Lou glanced around. He was right. The band had all disappeared, probably to their hotel rooms for a little fun before she cracked the whip and got them back to work on the morrow. She looked back at him and shrugged. “I prefer men to boys anyway.” She stood, her mind made up, the melted ice pack slipping to the floor. Lou held out her hand. “Your place or mine?”
* * * *
Chris stared at the proffered hand, noticing the chipped nail polish on her nibbled fingernails, just as he’d caught the little nicks on legs freshly shaven with a cheap razor. She was tempting as hell and no doubt about it. Big brown eyes in a heart-shaped face, dark hair short and sleek. He grinned, remembering the sensible white cotton panties under a get-up that would have done the local hookers proud. He’d been watching her with interest all night. Her palpable anxiety when the suits took their leave, her nervous fluttering around the new boys in town. He sighed. It just wouldn’t be right. She was obviously new to the scene. He’d never seen a worse groupie. Could even be her first time on the prowl. But…the hand she was holding out wasn’t trembling and her eyes were bold and confident. She’d sat in his lap and vibrated. The little hairs had stood up on the back of her neck when he’d touched her there. He wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d started purring.
Her hand was wavering a little now, her eyes confused. “What’s the problem?”
“Just thinking, darlin’.” She wasn’t American. Her accent was clipped and vaguely broguish. Where was this band from? Ireland, was it? No. Scotland. He nodded slowly and she perked up, thrusting her hand closer. Yeah, he thought he understood the deal. The band had brought her, and then abandoned her for something a little different and more exciting. Poor kid. Alone in New York City and nothing but the dregs left in the club for her to try for. Lonely little groupie. He took her hand. Well, if a little rock star cock will make her happy, who was he to turn her down? She was old enough, sober enough, and dammit, he wanted to hear her purr. Maybe an exciting little encounter would get him writing again. Maybe, if all went well, they could hook up a few more times while she was in town. A sweet little riff popped into his head. Four insistent notes curling around his brain to the words your place or mine.
She smiled sweetly at him, her eyes wanton. “I’ll no hurt ye, mister. Honest.”
Such a purdy accent. And she hadn’t called him Crash, or even Chris. She had no idea who he was. He’d pretend she wasn’t a groupie. Just a woman who wanted him. And, later, she’d have a fine entry for her resume. Fucking Crash Conner at the Chelsea Hotel was something no other groupie could lay claim to. The song continued to write itself in his head. Your place or mine, said a woman so fine.
He stood and helped her back into her ridiculous shoes, then handed her the purse she’d dropped. “Mine,” he said, before tucking his hand around her waist and guiding her up the stairs and out onto West 23rd. “It’s just a few blocks to my place. Let’s walk.”
* * * *
Easier said then done, Lou thought, after stumbling a terrible distance in the dense heat and noise. How far is a few blocks, anyway? Yellow taxies tooted their horns as sweat trickled down the back of her neck. “How can it be so hot at night?” she asked breathlessly.
“New York City in a heat wave,” he said, grinning. “I grew up in the south, so I can handle it.” He stopped at an open window and ordered something from a man behind the counter. “Here,” he said. “An Italian ice. That’ll cool you down some.” He looked down at her. “Guess you’re really struggling with this heat. I think you should sit down for a spell.”
“Aye, I think that’s a good idea.”
He led her down a dark alley and sat her down on some steps. Lou kicked off her shoes and started scooping the bright yellow ice into her mouth. “Yum. Perfect.”
He glanced at her, smiling. “Maybe we should get a cab? The heat. Your shoes.”
“Aye, in a wee minute.” She looked up at the imposing walls that towered high above them. “New York City! Never thought I’d get here.” After all the years of managing the band, scratching out a living, driving their van to gigs in the back of beyond, forcing them to practice and take it seriously… They’d come so far. And, in a few nights, the band would be on one of America’s most popular television shows. The label was dithering over offering them a contract, but they were keen. She knew that. They’d paid for this trip and as soon as she could get them to sit down and negotiate, Guyville would be on their way. A recording contract, an American tour—
“What’s your name?” His honeyed voice interrupted her mental meandering.
Lou thought. Did a zipless fuck include an exchange of names? She could never remember the exact etiquette. She decided on her childhood nickname. “Maggie May.”
“Like the song?”
“Aye. My mother used to sing it to me. Even though it was rather inappropriate for a wee girl.” She giggled. “She’d mumble through the bits she didn’t want me asking questions about.”
He was looking down at her with a curious expression. “It’s a good name for you, I guess. Famous. Musically-related. Evocative.”
Lou nodded. Poor man thinks I’m a groupie, but what the hell. I’ll play along. A little chord strummed in her mind. Her favorite, B7th, the most bittersweet of chords. A lyric attached itself. I met him in New York, with his jeans so tight. I knew that it was wrong, but it felt so right… She shook her head. No. This wouldn’t be bittersweet. This would be carnal, unwise, wrong and utterly fantastic. He would always be zipless to her; a walk on the wild side. God knows, after the struggle of the last few years, she deserved a treat.
He bent and put his mouth next to her ear. “My name’s—”
Lou quickly slid a spoonful of ice into his mouth. Knowing his name would spoil it. “I’ve already given you a nickname.”
He swallowed and raised one eyebrow before straightening.
“Zippy.”
He choked.
“It’s an ancient Scottish term of endearment,” she said, giggling. She looked up at him. He was gorgeous. If she was in Scotland, chatting with her best pal, she would have described him as “pure gallus,” and Frannie would’ve cackled and begged for details. Lou saved up a few choice morsels to share with Fran at a later date: tall, dark, handsome, addictive smile, dab hand with an icepack, wears honest-to-goodness cowboy boots and a voice that dripped like a sweet, slow syrup. But could he possibly taste that sweet? Lou stood up on the bottom step next to him and wound her hands around his neck. She looked into his eyes, then, as his hands slipped around her waist, she lifted her mouth to his ear. “I want to taste you, Zippy. Quite badly.” She took a deep breath of the hot, heavy air, heard the rushing traffic at the end of the alley, and then went in for a sip.
* * * *
Maybe she was a pretty good groupie after all. She was one hell of a good kisser, that was for sure. Her sweet lemon-flavored lips didn’t hold back, moving on his with unbridled gusto. Her lithe, cool tongue darting in to taste, then retreating coyly, invitingly. The song continued to write itself in his head. Your place or mine said a woman so fine, with a smile so sweet that I could not decline. She kissed me in an alley off Twenty-Third Street, standing on the tiptoes of her shoeless feet.
He walked her backward up the steps until they were hidden in the doorway, advancing until her back bumped against the door. Then he took control of the kiss, burying his hands in her soft, sleek hair and angling her face. He felt it again, that soft vibration of her body, as she tipped back her head and opened her mouth for him, her hands diving into and gripping his hair. He’d best slow down a little; he didn’t want to come on too strong, but the moment he tried to pull back, she tugged on his hair and dragged him into an even deeper kiss. She wasn’t shy, running her hands down his back until she cupped his ass, which she explored enthusiastically.