Wild Licks Read online

  Ford set his bass into the stand and went to inspect what I strongly suspected was a peace offering from Samson. In a band, there are always undercurrents of who is getting along with whom at any given time.

  Ford took a slice and tore into it with gusto, apparently approving of this pizza. I resigned myself to a lunch break and set down my instrument as well.

  Axel joined us with a chuckle but did not comment beyond that.

  “What do you think, Mal?” Samson said as we began demolishing the second pizza. “Can we work on that song from last night some more?”

  “We could,” I allowed, catching Ford’s eye before he looked away. It was a song the two of them had written together. Axel and I wrote most of the band’s songs but we were open to some compositions by the others if they were good. It was going to be up to the record company to choose what went on the album ultimately, no matter how much I liked it. I tried to be sure they knew I approved of it so if it got cut later they wouldn’t think it was because of me. “I like that riff.”

  They shared fleeting smiles with each other and it appeared whatever rift had been brewing between them was healed.

  When we were done working on that song, though, I wanted to work on one about sex. I’m sure that comes as a complete surprise.

  * * *

  We worked for several hours, running through our inventory of half-finished songs and favorite riffs, and Axel listed them on the whiteboard propped against the wall. Those without titles were represented by descriptive phrases that would hopefully spur us to remember which we meant: “So Many Drums” and “Chugga Chugga Wah” and others like that.

  We took a break after sunset and I stepped out to see if some fresh air could be had—the term fresh air being relative to the smog level in LA. I drove to the nearest convenience store as much for the break as to actually look for some decent beverages.

  Our rehearsal space was in a small strip mall, in what had once been a semi-private fitness training gym. As I pulled back into the parking lot, I was displeased to see a couple of women standing in front of the shuttered tanning salon next door. They approached the car as I got out.

  “Hi, Mal,” the blond one in the front said.

  Aurora again. This time I didn’t use her name. “You can’t be here.”

  “Um, we were just wondering if—”

  “No. We’re working. All of you. How did you find out where we were?”

  “Well, Krista thought she saw your car the other day at the Circle K down the street and—”

  I shook my head. I knew getting the cherry-red 4C had been a mistake; the Alfa Romeo was too easy to spot. They’d probably seen us drive away from the site of the photo shoot today and knew the makes of our cars and our license plates. “This is utterly inappropriate and you should all be ashamed of yourselves,” I said. “Do you not see enough of us at public events? Is it necessary to invade our privacy and interrupt our work? Go.” I pointed to the road. “And do not come back or we will close this location and go elsewhere.”

  “Okay, okay! We’re going. I’m sorry, please don’t ban us—”

  “Go!”

  They fled. They ran to a gray hatchback and drove away.

  Chino was digging through the now-cold pizza as I came in the door. “What, did they not have the bottled tea you like, or did something else ruin your ever-sunny disposition?”

  “Fans,” I barked, and set the assortment of drinks I’d bought onto the table next to the stack of pizza boxes.

  “What, out here?” We were in a nowhere part of town, not a place we’d expected to be found. Chino looked toward the front windows but they were completely tinted in and had blinds to boot. Back when this had been a small gym, the people working out hadn’t wanted to be ogled by those driving by.

  “Yes.” I took a cold piece of pizza for myself and tore into it with abandon. Apparently running the fans off had worked up my appetite. “I told them don’t come back or there’d be hell to pay.”

  The others gave me shrugs of agreement. Even if my stalkery ex wasn’t out there, none of us wanted to deal with a horde of girls at the door every day. Most of our fans were wonderful people, and we quite enjoyed them, but some bad apples could do annoying things like steal pieces of our cars (not kidding), and even the presence of our best fans could be a kind of a pressure on the mind. The last thing I needed while working on new material was an audience standing right outside. Plus, if we let them gather, it would only be a matter of time before someone made bootleg recordings from a mic on the window. And the equipment—some boyfriend or desperate family member could decide our instruments and gear comprised a pot of gold waiting to be swiped. The alarm system on the building was a joke.

