Playing for Julia (15 page)

Chapter Twenty-One

Austen sorts through the clothes in his closet and the ones from the cleaners he has draped over the overstuffed pink chair. I’m sitting cross-legged on his bed in blue jeans and Ali’s see-through blue tunic top with my lacey white camisole underneath.

“What do you think I should wear?”  He asks.

This feels so familiar and at the same time, a bit strange.  Time after time Ali and I have sat in our bedrooms trying to decide what clothes to wear to look fabulous on a date.  Now I am doing the same thing with Austen and the potential audience is not just one person, but every young woman and man in America.

“Well, I like you naked, but for
Rolling Stone
I think you should wear clothes.  How about those black leather pants and that black fringed jacket you wore to the Fillmore?  Very sexy.”

“You’re a sassy little thing today, aren’t you?”  He grins.  “
So you think I look sexy in that outfit?”

“Of course.
  And in that other black leather jacket, the one you wore on the boat in Seattle.  Also very sexy.”

“
You noticed that, huh?”

“Of course.
  I noticed everything about you that night.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.”

He
looks at me appraisingly for a moment, as if waiting for me to say more.  When I don’t, he asks me:  “Then why didn’t you call?”

“Austen, I c
ould never call a man first.  I just couldn’t.  I’m not that brave.”

He shakes his head, smiling,
and pulls out another jacket from his closet.

“Well,
‘sexy’ was the idea when I bought them.  I’ll take them and this brown suede jacket in case the photographer wants something casual.  Maybe a couple of shirts and then the boots—the red boots and blue ones.  Gotta wear the boots.  Black jeans, too.  That should be enough.”

“Do you ever wear a cowboy hat?”

“No.  Not after Nashville told me goodbye.  But I love Western boots and have since I was a kid.”

“
Your boots are really beautiful.  It’s funny—my mother calls clothes like these ‘costumes’.  She told me she doesn’t understand why real people would walk around the street in ‘costumes’ instead of real clothes.  Ali pointed out to me that all clothes are costumes, even the conservative navy blue dresses her mother and mine wear to church.”

“
Ali’s right.  I learned early on we’re all on stage, whether we know it or not. Life is performance, so you might as well dress for the part you want to play in it.”

“
So you decided on the role of sexy rock ‘n’ roll lyricist?”

“You bet, baby.”

We both laugh.

“
Speaking of those sexy leather pants…I almost forgot—that photo that was taken of us outside the Fillmore—do you remember that?”

“
Yeah.”

“It appeared in a new street fashion magazine called
Rags
.  We only made page 7, though.  Not the cover.”

“That’s too bad.  We all want to be on the cover of
Rags
…or
Rolling Stone
…or
Time
.  Do you still have a copy of that magazine?  I’d like to see it.”

“
Sure.”

* * *

Life at
Voices
with Tim in charge returns to its former normal craziness. Freelancers stop by with manuscripts and new ideas.  Press releases flood into my office in greater numbers since the notice about submitting all events in writing was published.  Even Dale has a smile on his face.  I guess he can make all those mortgage payments now.

Austen picks me up after work on Tuesday.  We’re going to the opening of a new show of sculpture at an art gallery on Nob Hill.
It’s an odd day for an opening and the show is equally odd.  The artist only uses found objects and discarded material, including leftover house paint.

“I could do better than this,” Austen says after looking at a few pieces.

“I think I could, too,” I agree.  I wonder what the reviewers are going to write about this show.  Using unusual materials doesn’t necessarily mean the artist has any aesthetic sense.  Not reviewing this show at all would be the kindest thing.

“Let’s go.  There’s a new Indonesian restaurant out on Clement
Street I want to try.”

Indonesian food, which I’ve never had before
, turns out to be delicious, but I am not sure what creates the unusual flavors until we get to dessert of sautéed bananas: bananas, butter and brown sugar.  I could have eaten two servings.

