Come Dancing (9 page)

“I never got past the madeleines.
Lis-tu en francais?
” he asked.

“No, I read it in English. My French isn’t good enough.”

“
Mais tu comprends ce que je dis
.”

“I can speak it, but reading Proust in
la langue
is beyond me.”

“Ah, I see.” Patrick puffed on his smoke. “Well, enjoy yourself,” he said with a little smile before he moved on.

I decided to look for Jack; I’d had enough of this snarky crowd, particularly his world-famous bandmate who felt the need to be rude to a mere publishing assistant. Easing my way through a scrum of laughing women, I spotted Jack at the far side of the room. I touched his elbow as he was about to be enveloped in another group.

“There you are,” he said. “I was looking for you. I got stuck with those guys flapping their traps about how they’re gonna flog our new album.”

“It was fun watching everyone. What a turnout.”

It sounded like he said “Bunch of assholes,” but I couldn’t be sure with the din. The music switched to a reggae tune, and more people started dancing. I shifted my feet to the lilting rhythm.

“Want to dance?” Jack asked. When I nodded, he led me to a less crowded spot.

At first I was a little restrained, but then the song worked its magic. Jack’s dark gaze stayed on me as he moved, looking consummately cool with his choppily layered hair and sensuously rocking hips. People kept coming up to talk to him, but his eyes tracked me as he carried on his conversations. Two slinky girls in minis came up on either side of him and wrapped their arms around his waist.

“Patrick’s blow just ran out. You’ve got some, don’t you?” the brunette said. She plunged her hand into his front pocket and felt for more than his change.

“I left mine at home,” Jack said, smiling at her.

“Sure you did.” The second one stuck her tongue in his ear and gave it a big lick. “Share it next time, then we’ll all get to play.”

They wandered off to accost a bearded guy in a suit.
Of course Jack gets hit up everywhere he goes; just another reason to be careful
, I told myself. When a dreadlocked brother put his arm around Jack’s shoulders, I shut my eyes and lost myself in the pulsing drums. The song ended and a slow number began. Jack was smiling at me, holding out his arms.

“Shall we?” he said. I threaded my fingers in his, and he clasped my waist as I rested my hand on his shoulder. My heart was hammering as I met his intense gaze; being held this close in his arms made me dizzy.

“Where’d you learn to move like that?” he asked as we swayed to the song. “You don’t dance like a white chick from the sticks.”

“Once in a while us white chicks can get our groove on.”

Jack nodded and drew me closer. I could hardly breathe for the sensation of his hand on my waist, our chests lightly brushing, his body heat warming me. Every single place he was touching me created sparks. I raised my eyes to his, so turned on I was light-headed.

Suddenly the music stopped and people started clapping. Jack turned to see what was happening; I was so disappointed our slow dance had to end. A gargantuan cake was pushed into the room on a wheeled table. As the crowd started singing happy birthday, a woman and man, each wearing only a g-string, burst through the middle and started licking icing off one another’s bodies.

“Time to split,” Jack said, taking my elbow. “This is only going to go downhill from here.”

It felt good to be out in the soft summer night. A queue of stretch limousines was parked all the way down the block, so we walked until we found Rick.

“Mary Jo made a reservation at Odeon,” Jack said, picking up a pair of sunglasses from the seat. “Did you have an okay time? I lost sight of you there for a while.”

I didn’t want him to think he had to babysit me. “It was interesting. I noticed a high toupee-to-heel ratio.”

“What’s that?”

“The balder the guy, the taller the girl. Or the more made-up and manicured.”

Jack laughed. “You’re ruining me for nail polish, you know.”

“What do you mean?”

He took my hand and held it up, indicating my unvarnished nails. “I used to like it. But now when I see it on women, it seems kind of fussy.”

An image of my mother’s many vials of polish came to mind, haphazardly spread around her dressing table, the dried spillage sloppily chipping off the sides. “I never thought it looked good on me.”

“You look nice natural.” Jack kept my hand in his, resting on his thigh. Slowly he traced my palm with his thumb and smiled at me. So many sensations were darting through my body, I felt faint.
Get a grip,
I told myself. I tried to focus on the back of Rick’s head.

