Punk and Zen (35 page)

“I won’t stop because you’re fuckin’ mine,” I told
her, my words coming out in harsh breaths. They weren’t the right words, but
they were the only ones I had. I realized then and there that I’d never had the
right ones, never would. How could I say thank you for bringing me back from
the scary place I’d been? How could I tell her that her love for me made me
safe, comfortable, easy in my skin, and capable of being more than I ever
dreamed?

Yes, she was leaving, I was gigging, and there was
that fucking phone call to deal with, and I knew, the way you know when you’ve
just slammed your knee, that in half a second that it is really going to
hurt
,
that everything was going to change—everything always does. But this? This was
ours—our time, our moment, and we belonged to it, to each other. I gave myself
to it, I gave myself to her.

“Mine,” I growled, nipping lightly at her breast with
my teeth. I’d already ripped the button off the shirt. “Mine…” I whispered
again and pressed my lips to her chest, sucking on the skin as her heart beat
madly against my mouth.

She crushed me to her, and I tasted blood as she
swayed against me, her pussy so tight I was afraid I’d hurt her. I looked up,
my chin pressed against her chest as I drank in the sight of her edges—the
artful lines of her neck, her chin, the outline of my lion who cast golden eyes
upon me, eyes full of love and passion, eyes that looked at me and showed me as
beautiful.

“Yours,” she gasped, and let go of me only to grab
gentle hold of my face and kiss me desperately, as if she were dying and this
was her last chance, her only chance, to let someone know she’d existed.
“Yours…” she breathed again when she tore her mouth from mine, and she cradled
my face in her hands, brushing her thumb over my chin, into the hollow below my
lip. God, I was deep, so deep inside her pussy as those tight, slick walls held
me, pulsed around me. Her eyes locked on mine, melting, incandescent, and I
witnessed her transformation as she gave me everything she had, the rhythm of
her heart beating in my hands.

The aftershocks raced through her, and she shuddered
with them as I eased my fingers away, first from her now-too-sensitive clit,
and then from the welcome warmth of her pussy as she hugged me and rested ABC
boneless, wordless, head tucked into my shoulder, cheek pressed against
the beating vein in my neck.

I let the tears stream down my face, overwhelmed as I
was by the intensity of everything, the magnitude of the gift that was my Kitt,
Francesca, Fran, and I eased us from the ledge, sliding down the wall until I
sat on the floor with my back against it, with her on top of me. I wrapped my
arms around her, holding her, rocking her as she cried with me.

When through her tears she kissed me with hunger,
pushing me back, forcing me down against the wall, I answered her need. When
she reached for my pants I helped her open them.

Words were cheap. I used the language I knew best as
we lay down.

∗ ∗ ∗ ∗

London
Calling

If
you don’t know what pain is—I can show you

That’s
the only way you let me know you

Think
it over drink it through then feel it once again

Is
this the only way that you can let me be your friend?…

Take
your mark, but think it over before you shoot me through

This
becomes the way that I will always think of you

“Carry The
Stone”—Life Underwater

∗ ∗ ∗ ∗

Fran left with the promise to call me after the gig
and as soon as she knew when she’d be back. I didn’t press her. Besides, since
she was in California, I assumed her trip had something to do with her past
internship and perhaps she didn’t want to jinx it by discussing it.

Neither one of us brought up that phone call—at all.

In the few days left before the show, the band and I
rehearsed, invited everyone we could think of—including my former roommates—and
generally made ABC the most out of our nerves. In reality, we’d be
fine. The music was good, our rehearsals were tight, and we’d already done a
few “unplugged” gigs, so this was just the same thing, only pre-announced and a
little louder, right? Yeah, I didn’t believe it, either.

Six hours to showtime and we had to be there in two. I
showered, put on the pants, and decided to fuck the shirt—I’d wear a jacket
instead. I spent way too much time, even by my standards, on my hair, and when
I got my guitar and my stuff, it was time to load out into the van when
Jerkster honked. By the time we got to CB’s, we were all taking out our nerves
in different ways, and me, well, I had nothing left in me emotionally but to
focus on this—it was all I had.

So when Trace showed up and started coming on to me, I
let her. It was odd—I think I felt bad for her. She needed something, something
so much that she couldn’t directly ask for it, couldn’t reach out for it
without hurting whoever she was reaching to. Besides, no matter what she said
or did, I knew nothing would happen—I had no feelings for her other than that
strange sadness, and I was way too into Fran to do anything that might damage
what we had.

A moment of heart-throbbing fear grabbed me when we
finally climbed the stage and I faced the audience after plugging in my guitar.

I swallowed, hard, Steph and I shared a look, and I
nodded to her—we were okay, we were going to be okay. Jerkster merely stared
down at his bass, waiting for our cue.

The sound guy announced us over the PA, the drummer
clicked in the time, and just like that, we were off and into it.

It was amazing, the way we worked together, the sound
we created, the trip we brought the audience on with us—and they really were
with us, every step of the way. As the set progressed we wore less and
less—it’s hot under those lights! The encore demanded still more, and we played
the same set again.

By that point I’d lost the jacket and stripped down to
my bra, Stephie had stripped down too, and Jerkster wore nothing but his
kilt—and I mean nothing. I don’t know if anyone picked up his underwear. We all
had the same silky sheen of sweat.

The applause was very sweet when we were finally
allowed to stop, and there was much back-slapping and congratulating as we
disassembled our equipment and tromped off the stage.

When Ronnie the soundman asked as if we wanted another
gig, I said “sure,” then quietly packed my guitar and equipment on the side of
the stage. It made me happy to see Nico when he came rushing over.