A
s we head toward Marin after dinner, I tell Austen that I am thinking about trying to write a restaurant review—maybe of this Indonesian restaurant—and see if Tim is willing to publish it.

“You should do that. 
It’s a great idea.”

“I’ve never written about food
before, but I’d like to try.”

“You gotta start somewhere, Julia.  A long time ago I picked up a guitar and couldn’t play a note
.  But I started and kept at it even when people told me it was a stupid thing to do, that I couldn’t play worth beans.  Just don’t give up.  Take it from me, never give up.  You will get what you want in the end.”

* * *

Breakfast in Paris again on a Wednesday morning. We haven’t been to that bakery in a couple of weeks and I love the croissants.  Today I am wearing the pink beret again; Austen likes the look of it.

“Did you remember to bring that magazine?”  He asks as we carry the croissants and café au laits to the stand-up counter.

“Here it is,” I say, digging it out of the pink straw handbag I now use, occasionally, to carry work to and from the office.

“And here we are on page 7.  If you will notice, your name is mentioned—spelled correctly—and mine isn’t.  I’m just ‘the girlfriend’
wearing the clothes.” As I say that, it occurs on me that Mark must not have given them my name…or maybe I am so unimportant that the
Rags
’ editors decided not to include it.  Either way, I am happy about it.

I take a sip of the café au lait
.  So good. The croissant is even better—easily a million calories of buttery deliciousness.

“Not a good photo
of either of us.  Doesn’t do you justice, ‘girlfriend.”

“The guy who took it is a freelance writer
.  I didn’t know he did photography, too.”

“You know him?”

“Yes and I was really upset when I first saw it. It seemed so invasive to me. I know you like having your picture in publications, but I don’t.  I was even angrier when I found out Mark was the one who took it and sold it to
Rags
.”

“
Mark?  Is he the guy I saw you with at City Lights?”

Oh, he still remembers, but sounds more curious
now than ticked off.

“Yes.”

“He really wanted you, Julia.  The way he looked at you at that coffeehouse and then at City Lights…”

“
Maybe at one time.  He followed me up the street from
Rolling Stone
’s offices and told me he thought I was cute.  That was when I first met him. If it hadn’t been for him, though, I might not be working at
Voices
. We’re just friends now.”

“You may think you’re ‘friends’, but I doubt he does.  I bet he has dreams of you every night.”

“No,” I say flatly. “I think he took the picture and sold it because he has bills to pay. He’s a freelancer and we’re just friends. That’s all.”

Smiling,
Austen runs his hand down my cheek and holds my chin.

“Baby, you are so
blind to what goes on around you.  I have seen man after man look at you and I knew they were thinking ‘If only I could get her in my bed for a night’.  You are so beautiful.”

I smile
, feeling a little self-conscious. “Thank you.”

I’m glad he thinks I’m beautiful but I don’t want to argue about
Mark.  After the
Rags
photo I decided he is not really a friend—now he is more of a business acquaintance.  Time to change the topic.

“
Is the
Rolling Stone
photo shoot tomorrow?”

“Y
ep.”

We talk about the photo shoot and upcoming interviews with
other music magazines on our way to the
Voices
office.

* * *

Friday morning and Austen and I have breakfast at a tiny place on Union Street that serves only breakfasts—that’s a new idea.  They close at 2 o’clock every afternoon.  The house specialty is French toast made with thick slices of cinnamon swirl bread and it is the best I have ever eaten.  I will have to mention it to Tim at the weekly editorial meeting this morning; maybe we can review it.  And maybe—just maybe—I can be the one to write the review and another one about the Indonesian restaurant.  Austen’s words about “never giving up” have stuck in my mind.  After all, food is culture, isn’t it?  Maybe even art?  That’s what we are supposed to be covering at
Voices
.  I am sure Tim will like the idea.

“How did the photo shoot go?”

