For The Love Of Music

PART ONE

Sandy coughed and blinked in the sudden bright yellow light.

“Judas,” she rasped at her roommate who’d just come in and opened the drapes. Tosha knew she wasn’t a morning person. It was one reason she preferred freelancing to a 9 to 5.

“Finally up? I thought I heard you moving.”

“You got ears like a hawk,” Sandy rasped, accepting a mug of hot chocolate.

“I’m surprised you weren’t up at sunrise given today is the day.”

Sandy grinned and licked off her marshmallow mustache. “Yes, ma’am. It certainly is, but I don’t wanna spaz out when I interview him so I have to remain calm.”

“I still can’t believe you got the interview.”

“Why not?” Sandy asked, though it had been something of a coup.

She’d been preparing for this interview for weeks. Months really if she included all the time she’d spent researching, emailing, phoning and generally coercing various editors and PR people into letting her, a very new freelancer for the Chicago Tribune, handle one of the biggest male pop stars currently afloat on the music landscape. But she had done it. In just a few hours she, Sandy Blackwell, would be face to face with Grammy-winning, multi-platinum singer/songwriter Jordan Mitchell for 30 whole minutes. And that was just the tip of the iceberg. Mitchell was only in town for a few hours. Had literally flown in to play with a Chicago blues legend at the Farm Aid benefit, but in a few days he would be at the House of Blues giving the public its first taste of new music with his new band, and she would be on hand for that as well. She was meeting the PR girl who’d set up this Farm Aid joint for dinner. They would go on to the show from there, and afterwards, back stage to meet the band!

“Outfit?”

Sandy gestured to a chair. Tosha picked up wide-legged, wine-colored cotton gauchos that clung gently to the hips and ass but swung free to show a hint of smooth brown leg, and examined the sleeveless black cotton shirt with its fabric flower and deep vee of cleavage.

“Cute, but not over the top,” she pronounced, picking up the black bra lying nearby. “You know this isn’t going to stay completely hidden.”

“Yeah, but it’s the exact same shade of black so I decided to be a little bit punk rock and just let the bow stick out.”

“Shoes? No heels, it’s a Farm Aid benefit for God’s sake.”

Sandy pointed to a pair of black flip flops with an embroidered sole.

“Wear a little make up,” Tosha suggested. “Just a little black eye liner, some mascara on the upper lashes and a dab of pink crème eye shadow on your lids. A shiny lip gloss for your mouth.”

“Right.”

Tosha narrowed her eyes.

“I will! I’m going to wear a little make up today and moisturize this black rats nest of mine to within an inch of its life,” and she did. Sandy loaded her long natural curls down with hair grease, leave-in conditioner, shine, and anti-frizz serum. The thirsty strands drank up the potions like a camel at a desert oasis, and it looked good.

Tosha gave her the thumbs up when she finally emerged and asked, “Got everything?”

Sandy nodded. “Batteries in the recorder, three pens that work, notebook, press credentials, an extra tape just in case something happens to the first, and I even managed to eat.”

Tosha snorted. “A piece of bread and a cup of juice. Put a box of raisins and a plum in your purse.”

Sandy put the food next to her huge black, Jackie O sunglasses, and was out the door.

It only took 30 minutes for her to drive to the Tweeter Center. She parked and walked slowly up the path with the other concert goers, trying not to sweat as the sun beamed down on her slightly damp head. Her nervousness faded in the heat. She’d made the right outfit choice going for comfort.

Boy did I, she thought, when she’d navigated her way to the press tent and checked in with Jordan’s tour manager Keith. The press area was literally an open air tent set up with TV monitors, scruffy reporters with cameras and bags, a long table filled with box lunches, and coolers filled with drinks. As the minutes ticked by she ate her raisins and plum, and when Keith called to say there had been a delay and that she wouldn’t be able to do the interview until after Jordan went on, she investigated one of the box lunches. She wouldn’t allow herself more than a few sips of water though; the thought of the visiting a port-a-potty allayed most of her thirst.