After he was done congratulating me and I recovered
from the nausea his enthusiastic bouncing hug had created, I extracted his
promise to watch my stuff when I excused myself to the bar for some water.<
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Trace came up to me out of nowhere, grabbed my head,
and planted a solid smooch on my ABC lips.

“That was great, baby, just great!” she breathed, and
kissed me again. “Thanks, Trace, really. I’m just going to get some water. I’ll
be back by the stage in a minute, okay?” I asked with a tired grin.

She had grabbed my jacket from the stage and brought
it with her. Putting it over my shoulders, she smiled and said, “You don’t want
to catch a chill.” She must have had one of those rare moments of empathy,
because she kissed my cheek again and walked away.

By the time the bartender finally brought me my water,
my head was blank and muzzy, and I had this sense, the uncomfortable anxiety of
expectation, like waiting for the mail. Probably a holdover from the preshow
nerves, I dismissively reflected.

I was annoyed when someone came and sat next to me,
invaded my personal space, and I shifted in my seat to ignore their presence,
to regain some sense of privacy.

I shrugged my shoulders into my jacket. Trace was
right—I was starting to get a little cold.

A beer slid across the bar, and money hit the worn
wood surface. Dee Dee would flip over that, I thought, as I rubbed a finger
over a spot where the varnish had come off.

I caught the shine of silver as I sipped my water, and
as my eyes insisted on focusing there, I realized it wasn’t coins at all, it
was jewelry, and I stared, stared because I recognized the piece, stared
because I knew who it belonged to.

When I reached out to touch it, heat warmed my back.

“I don’t like your girlfriend,” said a voice I
couldn’t believe I was hearing. I closed my hand around that shiny little piece
of silver, sat up straight, and carefully pushed my seat back.

“She’s not my girlfriend,” I answered with a
steadiness I didn’t feel. I put both hands against the edge of the bar to
balance myself as I stood up.

Her hair was long and slightly wavy, darker than I’d
remembered and parted down the center, and she wore a long black coat, but I
would have recognized her and those diamond-bright eyes anywhere, no matter
what she wore.

I folded her to me with an automatic response as
immutable, unstoppable, and unquestionable as gravity. As I held my Samantha in
my arms—and I couldn’t help but think of her as mine—I could feel my heartbeat
strengthen: a long, low, solid thump that rang right through me.

The phone call just scant days before, Candace,
everything, everyone, disappeared in the complete surprise of her presence. “I
can’t believe you’re here,” I whispered into her ear and pulled her even
closer. Samantha squeezed ABC my shoulders, then buried her hands in my
hair as she burrowed her warm cheek into my neck. I even forgot I was supposed
to call her Ann.

“I can’t believe you’re here, either,” she answered,
her voice heavy and thick as it slid against my skin. Her breath caught and a
tremor ran through her. Samantha was crying.

“Oh ye of little faith,” I chided lightly and kissed
the back of her head, “look harder next time.”

Samantha chuckled through her tears and finally raised
her eyes, those beautiful luminous eyes, to mine. I loosened my hold and rubbed
my hands down the solid length of her arms.

“You’re beautiful.” Samantha smiled at me and held my
hands. “You’re right, and you’re beautiful. What am I going to do about that?”

“Well…” I drawled, swinging our joined hands lightly,
“I still have some work,” I indicated the stage with a nod, “to do.”

“Yes, of course,” Samantha dropped my hand and backed
up a step, “don’t let me stop you. But after…” She trailed off, her eyes
staring at me with something I’d never seen in anyone’s before. I can only
describe it as hunger.

“Yes?” I asked, uncertain before that gaze. She was
here, and I was here, and this was just all so very strange. It felt good, but
weird, too, because it felt so unreal. Were we really standing here, together,
on the same planet, never mind the same continent? Maybe I’d passed out from
stage fright and this was all some strange hallucination, and in reality
Jerkster and Stephie were throwing water on me and trying to wake me.

Samantha reached to touch my face, but didn’t. She
dropped her hand like she’d been burned.

“I don’t want to lose you again,” she said softly as
her hands clenched and unclenched at her sides, and I watched as her eyes grew
overbright.

I didn’t think about anything at all as I stepped back
toward her and held out my hand, because if this was a dream, I was going with
it.

“Come home with me,” I told her simply.

Oh, it was agonizingly slow, the tentative reach of
fingers, the wait for the custom fit of her hand in mine, and when it finally
happened I could almost hear the tumblers of some giant lock click exactly into
place.

“Really?”

Acting on impulse, which seemed to be all I’d been
doing for the last few hours, I leaned over and quickly kissed her cheek.

“Truly,” I answered her, and smiled. That smile grew
until it threatened to take my ears with it. “Okay then,” I said, maybe a
little too brightly, “let’s get this show on the road, shall we?” And without
waiting for an answer, I half dragged Samantha behind me toward the table where
everyone sat before the stage.

It might have only been twenty feet away, but it felt
like twenty miles, and I was conscious with each step that the warm pressure in
my hand was Samantha’s fingers in mine, and while part of me was jumping up and
down for joy singing, “Sammy, my Sammy! Yay!” the rest of me wondered what in
the hell I’d just gotten myself into.

I mean, sure, yeah, we’d been great friends in high
school, and I’d had feelings for her forever, but still—a lot of time had
passed since we’d seen each other. And the feelings that I had for the girl I’d
known, from the girl I’d been, well, here we were now, all this time later,
young women, and, despite all that history, complete strangers, especially
after what I’d overheard not too long ago.

Hey, she could be a homicidal maniac, and I’d just
invited her home with me. Okay, not that I really believed that, but still, you
could never tell, right? And whether I wanted to be conscious of it or not, I
had to consider the strange arrangement that was our lives hanging in the
background.