“It sucked.  The photographer put pretty boy Tommy, that ass, out in front and the rest of us were basically wallpaper.”  He shakes his head in disgusted resignation.  “I had more or less expected that.  A big part of the reason we brought Tommy into the band was because girls like the way he looks.  He has an interesting voice, too. Joe told us that’s what we needed—a good-looking blond guy who could sing.  But that’s all he does.  He couldn’t write a song if his life depended on it.”

“
His voice is not as beautiful as yours.  Do you want to know what I used to call you?  After Seattle when I didn’t know your last name?”

He smiles.  “What?”

“I called you Mr. Honey-Voice.  I love your voice and the way you look, too.”

“Thank you
, baby.”

“So then how was the interview?”

“Just as bad.  John and I might as well been
a couple of back-up guitarists—invisible.  Shit, we started the band.  We wrote and arranged every song we’ve ever recorded.  It isn’t Tommy’s band, but you wouldn’t know it from the questions the guy asked. Of course, Tommy was rolling right with it, talking about things he doesn’t know jack-shit about.  He hasn’t even been with us for a year.”

“I’m so sorry
to hear that.  Maybe the writer was looking for a new angle—they do that sometimes. You’ve been in reviewed in
Rolling Stone
before and maybe he wanted a fresh take on the band for this article.”

“
Yeah, maybe.  It’s over now. And I guess any publicity is good publicity.  We still have some more to go, mostly in L.A.  New York comes after that.”

I take another bite of the French toast with
sour cream and maple syrup drizzled on top.  I think there is a hint of something else—maybe nutmeg—in it.  When I write the review I’ll have to ask the chef and maybe, if I’m lucky, he will reveal his secret ingredient.

At the editorial meeting, Tim nixes the idea of reviewing the restaurants.
  It’s not art.  Not culture.

Chapter Twenty-Two

There are patio chairs, two patio loungers and little glass-topped tables on the terrace behind Austen’s room. I don’t remember seeing them before. He opens the sliding doors and it makes the bedroom and sun-filled terrace feel like one space. Yellow daisies spill over the rock retaining wall. Today it is warm.

“We found the patio furniture in the garage.  I should have put it out here before,” he says as he puts a tape into the tape deck
in the bedroom.  “I want you to listen to this song from our new album.  It’s on the
A
side.”

The song begins and I recognize Austen’s voice.  He is singing lead at first and then the mix brings up Tommy’s voice
as back-up in close harmony.  The song is about a lady who disappears into the mist, how he thinks he will never see her again, and how much he wants her to be with him.  It is about him and me.

“Austen, I love it.”  I
hug him, kiss him on his cheek and he holds me tight in his arms.

“I wrote it after we came back from Seattle.  I thought I’d never see you again, Julia.  I thought you were gone forever.”

“It didn’t turn out that way.”

“No, baby, it didn’t, but you sure didn’t make it easy for me.
  And it sure didn’t feel good to think that maybe you were going to be with someone else—not me.  I thought I had lost you.”

Oh, he knows how it feels when someone you want to be with vanishes from your life.

“But things worked out.  We found each other again and I love the song. It’s really beautiful.”

“
It’s for you, baby.”  He kisses me on the forehead.  “Do you want to hear the rest?”

“Of course
I do.”

He punches a c
ouple of buttons and the other songs on the album come out of the speakers, one by one.  The song about the lady in the mist is the only one where he sings the lead. Tommy sings lead on all the rest of them and they all sound great to me, even better than the last album.  They have a stronger, more insistent beat.

Then he begins what he calls my musical education—starting with
the Delta Blues and Robert Johnson, the guitar player who supposedly sold his soul to the devil at the crossroads for success back in the 1930s. Unfortunately, he died very young and obscure.  He is more famous now than when he was alive because a couple of those English Invasion bands have recorded his songs, Austen tells me.

Then he adds:  “You’ve heard ‘Love in Vain’ by the Stones?  Robert Johnson wrote that
—music and lyrics—back in ‘37.”