Rick pulled up at the restaurant and Jack put on his shades. The maitre d’ motioned us to the front of the line—“Good to see you again, Mr. Kipling”—and ushered us to a burgundy banquette. The room had a cozy deco feel, circular hanging lamps dispensing a warm glow. The staff seemed to have it down to a drill; get him in fast before people recognized him.

“Enjoy your dinner,” the maitre d’ said, handing us menus. Jack didn’t even glance at his. “I always get the filet mignon,” he said to me.

A waiter approached with a bottle of champagne, and Jack tapped his glass against mine. “To getting out of that place in one piece. Somebody said you were talking to Patrick.”

“He came up to me and I wished him happy birthday. Then he informed me that it wasn’t really his birthday.”

“That’s Patrick, always got to be correcting people.”

“I think he was trying to trip me up speaking French.” I took a few deep gulps of champagne, which was even more nose-tickling than the kind at the party.

“He thinks he’s so suave with his languages.” Jack looked miffed.

“Well, he speaks it like a prissy schoolgirl.”

Jack burst out laughing. “I’m gonna tell the guys.”

“Oh no, please don’t tell anyone I said that.” I could just imagine if Patrick got wind of it; he’d dislike me even more than he already seemed to.

“Just Sammy, then; he’d get a kick out of it.”

I toyed with my butter knife. “Why wasn’t Sammy invited tonight?”

“Patrick’s got his knickers in a twist about something.” Jack drained his glass and poured more for us both. “Where did you learn French? Did you spend time over there?”

“I had a great teacher in college, Proffe Deborah. She was so elegant; she had these chic red glasses, and every day she wore a silk dress with high heels.”

“Seems like you were impressed,” Jack commented.

“I was infatuated with her. I wanted to
be
her. She was … everything my mother wasn’t. I was heartbroken when she and her husband moved to Cleveland. Anyway, that’s how I learned French.”

I took a bite of my flounder as Jack refilled our flutes. The champagne was having a relaxing effect; I’d never known it was such a nice fizzy drink.

“Maybe you can teach me some. Languages always came hard to me.” Jack looked at me with lowered lids, his dark eyelashes brushing his cheek. I lost my train of thought for a minute, thinking how nice it would be to trace those lines on either side of his mouth with my finger. Or my tongue.

“In fact, why don’t you pay me a compliment in French? It always sounds so sensual.” He raised his eyebrow suggestively.

“Okay, but I’m not going to translate it.”

“Fine, I just want to hear how it sounds.”

Feeling a little tipsy, I gazed at his eyes that I could so easily melt into. A line from one of my favorite poems by Aragon came to me: Your eyes are so deep that leaning down to drink to them, I saw all mirrored suns repair.

“
Tes yeux sont si profonds qu’en me penchant pour boire. J’ai vu tous les soleils y venir se mirer
.”

A slow smile spread across his face. “
Merci beaucoup
,” he said. “I’ll take that.”

“You liar!” My face was burning. “You said you didn’t speak French!”

“All I said was, languages don’t come easily to me. Hey.” He touched my arm. “Don’t be embarrassed. I didn’t get all of it, just that my eyes look like malted milkballs in a bowlful of milk.”

“You tricked me.” I picked at my napkin.

“That was one of the nicest things anyone’s ever told me. Especially since you didn’t think I’d get it.”

“All right, I guess.” I took a gulp from my flute. “It’s a line from a poem I like. Consider it the champagne talking.”

“I’ll have to give you champagne more often.” Jack sat forward, arm on the table. “I know you wouldn’t have said it if you thought I understood. Julia,” he said, looking me in the eyes, “you have no idea how sick I get of people fawning and flattering; all the parasites wanting a piece of me. A lot of guys’ll use you worse than women, even. You think someone’s your friend, then it turns out they just wanted something off you—introduce them to the head of a record company, promise to act in the script they’re writing, get them in with a model. It barely even bothers me anymore. Most girls would’ve had me take them shopping before we went out tonight. But you don’t want anything, do you?”

Flushing under his gaze, I picked up my glass and watched the bubbles rising to the top. “I like to make my own way. I don’t want to be dependent on anyone.”

“You’re scrappy. Me too; I was always like that. Had to be.”

The waiter came and Jack signed for the bill. “They’ll send it to Mary Jo,” he explained when they took it without a credit card. He left some cash for the server and we rushed past the bar crowd to the car. I tried to decide which of the double back doors I should step into before Jack helped me in.

