Beg (Songs of Submission #1)(20)

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The houses north of Los Feliz Boulevard aren’t dream houses. A dream house in Los Angeles has four walls and a roof and maybe heat, but no one can afford it. The houses up in Griffith Park are scenery. They’re owned by other people, the people who live on the other side. Not nouveau riche rock stars and actors. Old money. Generations worth of trust funds. Three thousand square feet was a palace behind ten-foot hedges. I drove up the winding pass. Never having looked at the addresses before, I was at a loss to find them. It was as if you were supposed to just know where you were going because you belonged there.

I finally found the address under a gigantic fig tree with a brass plaque next to it, announcing the tree’s status as a protected landmark. The gate opened for me, and I went up the drive and parked next to the Jag.

I sat in the car and looked at the house, convincing myself I still had a choice between going in or going home. The house was a craftsman, all warm lighting and dark woods. The porch was as big as my living room, leading to a wide, thick door. It was closed.

I took a deep breath.

Bottom line: He was hot, he was charming, and he didn’t want anything out of me but the same thing I wanted. Unless he wanted me to clean his bathroom. I took hours to clean a bathroom, and I wasn’t cleaning his.

I slid my phone out of my purse and called Darren.

“Hi,” I said. “How was the show?”

“Fantastic. What’s up?”

“I thought you should know…” I swallowed hard. “I sent Gabby home in a cab.”

“You what?”

“She’s tired of being followed around.”

“And where are you?” He was pissed. He sounded like he was in the middle of a street, with people everywhere.

“Griffith Park. I can explain more later.”

“No, explain now why you let a suicidal woman go home alone when her meds obviously aren’t working and she’s showing the same behaviors she did just before you found her bleeding into your kitchen sink.”

“She’s fine.”

“This is completely irresponsible.”

He hung up, which was a huge favor. I didn’t want to tell him why I’d ditched Gabby.

I got out and walked up to the porch. Stained glass windows bordered the door. The light on the other side was soft and inviting. This would be all right. Just fine.

I knocked so softly, he couldn’t have heard me unless he’d been waiting. I needed to see if he’d found something else to occupy him or if he was looking forward to seeing me. That could set the timbre for what I could request in the way of a warm call to WDE on my behalf.

The door opened immediately.

He wore the same button down shirt and jeans he’d worn at Frontage. His feet were bare, and in his right hand, he held a glass containing whiskey on ice.

I stood with my bag in front of me, which didn’t stop him from looking at me as if he wanted to eat me alive. He leaned on the door jamb and swirled his drink. “I thought you weren’t coming. I was starting to think I was losing my touch.”

“This is a nice house.”

“I wanted to mention something about that, before you come in.” He paused, and I waited. Despite the distractions of the past half hour, I was back to wanting to put my tongue all over his body. “All bets are on?” he asked.

“I’m yours to command.”

He took my bag and put it on a side table. “Turn around.”

I put my back to him. My car sat in the drive, next to his, the gate to the street wide open. He clicked the button on a little handheld box, and the gate slid closed.

The ice in his glass clinked, and I felt the touch of his hand at the base of my neck, then a tug as he unzipped my dress. “Jonathan…”

“No one can see.”

The zipper went down past my lower back, and he slowly pulled it open. The sleeves slipped off a little when his hand, cold from the drink, touched between my shoulder blades. He ran his hand up to my neck, then over my right shoulder, pushing the dress off. Then he ran his hand to the left shoulder, until the dress slipped off and pooled around my ankles. I felt a breeze over my body. He slipped his finger under the bra strap. “Take this off.”

I did, dropping it to the porch floor. He stroked under my waistband. He wanted that off too. I knew it, and I complied. I was fully naked except for my shoes, with my back to him.

“Face me.”

I did. I’d never felt so naked in my life as he took his time looking me over.

“Hands behind your back.”

I think if anyone else had gotten to command number four, I would have started laughing, but he wasn’t anyone else.

“You doing okay?” he asked, stepping up to me. He put the glass to my lips and tipped it. Warmth filled my chest. It was good whiskey. The single malt I’d suspected.

“It’s warm tonight,” I said.

He put his face up to mine and whispered, “Infield fly rule. What is it?”

He kissed my neck as I answered. “When there’s a force play at third, any fly hit inside the baselines, whether it’s caught or not, means the batter’s automatically out.”

“Why?” He bit the corner of my neck and shoulder, and I gasped.

“To prevent an intentional error that would manufacture a double play.”