John and Emma join us
and we listen to music, talk, and drink more of Sal’s wine. The guys get out their guitars and begin to play.  Some are old Delta blues, some songs from their previous albums, even some songs written by musicians in other bands.

“I have to tip my hat to Stills for breaking the three minute barrier with
‘Judy Blue Eyes’.”

“What’
s the three minute barrier?” I ask.

“Most songs played on the radio are two to three minutes long.
‘Judy Blue Eyes’ is over six minutes.  I’ve heard that DJs like it because it gives them a chance to take a break, go to the john and get back before they have to go back on air.”  Austen chuckles.  “It’s a good song, too.”

As the afternoon stretches into the evening I realize that I had never known where R&B and rock ‘n’ roll came from.  Now I
know more, but not even remotely as much as Austen and John do.

Dinner is delivery pizza and
more wine.

W
e are nestled together like two warm spoons.  Austen’s arms tighten around me and pull me even closer to his body.  I can feel his erection against my fanny.

“Sleep well?”

“Yes.”

I nod my head.  “And I
need to take a shower.  I am very sticky.”

“Okay.  You take a shower.”  He is grinning.  What does he have in mind?  Some new shower sex?  Something else?  “You like strawberries and cream, don’t you?”

“Yes,” I reply.  Oh, instead of sex, he is hungry and wants to eat.  Okay, food it is. Strawberries and cream for breakfast—very sweet—like Carmel.

“Take a fast shower.  I’ll be back.”
  He walks out of the bedroom stark naked.  I wonder what would happen if he ran into Emma or John in the kitchen, but I don’t hear anything from out there.

I shower quickly, and wrap a big white bath towel around myself and use another to dry my hair.  Thank heavens I have a good haircut.  My hair, still damp but combed, falls into place. 
I brush my teeth in a flash.

He returns from the kitchen with a bowl of big, red ripe strawberries, an aerosol can
of whipped cream and the same big grin on his face.  He is up to something and I’m not sure what.

The strawberries and can of whipped cream go on the night table next to the bed,
then he strips all the linens from the bed except the bottom sheet.  He puts his arms around me and pulls me down on the bed, tossing the towel aside.  We are lying side by side.  He starts kissing my face and I can feel his hands on my breasts, his fingers squeezing my already hard nipples.  Oh, this is better than strawberries for breakfast.

“Baby, I want to do something special with you
,” he whispers.

“Do what?”  Why is he saying this?  I tingle with a trace of apprehension.

“Just turn over, lie on your back, Julia.  I’ll show you.”

He sits up and reaches into a drawer in the nightstand and pulls ou
t a long strip of pink fabric.

“Austen, what is—“

“Babygirl, you’re going to love it.”

“Love what, Austen?”

“I want to tie your wrists to the bed—“

“Tie me to the bed?”  This is getting a little scary.  I turn my head away from him.

“Oh no, Julia.  I know that look.  Don’t turn away from me.  Look at me.  Have we ever done anything you haven’t loved?”

“No.”  I
answer softly, looking into his eyes.

“You’ve loved all of it—right?”

“Yes.”  His eyes still hold me.

“You’ll love this, too.  Put your hands above your head.  Trust me, Julia.”

It’s still scary, but I place my hands over my head and he loosely ties one wrist with one end of the pink fabric.  Then he threads the fabric through the ornate brass headboard and ties the other end to my other wrist.  Then he kisses me on the mouth, intensely.  I can feel that he is very aroused.

“You look
good in pink.”  He grins wickedly.

He pulls on my ankles and the knots in the fabric tighten around my wrists and I am stretched out fully.  I feel very vulnerable.

He squirts some whipped cream on the strawberries, then, smiling, feeds one to me.  It’s juicy and sweet and cold from the refrigerator.

“Good?”

I nod, smiling.

Then he pops one into his own mouth and licks the cream off his lips.

“And another one for you…”  He puts a strawberry in my mouth.  Some juice trickles from the corner of my mouth and he licks it off.