Hours went by, and Sandy watched the various acts go on stage. She read the Farm Aid press kit and listened to a few official types give out stats and generally pat themselves on the back for helping farmers. She even talked to a farmer and took some notes in case there was a hole in her story. This proved to be a mistake, since the 50-year-old farmer made himself at home next to her and spent most of the next three hours telling her everything about his health (by all accounts excellent), various business holdings outside the Mississippi farm, and asking her to marry him.

Save me, Sandy thought, watching as Jordan finally took the stage. It won’t be long now, she thought, smiling and nodding at the farmer. As she watched Jordan’s tall figure prowling the stage with his guitar, her busy little brain slipped all too easily into a daydream where Jordan ordered his tour manager out of the interview room and jumped on her, kissing and squeezing her so enthusiastically her hair popped out of its band. He’d fall in love with her on sight, but they’d have to fight the feelings for a good three, four minutes before they succumbed to a tidal wave of magically perfect sexual chemistry. He’d be the dominant type for all his sensitive love songs. The type to wrestle you, hold your hands above your head and mark you gently with his teeth in the throes of his orgasm.

The image of their caramel and cream bodies writhing together on a leather coach popped like a balloon under a pin 40 minutes later when one of the event staff came over to lead her through the maze of tour buses to a back stage dressing room. Almost before she was ready Keith was performing introductions and ushering her in, and then she was alone, with Jordan Mitchell.

She shook his hand in a daze, must have mumbled something appropriate to his greeting, and preceded to stare at him, wide eyed for a good minute. He looked wonderful in a white tee and faded blue jeans. He’d let his brown hair grown long, and the thick strands flopped into his big brown eyes and invited long fingered hands to push them back, which he did often. She stared helplessly at the large mobile mouth with its full pink lips. Her eyes traced the broad shoulders and lanky limbs when he returned to slouch on a small black leather couch. It was the couch that almost did her in though. It looked almost exactly like the couch she’d imagined making love with him on! That de ja vu coupled with the strangely intense feeling that had flooded her when she clapped eyes on him dried the words in her throat like a paper towel. She’d assumed the vague sense of lust she’d experienced had been merely a deep response to the music. But it appeared his lush mouth, lean body and big hands had made a more serious impact on her than general appreciation might warrant.

“Something wrong?”

Sandy blinked as she looked at that couch. If her skin hadn’t been such a rich shade of caramel brown she might have blushed as she shut her gaping mouth.

Instead she began to laugh. “I’m sorry. I’m a huge fan.”

He smiled and motioned her over. “Well, then this interview should go great.”

Sandy pulled herself together and dug out her equipment as she sat gingerly in the small space beside him. By the time she had tested her recorder and handed it to him, she was in reporter mode, but she hadn’t counted on the distraction of watching his lips move this close up. Luckily he was a talker. It was easy to see that he was a star, very smart, used to interviewing and perfectly willing to give her all the sound bites she needed. Later Sandy would be grateful because when she realized that he was staring at her cleavage, her questions faded out like the last chords of a song and she could only respond, laugh and comment conversationally. Her tough question about Farm Aid’s misappropriation of funds was completely forgotten. The telltale click of her tape surprised her.

“My time’s up,” she realized.

“That’s it?” He asked handing her the recorder.

“Yep. I only had 30 minutes and that’s an hour long tape.”

“Cool.” He rose and went immediately to several tables loaded with food and drinks in the back of the room that she hadn’t even noticed. “I’m starving. Hungry?”

“No, but I will have one of those pops if there’s a bathroom I can visit.”

He laughed. “Coke or 7 UP?”

“7 UP, please.” Sandy stuffed her things away and rose to accept the can of soda. She shivered as their fingers touched and dropped her eyes when he looked at her searchingly.

There was a knock, and Keith poked his head around. “We good?”

“Yes, thank you,” she smiled, recognizing her cue to leave.

“You coming to the show next week?” Jordan asked.

She nodded, watching as he nibbled fruit. “Mara’s taking me out to dinner first.”

“Make sure you come back stage and tell me what you think.”

Sandy felt like her grin would crack her face, but she managed a normal “OK, thanks.”

“My pleasure.”