  But then I mentally began kicking myself. If I wanted to find Excrucia again, I needed to be friendlier to those girls. They were probably my best chance of finding her again.

  You’re cracking up, Mal, I thought. Pressures of fame are getting to you. This is a warning that you should forget her and stick to your rules.

  I’ve always been good at playing devil’s advocate, though. Just once. I’ll see her just once more. I rationalized that if we’d had more time, I would’ve gone farther with her, done more, that one time. So if I see her again, that’s all it’ll be. It won’t go any farther than that. I wondered if perhaps she might show up at the Basic Records Beach Bash and—

  No, don’t be stupid. Put her—and Gwen Hamilton while you’re at it—right out of your mind before someone gets hurt. Find some new biddable young body to torture.

  I channeled that hidden inner angst into my songwriting. It had to be good for something.

  * * *

  GWEN

  We arrived a little early to the Monteleone fund-raiser without our dates because Ricki wanted me to meet another guest: a talent agent named Simon Gabriel, who was there shepherding one of his clients, Jolene Hingham. I had met Jolene before, at the post-Grammy party at our house, but hadn’t met her agent.

  I got the message. I needed an agent and the way to interest a good one wasn’t e-mailing my résumé cold. It also wasn’t good form to just plow right into pitching myself as the next big thing, so I refrained from talking business, sticking to safe topics like recent film releases and the Dodgers.

  Then Mal and Axel arrived and we had official photos taken at the backdrop in the lobby. Mal had his hair back in a long braid threaded with silver, highlighting the silver ring through his ear and emerald held captive on it. His shirt and tie were dark satin-silver and his tux jacket and pants were matte black.

  I was never going to look that suave or sophisticated. I felt lucky I didn’t fall off my Jimmy Choo heels. Although maybe that would have been nice as we posed together, if I fell against him…? Lucky for me the photographer was the one who suggested I put my hand on Mal’s chest and that he put an arm around my back. Even with the heels, I was shorter than he was, and his pecs felt comfortingly solid. His hand found the crook of my waist and the sunny smile I put on for the photo was entirely genuine. His hand on me felt right.

  I reminded myself not to overdo it, though. Slow and steady was going to be better than antagonizing him and losing the chance to see him again.

  Once we were seated, I met the last two people at our table for eight, a CTC shareholder named Dr. Lionel Torres and his wife, Tyra. Mal was seated at my left, Dr. Torres at my right. He was brazenly gray haired and handsome, and his wife had a gracious smile.

  “A doctor?” I asked as I shook his hand. “I didn’t know we had many doctors as majority stockholders.”

  “I’m sure you don’t,” he said with a smile. “Except maybe the big money plastic surgeons.”

  I took that to mean he wasn’t in plastic surgery. “So what type of doctor are you?”

  “Originally I was an endocrinologist, which led me into fertility for quite a while, and I ended up in the business of what is politely known as ‘men’s lifestyle’ medicine.”

  “You’re
a dick doctor?” Axel said from Ricki’s other side, causing laughter around the table.

  Dr. Torres grinned. “No, that’s a urologist, but I do specialize in fixing erectile dysfunction. In fact, I was doing it before it was cool,” he said, polishing his nails on his lapel.

  “You mean before Viagra?”

  “Yes, and let me tell you, the existence of the little blue pill hasn’t put me out of business yet.”

  “That’s fascinating.” I ended up asking him a ton of questions about what he did and whether he could write prescriptions for porn and a bunch of stuff like that. (“One needs a subscription for porn, not a prescription, dear.”)

  We were done with salad and they were serving the main course when I realized suddenly that I had been completely ignoring Mal. The waiter put a plate down in front of each of us and I turned to him guiltily. “Um, hi.”