“
And another one for me.”

He still has that grin on his face.

“And another one for me.”

“What about me?”  I ask with a
fake pout on my face.  “Do I get another strawberry or am I supposed to just lie here, tied up, and watch you eat them all?”

“Oh, you want more strawberries, do you?”  His smile has been replaced by an impish look. He takes another berry from the bowl, squeezes it between his fingers and rubs it on one of my nipples.  I
t’s cold and I squirm a little.

“
Oh. Cold.”  I gasp in a whisper.

“I’ll warm them up next time,” he murmurs as he picks another berry from the bowl.

He squeezes the red juice from another berry and rubs it around my other nipple.  The berry juice trickles off my breast and down my side.  He leans over and licks the juice from my side before it can run onto the sheet.  I squirm again.

“Oh no, can’t
have you jumping around here.”

He straddles me just below the waist.  I lift my head and look down at him.  He is
even more aroused.

The juice from the next berry drips from my neck down my middle.  The next makes a path down to my belly button.  Oh, I know where this is going, I say to myself, smiling.

He gets off me and with two more berries finishes the strawberry trail right down between my legs.  I squirm again—icy cold.  He looks me over, smiling.

“Not quite enough.”

He takes another berry, squeezes it and draws a circle of red berry juice around one breast.  Another berry for the other breast.  By now I can tell he is ignoring any juice trickling onto the sheets.

“Good,” he
murmurs like an artist, satisfied with his creation.

The whipped cream comes next.  He sprays a dollop for each nipple, then a trail of fluffy white cream from my neck on down. The aerosol from the can tickles.  I giggle.

“I forgot your mouth.”  He squirts whipping cream around my lips, then sets the can aside.  He leans over me and licks the cream from my lips, then with his tongue pushes some into my mouth.  I flick my tongue toward his.  Then he licks some more from my lips.

“Like this, Julia?”  The tone of his voice has changed from playful to serious.

“Yes.”  I whisper.

“Trust me, baby, it’s always going to be good. Always.”

Then his tongue licks the cream and strawberry juice on my breast, circling one nipple, round and round.  I gasp as my body responds, clenches inside.  He licks some more.  He moves to the other breast, slowly licking the cream and berry juice from it as my nipples grow harder and harder.  My breathing grows shallower.  I can feel an ache grow deep down.  He tenderly sucks my nipples, first one, then the other. He begins licking the cream and berry juice from my neck and down my body and my hips begin to move.

“Oh no, babygirl, lay still or I’ll have to tie up your legs, too.”

I try to be still, but the effect of his tongue and lips on my body is amazing. Down and down he goes. Then he comes to the end of the strawberry trail between my legs.  He holds my hips down with his hands, and his elbows are pressed into my upper legs.  My wrists are still held taut above my head.  I can’t move even though my body is already aching for release.

His tongue licks away the cream and begins to probe into me, again and again.  His tongue circles and circles.  My back begins to arch under the relentless attack by his tongue and lips.
It goes on and on. I can feel the growing tension inside me, it’s almost unbearable.

“Oh god, Austen.”
  I gasp as I feel my orgasm building.

Then he rises up and
plunges his erection into me.  Again and again he thrusts deep inside, faster and faster.  I am panting, gasping.  His breathing is heavy and raw.  He drives harder and deeper into me and it’s fast—we climax at almost the same time.

He sinks down onto me and rubs his face in the pillow, wiping off
the little cream left on his face.  Limp as I am, I turn my head and lick off a spot of cream on his cheek.  It is sweet and faintly salty—salty from me, I realize.  And it tastes good.

He reaches up, unties both my wrists and rubs my wrists and arms to get my circulation going again.  As he lies beside me, his breathing begins to slow.

“Fun, huh?” he smiles.

I start giggling and lick a little more of the remaining cream from his face.
“Yes.”

“
Want to do it again sometime?”

I nod my head and smile.