mouth from my neck downwards, or start at the base of the v and work up? Stockings and suspenders? Or was that going to be too obvious? Garters visible through the silk. In some ways, it was made to be worn with absolutely nothing under it. But I wasn’t 17, and nice lingerie couldn’t hurt. Besides, I didn’t really want to be naked. I didn’t know the people, had no idea what it was going to be like, and although I could tell Alice was up to something, I knew I wouldn’t have eyes for anyone there. I’d dance, I’d drink, I’d laugh. But I wouldn’t be where my mind was. With that thought, I stripped off and grabbed a towel. But I caught sight of my body in the mirror. “Oh imperfect flesh,” I quoted out loud. The physicality of things shocked me sometimes, the flaws, the shame. And then other times the body was all that mattered in the world. When the physical just came together so perfectly, a deep voice, a long neck, beautiful eyes. Oh god. Not again. I smacked myself and headed off to the bath.

  An hour later, I was putting on the stockings, trying desperately not to snag them. Why did all these things seem so complicated to me? Other women just took them in their stride. I always felt like I was trying to follow some convoluted recipe. Fuck. I sat down on the bed. What was I doing? Playing in the big leagues, when I was hardly out of the farm team. Crazy. I wasn’t going to cry. I attached the stockings, smoothing them out. I put on the concealer and the powder. I powdered my cleavage as well. The brush was smooth and soft, and the sensation, prickly and smooth all at once, was distracting. Alice knocked and came in. She whistled when she saw the stockings.

  “Nice one girl. Sexy. He’ll love it.”

  “I’ll remember that for when I see him.” I smirked back at her.

  “Yes you will. Look, don’t put on the dress yet, I want to do your makeup.” And she sat me down and applied powders and mascara, until the reflection looking back at me seemed an idealized version of a pre-Raphaelite opium addict; slightly dissolute, with dark eyes and heavy lids, and a deeply colored mouth. It suited me, I thought. In fact, it looked at bit li
ke I had looked the other morning. When you were happy, a little voice mumbled. Ah shut up.

  “What? Don’t you like it?” Alice seemed startled.

  “No it’s great! Really, I love it. I’ve been having a lot of internal conversations lately, sorry. I think that one got out.”

  “You think about him all the time.”

  I was silent.

  “It’s ok, you know. You’re allowed to like him too, not just want to fuck him senseless.”

  Discreet. “Uh, thanks? Look, of course he’s amazing. Sure I’d like to hang out. Who wouldn’t?” My laugh sounded pretty fucking false. Never mind. Distract, disturb. “So who’s going to be there? What is this anyway?”

  Alice sighed. “I told you. You really didn’t hear a word I said, did you? Alright, it’s a record launch, a mini gig, and some meet and greet. Lots of record people. Free champagne. Hot guys in leather jackets. What not to like?”

  “You mean arrogant tools with small dicks riding on the coattails of some band’s success so they can get laid too.” I’d been to enough of these things to know the business. A lot of the music industry involved situations that were nothing more than pissing contests between guys who were still corporate, but wanted more action, and got it by showing off the hottest girl, the hottest band, the biggest stash, the longest line of coke. Music was a product, a means to an end.

  “Yes, that’s right. Ruin everything with your judgmental pronouncements. Look, put on the dress, wear those shoes, and your leather jacket. Sean is sending the car around for us at 8. Any minute, yeah? And Lily?”

  I looked at her, from down by my ankles trying to adjust the strap on the high heels. “Alice?”

  “Don’t spoil it.”

  “Will try.”

  I put everything in my pockets. Checking messages, as I did every time the phone was within touching distance. No messages. Ok, that was fine. He did say he was busy. Oh shit. No.