“Where to?” Rick said.

“Want to sit by the river for a while, get some fresh air?” Jack asked.

“Sure.” I hoped it wasn’t obvious how sozzled I was.

Rick drove over to the West Side Highway and we found a bench in an area that seemed entirely deserted. A salty funk came off the river, not at all unpleasant. The moon was a golden smattering in the water; I could hear waves lipping the pilings. We sat in silence for a minute, looking at the distant lights of Hoboken. Jack turned to face me, elbow on the back of the bench. The breeze lifted his hair off his forehead, eyes glowing dark beneath his expressive brows. “You’ve been in New York, what, a year for school and then a year working?”

I wondered why he was asking. “Yes. I plan on staying put.”

“You seem like … you’re not attached. To anyone,” Jack said, looking directly at me.

“N-no,” I stammered, disconcerted by the intensity of his gaze. “I’m not with anyone right now.”

“Who was Art? I saw his name crossed out in your address book. Looked like you stabbed it a few times with your pen.”

“Oh, he …” I hesitated. “I went out with him last year.”

“Serious boyfriend?”

“For a while. He was a professor in the English department. He was separated from his wife, but then they got back together, and that was that.” I gazed out over the water. The rippling of the waves created a similar floating sensation in my head.
God, why of all nights did I have to get wasted?

“Hmm. Nobody else since?”

“No.”

“Took you a while to get over him?”

“Yes.”

“Over him now?”

My pulse gave a leap. I looked at Jack’s thick, tousled hair and the lines at the side of his mouth, and nodded.

“Good enough. Any questions for me?”

Nicole the necklace-diver came to mind …
Nah, he’s probably been with so many women, he’s lost track of ‘em all
. “No questions.”

“All right then,” Jack said. He leaned toward me and touched my hair. My heart started thumping wildly. Then there was the sound of heels tapping unevenly on the sidewalk. Into the light of the streetlamp lurched a figure over six feet tall. She wore a sequined blue evening gown with a ripped shoulder, pendant earrings, and garish eye shadow. Lipstick was smeared sadly across a smudge of stubble on her chin.

“Well hell-o!” she trilled. “Two young lovers out taking the air.”

“Hello darlin’,” Jack said, removing his arm from the bench.

“I’m Pamela. You know,” she said, swaying on her heels, “you remind me of somebody. That guitar player. Anybody ever tell you, you look like him?”

“I know the one. You think I take after that ugly cat?”

“Actually you’re muuuch better looking,” she slurred. “Well, toodle-oo. I’m meeting someone myself.”

“Have a good one,” Jack said as she sashayed down the walkway. “I guess this spot is pretty public. Want to go?”

I nodded, then had to hold my head perfectly still to subdue the spinning I’d set off. Instead of waking me up, the night air had the opposite effect; I was even more out of it than before. I stumbled on a pothole going to the car, and Jack took my elbow. We were on my block in minutes. Unsteadily I walked to the door.

“Oh, I have your key.” He felt in his pocket and produced it. “Here you go,” he said, holding onto my hand for a second. Between the drink and my attraction, his touch made me weak at the knees.

“Thank you for dinner. And the jewelry loan.” Woozily I reached for the necklace.

“You’re the jumpiest girl I ever saw about wearing somebody’s chain. Keep it for a while; it looks nice on you.”

In my groggy state I didn’t want to risk losing it. I started to pull the chain over my head. It came to a stop, trapped in my hair.

“Hang on.” Jack came closer and began undoing the gnarl at my collarbone, his gaze lowered to the knot. I held still, my breath coming fast under his touch. Jack glanced up and his dark eyes locked on mine. The chain dropped to my chest. Warm hands slipped around my waist, and I closed my eyes as he parted my lips. His tongue aroused me so much, I felt like I was melting inside. He kissed me again, our hips pressed together, molding the length of his body to mine. His lips caressed my neck, tingling my skin. “I could do this all night,” he murmured into my hair.

I was so turned on. I was so dizzy …

God, I was drunk.

“Jack,” I gasped as his lips moved on me. “I think … I drank way too much champagne.”

He pulled away, hands still gripping my waist. “You sure?”