She let Tosha listen as soon as she got home.

“This is great,” that girl said, blowing smoke rings into the air. “He likes to talk.”

“Thank God. I was so busy staring at his lips I didn’t ask half the questions I’d prepared.”

“Well, you’re going to the show next week.”

“I know! I’m really looking forward to hearing the new stuff.” And seeing him again. “I gotta find another outfit.”

“You make it sound like a fate worse than death!” Tosha laughed.

Sandy snorted. “You don’t know how long it took me to choose this!”

Sandy finished her article on Jordan early that next day and submitted it. She got a whole page in the paper and floated through the next week on a cloud. She managed to work steadily, finishing up several business articles she’d been commissioned to write for a magazine and a web site as well as a health piece for a newsletter. She worked a few office temp gigs and was called to participate in a focus group on romance novels, but her mind constantly wandered. Her concentration faltered at odd moments and she surfed the ‘net looking at pictures of Jordan and listening to his music.

Finally the day of the show arrived. She dressed carefully in black form-fitting jersey pants and a loose red shirt with cutout sleeves and a draped neckline that flirted shamelessly with her cleavage. Her hair had been tamed into a puffy, young-looking ponytail that contrasted nicely with her sexy clothes and sweet smile.

There were two glasses of wine with dinner and funny conversations with five other journalists. The show was fabulous. She bopped her head and screamed along with all the fans, and got a little lit in their box above the main floor thanks to a faithful waitress.

Afterwards she forced herself to focus and conduct mini interviews with Jordan’s drummer Sam, a tall Black man with a head full of well kept dreds who kept her laughing, and his bass guitarist, Trey, a skinny White man with a buzz cut and a rather shy demeanor. Last she turned to Jordan. He’d just finished talking to the skinny blonde reporter from New City, and he grinned and waved her over.

“What gives? You haven’t said a word to me all night,” he teased, and she grinned.

“I’m just tryna work, man.” Work and curtail these silly urges to bat my eyelashes at you and switch my hips in your face.

“How’d you like the show?”

“I absolutely loved it! The new music is awesome. I don’t think you have anything to worry about as far as the critics are concerned, but then, I’m a fan, not a critic. My only complaint was the mic. I could barely hear you sing over the music.”

He nodded. “Yeah!”

Sandy thought her heart would stop as he grabbed her hand and towed her over to where Keith was lounging with a beer. He tugged her forward.

“Sandy thought the mic sucked too, dude.”

Keith looked at her and laughed. “Yeah? Tell us what you really think!”

Everyone laughed and Sandy couldn’t help but grin as she rushed to say, “I didn’t say it sucked exactly, but it was tough to hear him over the drums.”

“Are you sayin’ I was playing too loud?” Sam asked, spinning her around to face him.

Before she could open her mouth, Jordan spun her back and pulled her into a hug. He smelled sweaty and good, damp well used man over soap and fabric softner.

“Leave her alone. She’s a fan.”

Sandy began to laugh. She was still laughing when someone put a beer in her hand. “I need to get a few quotes for my piece,” she told Jordan.

“Come back to the hotel, later,” he said, looking down at her as he drank from a long neck. “It’ll be quiet.”

She nodded and turned away as the blonde called her name. The fates conspired to keep them apart for the next two hours. Slowly people drifted away, and the last of the journalists went home. Aside from the few people hanging around Sam and Trey she was the only one left.

“Well,” she smiled. Hours of drinking and laughing had lulled Sandy into that post-drunk euphoric state where everything is rosy and nice. “It’s quiet. You ready to talk on tape? It won’t take long, I just want to –”

Jordan grabbed her hand without speaking and towed her off to an elevator.

“Where are we going?”

“My room.”

Sandy’s eyebrows rose toward her hairline. She thought, this is way too perfect, and he laughed. “I asked you earlier and you said yes.”

She frowned trying to remember. “No, I nodded, but I guess that’s the same thing. We could have easily done this downstairs,” she said.

“How much have you had to drink?” Jordan asked, eying her.

