Thanksgiving Crack Rec of sorts . . . Part 2 of 2

[peg22]

So it's almost Thanksgiving and Lyrical Soul and I have found a blast from the past to share and give thanks. See, me and LS write crack. Alot. Like 500 plus pages of the stuff. And it's bad and silly and perfect and brilliant and has kept us going during lots of flotsam and jetsam the last few years. So I gleaned a little out and I wanna share it with y'all, who've been so good about loving the crack. Which, really, who can't love the crack. Although this is less crack and more  . . . sigh . . .

It's the boys a few years back. Before they finally gave in and just decided to be - in whatever form that may take. They're still angsty - they still don't trust themselves - they're still holding onto a rocky shocky past. We all know they get over it - hell, this year I'm sure Paulie has snuck up to London to get a little stuffing . . .

Okay, so this is our Thanksgiving feast - scraps of paper and voice mail and  smooches behind a smoky bar . . .  the little bits are mine - the smoky bar is all LS - like honey on a cello, man.

It's in two parts cuz LiveJournal sucketh great wind of fail!

 

VI. In All the Gin Joints in All the World . . .

 

In the end, I told my assistant that if anyone asked, I went out for some Nutter Butter cookies.

 

I also instructed her to tell the assistant director to wrap up the final shots for the day. She probably thought I was crazy, but I figured it was best for all if just left. Today was one of the days people talk about in the tabloids. I was snappish, yelling and nitpicking every little detail, and trying to make everything perfect. I hate tension on the set, and since I was the cause, I knew it was time to call it a day . . . well, for me at least.

 

I'll be the first to admit that I haven't been able to relax since I dropped him off last night. I could smell him, taste him, feel him all over me, all damned day. And that was just from basking together in the glow of friendship. Heaven help me when we get to the actual sex part.

 

And now, here I am, ten o'clock at night, standing in front of this . . . dive might be too kind a word, but that's all I can think of right now. I look at the paper in my hand, then up at the sign again. Lulu's Alibi. Yeah, this is it. And if that's not irony . . . I'm not even sure it is. Hell, I can't even think straight.

 

I push open the heavy door, and enter what might be loosely termed the ninth circle of hell. Smoke so thick you could cut it with a knife. Leave it to Davey to find the only dive in Los Angeles where you can still smoke. And not just cigarettes, either. I smell pipe smoke, and a little herbal smoke. Good. I may need an herbal remedy after this.

 

I hear the rich tenor of his voice first. Then the tinkling of the piano. I should have known. Where there's a piano, there he'll be. And he sounds good, just like always. I stop and light my cigarette (might as well join in), listening to the song.

 

 Some people want it all, but I don't want nothing at all

If I ain't got you, baby, if I ain't got you, baby

Some people want diamond rings, some just want everything

But everything means nothing if I ain't got you . . .

 

He set me up. I'm almost sure he timed it so I'd get here just in time to hear this particular song. He's probably been singing the same song since he called and told me where to meet him.

 

The song ends, and there's a smattering of applause. He smiles and tips his hat.  “Thank you. I'm gonna take five.”  He chats a bit with the few people who come by and drop dollars in the tip glass, then turns and catches my eye. Looking quite pleased with himself. Smug bastard.

 

I swallow my nervousness, smile, and make my way over to him, waiting not so patiently for his groupies to leave.  “You didn't tell me there'd be a jam session,” I say after the lady leaves.

 

 “Beats sitting around moping.”  He takes a healthy swallow of his drink.  “Got a light?”

 

I flick my lighter open and light the cigarette dangling from his lips.  “You didn't tell me I'd be coming here as your groupie.”

 

“Roadie,” he corrects.

 

A waitress wearing a tiny skirt and even tinier top sashays over and puts her hand on his shoulder.  “Ready for another round, Salty?”

 

He laughs and hands her his empty glass.  “Keep 'em coming, honey. And bring my friend here a... what are you drinking tonight?”

 

 “Whiskey sour. Extra sour.” I light a cigarette.  Gotta catch up to old Salty here.

 

 “I'll be right back then,” she says, sashaying away.

 

I watch him watch her go.  “Pretty.”

 

“Yeah.”  He takes a sip of his drink and sets it aside.  “How was your day?”

 

“It ended early.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Like you don't know.”

 

He steps closer.  “Why don't you tell me anyway?”

 

I move back, away from the intoxicating scent that's been tantalizing me all day.  “Never mind.”

 

“Is it really that hard? Just say 'I was thinking about you, and couldn't concentrate'. No harm in admitting it.”

 

“Lots of harm. I'm feeling a bit edgy right now, so maybe you should just back off.”

 

“I'm always backing off,” he growls, low and sexy.  “Always doing what you want. Not tonight. Tonight, you do it my way.”  His eyes are bright, and god, so blue. Beautifully pissed off.

 

I put a hand on his arm and rub discreetly.  “All right, all right. It's your show, Salty. Just go easy on me, okay?”