  I didn’t know him well enough yet to be sure if the tightness across his mouth was him being disapprovingly unhappy or him hiding a smile of amusement. “Nice to make your acquaintance,” he said dryly, and I still couldn’t tell if that was a rebuke or a joke. He picked up his steak knife. “Hmm. What are the chances this is edible?”

  I looked down at my plate. They had given us prime rib. Mine was swimming in blood and looked like it might have been still mooing when it was sliced. His was the opposite, with a rich, dark crust on the outside and gorgeously marbled with fat. “Do you by any chance happen to prefer it rare?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do,” he said, brightening right up.

  “Because I like mine more done.” I gave him a hopeful smile. “Want to swap?”

  “You are a goddess among women and feel free to remind me I said that,” he said as he deftly switched our plates.

  “I’ll get it tattooed on,” I joked as I picked up my own knife. I could see Axel was smirking, too. I guess it wasn’t the first time Mal had wanted the rare stuff. I was about to ask if there was a story there, but Ricki struck up a conversation with Tyra then and I concentrated on eating my meal as neatly as possible.

  I was wearing red again, a different dress with a mini, high-cut jacket. I’d wanted to wear black, because I’d known Mal would like that, but I had also already planned what I was going to wear to the Beach Bash and it was black. It’d be a much better disguise if he didn’t associate that color with me.

  When Mal finished eating, his hand landed casually on the back of my chair. He appeared to be paying attention to the emcee, who was introducing the banquet speaker, but my heart leaped into my throat. Did he even notice he was doing it? I wanted to lean closer to him, maybe tuck my shoulder under his, but I didn’t dare unless he was intending it to be flirtatious. Or at least look flirtatious…?

  Oh, Gwen, you have it bad. I stayed still, enjoying the fantasy that any moment now that hand would move from my chair to my shoulder, and then he would lean down to whisper something lovely and intimate in my ear. I didn’t care what. Something.

  There wasn’t much of a chance to talk once the speaker got going. When he was done, the auction started, and while that was droning on and on, dessert and coffee were served. Axel and Ricki kept themselves amused by feeding each other spoonfuls of chocolate mousse.

  I glanced at Mal more wistfully than I intended, then looked away quickly, but he had noticed. He misinterpreted what I was longing for, though, and pushed his entire cup of mousse in my direction. “We’re even,” he murmured in my ear.

  “Thanks.” I dared to peck him on the cheek before he could withdraw. Something flashed through his eyes when I did and it didn’t look like anger. I scooped the mousse cup into my hand and picked up my spoon, pretending to ignore him now.

  All eyes were on the podium—except maybe Mal’s—and I took the opportunity to test his resolve, carefully licking every trace of chocolate from the spoon before dipping it for more, and then doing it all again. I sucked the whole spoon into my mouth and hollowed my cheeks. I didn’t dare check whether he was actually watching me but I sensed him shift in his seat. Impatient? Or were those tuxedo pants getting a might tight? I could hope.

  His napkin landed on the table and he barked, “If you’ll excuse me,” before he hurriedly stood. As he stormed away, a waiter shied back out of his path and I wondered if perhaps I had overdone it.

  * * *

  MAL

  I took far too long to return to the banquet hall from the men’s room, but what else could I do? The Need had to be quelled. In boarding school I had perfected the art of wanking silently in the restroom, but it took time.

  Gwen Hamilton had to know what effect her tongue-and-spoon games had on me, didn’t she? Maybe she thought my gift of the mousse had been intended to provoke such a display from her? I’d merely meant to be kind.

  The fantasies her mouth inspired! Sweet angels. I imagined her under the table, hidden from the glitterati and moneyed folk around us, alleviating my boredom with a talented oral exploration of my equipment.

  In my fantasy world she was chained there, her hands behind her back, her mouth available for my use. When I would grow impatient with her teasing ministrations, I would grasp her by the hair and fuck her mouth, bringing myself to the edge before letting go, allowing her to continue her slow, sensuous stimulation of my cock.

