Tease (Songs of Submission #2)(7)

“What if it’s worth it?”

“I’m counting on it.”

Jonathan scooped my panties off the floor and held them open while I put my toes through, then he slid them back into place when I stood. He was still kneeling, with his hands up my thighs, when he said, “Pick up your skirt.” I did. He put his hands on my ass and kissed between my legs, through the fabric of my underwear. Nerve endings I didn’t know I had fired like rounds of ammunition.

A million little pieces, for sure.

CHAPTER 3

“What do you drink, Monica?” Jonathan asked, as if realizing for the first time he had no idea. My mother would not have approved of our intimacy so soon, but Mom had never been at the raw wood bar in the lobby of Loft Club, either. She’d never seen the view of Los Angeles facing west, from downtown to the water, never been with a man besides Dad, never served drinks to seventy-five people a night or sung a note outside church. I stopped taking life lessons from my mother right about when I left my first love and started sleeping with Kevin.

“Same as you, actually,” I said. “Single malt if they have it.”

“I presume you’d like some ice to suck on?”

“You presume correctly.”

The bartender, an old guy who looked as though he could mix a bull shot or Harvey Wallbanger without checking the book, scooped ice into two glasses and poured two fingers of MacAllan into each.

The room was huge and not too crowded. Mostly, the members wore creative class outfits, movie executives, talent agents, entertainment lawyers, ad agency people, and they all sat in square-cushioned armchairs around low tables. The waitstaff flitted between them, making as little fuss and being as unassuming and invisible as possible. I checked to see if everyone was out of earshot.

“How long have you been a member here?” I asked.

“My father got me a membership to the Gate Club when I turned eighteen. I moved over here a few years later.”

Iggy Winkin, the sound guy at the studio, had a girlfriend who worked at Club KatManDo. It was probably the same kind of thing, and he said memberships ran about 35 grand a year. Obscene, for sure, but who was I to say? I was trying to get around to a different point entirely, and bringing up money would sidetrack the conversation indefinitely.

“They must know you in here,” I said.

“Pretty much. The old guys. Like Kenny over there.” He indicated the bartender. “He used to work at the Gate. Knew my dad. Told me stories I didn’t want to hear.”

“Like what?”

“You’re full of questions.”

“I’m trying to keep my mind off this feeling between my legs.”

He leaned close. “Describe it.”

I sipped my drink. I didn’t have a single word or even phrase to describe the raw hunger of the physical sensation. I whispered, “Kind of like someone hooked me up to a bicycle pump and put too much air in. I feel overfull. It’s your fault. Now, tell me. Kenny and your dad. Make something up, I don’t care.”

“My dad’s a drunk. A passive, pathetic drunk, and Kenny poured him a few thousand gallons of vodka over three decades. His stool was at the end of the bar, right there.” He pointed at a space occupied by a thirty-something year-old guy in a cream suit and blue tie. “I want to hear more about what’s going on between your legs.”

“It’s eating my brain. Your body just looks like a bunch of surfaces I want to rub against. I can’t think in this state. IQ points are dropping off me. I can only speak in short sentences. Back to Kenny. How many times has he seen you here with a woman who wants to rub herself up against you?”

“Does it matter?”

“No, because it doesn’t. And yes, because I want to know if I should steal a matchbook now or next time.”

He laughed softly, covering his mouth. “I want to kiss you, but there’s a guy here from acquisitions at Carnival Records and I don’t want to embarrass you.”

“Who?” I brushed my hair behind my ears and tried so hard not to look around that I must have looked everywhere at once.

“Eddie, hey,” Jonathan said to a man behind me. He was Jonathan’s age, bulky and handsome with receding black hair he brushed forward in a way that suggested he did it for style, not to cover a balding head.

“Jon, what’s happening? Did you watch the game? We got killed.”

“I can’t watch anymore,” Jonathan answered.

“Falling down on the job, as usual,” Eddie said before he looked at me. “I’m Ed. We played for Penn together.”

“Played what?” I was embarrassed I didn’t know, but not too embarrassed to ask.

Eddie looked at Jonathan, then back at me. “You’re not one of the sisters?”

Jonathan smiled, so I knew Eddie wasn’t implying anything terrible. “This is Monica. No relation,” Jonathan said.

“Ah,” Eddie said, holding out his hand to shake mine. “Sorry then. Nice to meet you. Jonathan pitched. I played the bench.”

“Nice to meet you, Ed.”

“Monica’s a singer,” Jonathan said, “but she finds time to follow the Dodgers.”

“My sympathies to both of you,” Eddie said.

“I’m from Echo Park,” I said. “I don’t know this guy’s excuse.”