 

He pats my cheek gently.  “Now, why would I want to do that?”

 

 “Why, indeed.”  I pull up a stool and take a seat at the end of the piano.  “One stipulation.”

 

“I'll think about it,” he says, taking a seat on the bench. He runs his fingers across the keys and smiles slyly, knowing that particular smile is my weakness.  “But give it to me anyway.”

 

“None of your stuff. Not one.”

 

“Hmm . . .” His fingers peck out the stark notes of Don't Give up on Us Baby.  “Why not?”

 

“I'll cry. Right here, in this bar. You really want to see that?”

 

“I do.”  He riffs the opening of the song and pulls the mike toward him.  “This is for anyone out there who's ever been in love . . .”

 

And we're off. For the next hour, I am held captive by a madman. He croons his way through ten heartbreaking songs, beginning with Don't Give up on Us, and ending with a sad ditty called Simply Beautiful. He sang it with so much emotion, it nearly broke my resolve. (And my heart, but that's another story) Thank god, I didn't cry, but I know I've had way too much to drink, and will have to watch that I don't let my guard down. Well, at least not yet.

 

He's quite a showman. Even though this is an out of the way dive, he's playing like it's Carnegie Hall. And he does know how to work the crowd. He moves from slow and easy to fast and snappy with minimum effort. And his voice . . . the memories it holds. He's taken me to 1975 and back, and I'm so rattled, I didn't notice I never got the pretzels I asked for an hour ago. Damn him.

 

As a small crowd of admirers group around to offer congrats and adoration, I ease off the barstool and head for the john. Once there, I look at myself in the mirror and grimace at the sight. Bloodshot eyes and the makings of five o'clock shadow that's going to be hell to shave off in the morning. But I don't look half as tense as I did when I left work earlier. Damn him . . .

 

“You his roadie?”

 

I jump slightly at the gruff voice of the man standing beside me.  “Uh . . . I guess you could say that.”

 

“He's got talent. A little long in the tooth, but real talent.”

 

Leave it to Davey to be discovered forty years into his career.  “You think so?”  No harm in playing along.

 

“Yeah, I do.”  He zips up, washes his hands, then hands me a business card.  “Tell him to give me a call. I'd love to do some things with him.”

 

I dry my hands and take the card. I look at it, then shake my head.  “He's a bit . . . unmanageable. Plus, he's not from around here.”

 

“Doesn't matter. I love his voice.”

 

“I'll tell him. But you might want to have those glasses checked.”  I head out the door before he can reply.

 

At the piano, he's polishing off a glass of water, and trying to peel a tall redhead off his lap. He looks at me with a bit of relief in his eyes, and mouths “help” over her head.

 

“Hey,” I say cheerily. “Ready to head out?”

 

“Are you gonna take me with you, Salty?”  the redhead asks drunkenly.

 

“Not tonight,” he says, faking sadness. “I wish I could. But my roadie here is very strict about being pure out on the road. Says it build character.”

 

“Awww . . .”   She slides off his lap, and goes off in search of other prey.

 

“Thanks, pal,” he chuckles. “Enjoy the show?”

 

Ignoring what I know he's really asking, I shrug, and say, “Not more than that guy over there.”

 

He follows my gaze to bathroom guy. “What does he want?”

 

“To fulfill your dream to hit the big time.”

 

“Ah, that dream. Did you tell him?”

 

“Nah. I figured you'd relish the opportunity.”  I shrug into my jacket. “I'm gonna need some coffee.”

 

 “I know a place . . .”

 

 “Does it have a piano?”

 

 “No.”

 

 “Good. Then let's go.”

 

 “Hey, Salty!”  The bathroom guy hurries over to us. “Can I talk to you for a sec?”

 

He turns, and I can see the evil gleam in his eyes.  “Sure. What did you need?”

 

“I'm Johnny. Johnny Dallas. Did your roadie tell you that I wanted to talk to you about maybe doing some recording for me?” 

 

“He did. I've got a demo you can listen to. And when you're done, give me a call.”  He reaches in his jacket pocket and pulls out a CD and a marker. He scribbles on the CD, and then hands it to the guy. “Tell me what you think of this. Let's go, Roadie.”

 

As we walk away, I glance back at the guy, who is now six shades of red. “What did you write on that CD?”  I ask, fearing the answer.

 

“Get your eyes checked, asshole, David Soul. Or something like that. You know I don't like people. Can we just go?”

 

“Sure.”  I put my arm around his shoulder and tug him close.  “Don't ever change, okay?”

 

 “Not possible,” he says as we step out into the cool night air.  “What time is it?”

 

 “After midnight.” I look up at the sky.

 

 “You're telling time from the stars? That's deep, even for you.”

 

 “I'm admiring the stars, asshole.”

 

 “You're not going to start thinking, are you?”  His tone carries a hint of amusement and something else I'm not too sure of.  “Because that would ruin a perfect evening.”