  To reward her for her excellence, I would stimulate her in return, pressing a polished shoe between her legs, giving her something to rub herself against, the poor neglected slave girl. I would challenge myself not to come until after she did, but when she did, when she would choke down on a cry of release, then and only then would I paint her lips and cheeks with my seed…

  I came with a series of harsh breaths, into the toilet, my hand shaking as I wrung the come from my cock. Mal Kenneally, I thought, you are not a man—you are a savage beast.

  This was a terrible sign for my self-control, the Need gripping me like that. I thought I had left fantasizing so vividly about sex—or about women in general—behind with other teenage behaviors. And yet here I’d lost myself in a full-blown adolescent porn fantasy. About my best friend’s girlfriend’s sister. This was not what I considered wise.

  Was I encouraging her without realizing it? Before she had picked up that cup of mousse, I had been holding my fantasies in check by sheer force of will. During the photographing, it was all I could do to control myself. She had a gentle but intoxicating scent and each time she was near, I found myself wanting to pull her even closer, to bury my nose in her hair or seek out her pulse points with my tongue.

  I’d tried to tell myself my lust was misplaced. The only reason Gwen was attracted to me was because of that blasted film we’d seen together, and surely she had recovered her senses by now. It was only me who hadn’t.

  But when she had made love to a cup of mousse with her mouth, I had fled before I did something inadvisable like…take that delicate hand of hers and slip it into my trousers under the table. My thoughts were at least less lust-clouded now, but I felt ill equipped to discuss this with her.

  I could hear applause from the ballroom. At the very least to save face, I had best bid her a chaste good night. I hurriedly cleaned up, washed my hands, and made sure I was presentable again before I exited the washroom.

  The crowd was already streaming through the lobby, apparently as eager to escape as I had been, though undoubtedly for a different reason. I ducked into the banquet hall but I could see the table was empty.

  I caught sight of Axel, though, with Ricki on his arm, Gwen and the others behind them. I made my way through the crowd toward them, hoping to at least salvage a polite good-bye and to try to prove to Gwen I had been unaffected by her toying with me.

  I had almost reached them when Gwen’s heel caught on the carpet and she nearly fell, except that Dr. Torres caught her by the arm.

  I felt the oddest thing—a surge of heat. Anger? Jealousy? Possessiveness? All of the above: a strange rage that I had not been the one whose arm was around her.

  A photographer
stepped in front of the group, impeding their way to the exit. He picked the wrong moment to do so. I strode forward with my teeth murderously gritted and he fell back hurriedly, the leech.

  Outside the venue, I helped Gwen into the back of her limousine, Axel doing the same to her sister on the other side of the car. “Thank you for a lovely evening,” I said, unable to come up with anything original to say that wouldn’t betray far too much of what was churning inside me.

  “Likewise,” she said, patting my hand before letting go.

  I would like to think that I played it cool, but unfortunately I suspect that she knew exactly what she had put me through.

  Chapter Five

  Rock Hard

  GWEN

  I knocked on the door frame of the entrance to Ricki’s office. The room had been our grandfather’s office before he died but she’d brightened it up a lot. The bay window overlooking the grounds was now full of potted plants and the walls were a tasteful pale yellow. “Got a minute?”

  She looked up from her computer screen. “Sure, what’s up?”

  “I just figured I’d pop down here to talk to you instead of e-mailing you from across the house,” I said, plopping myself into one of the armchairs facing her desk. “I can’t do the video filming this Saturday, but how about Monday?”

  “Oh, I’m sure that’s fine, too. Let me message them.” She tapped on her keyboard quickly and then looked up at me again. Her phone rang seconds later and she put it onto speakerphone. “Hi, Mandy, what’s up?”

  “Nothing much, I just figured I would call instead of sending ten more e-mails back and forth. Is Gwen there, too?”