 

 I can't help if I'm the soul of caution and pensiveness. It's just my–oomph I’m pressed against the door of my car, with his arms on my shoulders.  “Are you crazy?”

 

 “Yeah.”  He leans into me, fitting his body against mine.  “Definitely crazy.”

 

Our eyes lock, and I really don't like what I see simmering in those baby blues of his.  “What do you want from me?”

 

“A little love, Paulie. A little happiness. For you to stop thinking this thing to death.”  His face is inches from mine now, and his eyes are fixed on my lips. “I want you to give in.”

 

“No.”

 

His eyes move up to meet mine again. “Aw, now that's just too bad. I bought you drinks, I bought you cigars, and I serenaded you. Now you won't put out? I knew I should have let the waitress put Ecstasy in your whiskey.”

 

“That's the secret to your success with women, huh?”  I push against his shoulder, indicating I want to move.

 

He doesn't budge. “Give in.”

 

I push again, very cognizant of just what a big guy he is. Not that he'd hurt me, but pushing him when he doesn't want to move is like trying to move a mountain. “You're killing me.”

 

“I know.” He grins, still not moving. “Why fight the inevitable? Just this once . . .”

 

I take a deep breath, and it's the biggest mistake I've made tonight. Well, besides coming here and sitting through that torture. His intoxicating scent hits me again. Leather, scotch, cigarettes, and just . . . him. I don't stand a chance.  Damn it.

 

“Now you're getting it.”  His lips go to my neck, nuzzling gently. “Loving you is like deep sea fishing for big tuna. You wait, and you wait, then you get a nibble. Then you hook it. And it fights. And fights. But you stay with it, tugging the line, trying to get it to cooperate. Then you get it. And it's still fighting. Fights all the way to the sushi plate.”

 

“You're calling me sashimi?”

 

 “I'm saying, stop fighting it.”

 

 “You scare me, all right?”  My voice sounds loud, even to my own ears. “You scare the hell out of me.”

 

He looks up at the sky, then back at me. “And the world didn't end with you admitting that. You think I'm not terrified? I am. But I know I love you, and I've got you right here, right now. That's all that matters. Go with it.”

 

“Okay,” I sigh. “Okay.”

 

“Okay,” he says and then he moves in for a kiss.

 

I pull back slightly, whispering, “Don't . . .” then I remember I'm supposed to give in. So, I do.

 

He always kisses like there's no tomorrow. Hands everywhere, tongue pressing, demanding, overwhelming. But it's perfect. It's heady, it's arousing, it's him. No one in the world will ever kiss me like this. And so I give in, perfectly content to let him ravish me, right here in the parking lot of this stupid bar, not caring that we're probably going to get caught. Not caring that there are ten million reasons that this isn't a good idea. All I'm thinking of now is that he tastes like scotch and salt water taffy. And I can't get enough. I'm pulling him closer, wanting more, wanting to feel his skin, to put my hands all over him. I move my hands inside his jacket and tug at the hem of his shirt. I need to touch him, need to reconnect with him through the feel of his skin under my hands.

 

He pulls back, breaking the kiss with a smacking of our lips. “Damn. When you give in, you give in. But that's enough for now. Don't want to get arrested for public lewdness.”

 

I blink, trying to clear the haze of lust that's clouding my vision, but it's not working.

 

“Are you even hearing me?”

 

“Huh?”  I blink again. “Damn. You kiss like there's no tomorrow.”

 

“Sometimes, there isn't,” he murmurs, his tone wistful. “Gotta make hay while the sun is shining, Paulie.” 

 

The shadows in his eyes sober me a bit. “It'll get better. I promise.”

 

“Yeah. So, we're still on for Thursday night?”

 

 “Eight o'clock. I'll be there. Oh . . . are we bungalow or suite?”

 

 “Suite. I'll need the wet bar, I’m sure. And the Jacuzzi.”

 

 “Big plans tomorrow?”

 

 “Same old. You?”

 

 “Not really. You know me.”

 

 “Quite well. Try to have a good time. Eat some pie.”

 

 “I will. But I'll be, uh . . . thinking about the evening for most of the day.”

 

He grins.  “No shame in admitting that.”

 

“Yeah, yeah.”  I sigh heavily.  “I'd better go.”

 

“Me, too.”  He leans in and gives me a quick kiss. “Later.” 

 

As I watch him walk away, something occurs to me.  “Hey!”

 

He turns, smiling. “Yeah?”

 

“You already know what I'm going to say, don't you?”

 

“I do, but say it anyway.”

 

 “Love you.”

 

 “Told you. An axiom. Tomorrow.”

 

And he's gone. I look at the sky again, wondering how the hell I'm going to make it through the next twenty hours.

 

 It isn't until I'm on the freeway that I realize he knew I didn't expect him to say he loved me.

 

Damn

TBC . . .stay tuned