“I’m not drunk,” she scoffed. “It’s been a good two hours since I even had a drink. I’m just loopy ‘cause before those two hours I had about six!” She laughed as he visibly relaxed.

“Well, I’m not up to anything too nefarious. I like you, and I want you to hear something new that I’ve been working on. You being a music writer and a fan, I’m hoping I can count on you for some kind of well intentioned, honest opinion.”
Sandy nodded solemnly. “You can count on me.”

Jordan just laughed, and when the elevator doors opened he pulled her down the hall to his room. The space was great. A suite of three rooms, the center of which was open with comfortable looking couches and a wide screen plasma TV and entertainment center. He headed for the stereo and a few seconds later music began to play. He led her to a couch and gestured for her to sit, but Sandy wasn’t paying attention. She was too focused on the music. It was sad, almost mournful, a quietly wailing guitar overlaid by percussion and then, his voice. He sang low and deep about love lost, his raspy tones seeming to drag out each word until it tugged at her heart. He’d sung about the topic before but these lyrics were more. More heartfelt, more rich, and the music was a perfectly soulful compliment. She could have loosely labeled it a pop tune in keeping with the music he was best known and loved for. But if a label was required, it was better suited for R&B or neo-soul, different even from the new, blues infused performance she’d just listened to.

She stood there, head cocked as she listened, staring at the stereo as though it might offer some hints about the music coming from its speakers. She felt his hands push her shoulders until she sat on the coach, and as the last notes faded away she blinked and looked around like a sleep walker waking in a neighbor’s garden.

Jordan handed her a little bottle of Evian. “Well?”

“It’s so mournful and sad,” Sandy whispered. “It’s gonna blow up on radio. Your female audience will fall in love with you all over again, and for the young ones for whom this will be their first taste?” she shook her head. “You’ll have fans for life. All that gut wrenching intensity, the imagery, and the guitar! What’s it called?”

“No title yet. It’s just something I’m playing with.” He shrugged and sat down beside her, empting his bottle of water down his throat. “You don’t think it’s too sad?”

“No! I mean it is very much so, but it’s not overdone. It’s very sincere and very different. Off the top of my head I can’t think of a tune I’d compare it to.”

He grinned at her. “You’ve said nothing but good things since I met you. I should steal you and give you a job as crew motivator.”

Sandy laughed. “I’m not always so complimentary. You make great music. It’s easy to say nice things when it sounds and feels good.”

“My music feels good?” he asked, turning toward her until their knees brushed.

Sandy nodded and thumped her chest gently with a small fist. “It feels good here, you know? Like every lyric, every chord and note is coming from you, your feelings, your mind, your heart. I think that’s the biggest part of your appeal, your sincerity. I was nervous about this interview for that reason,” she confided. “I was scared that I might meet you and dislike you or find out things that would destroy my joy in your music.”

“Has that happened before?”

Sandy nodded and sighed. “More than once. And it wasn’t necessarily anything that was said to me. It was just watching and observing and listening to others interactions with that artist.”

“And you concluded they weren’t what the music led you to believe.”

“Exactly.”

“What did you want to ask me?”

“Hmmm?”

“You said you had a few more questions for me.”

“Oh! Duh.” She scrabbled in her bag until she came up with her recorder. “This won’t take long.” And it didn’t. Jordan answered her questions cleverly, made her laugh until she snorted, and gave her all the details she could have hoped for. When she clicked off the recorder, he rose and stretched, and Sandy took that as her cue to leave.

“Well, thanks again for everything. I really enjoyed the show and –”

“You’re leaving?” He looked surprised.

“Well, yeah.” She blinked. “It’s late and I thought you’d—”

“Don’t leave yet,” he said quietly, taking both her hands in his. “It takes me a little while after a show to wind down before bed, and you’re so funny and sunny and everything. I don’t want to let you go.”

Sandy laughed softly, wondering if she had a magic wand stashed somewhere on her person that had escaped her notice. Surely this dude didn’t think he had to convince her to stay?

“Not my lyrical best huh?” He nudged her purse until the strap slid off her shoulder.

“No.” Sandy set down her things and looked around thinking that his brief flash of inarticulateness didn’t mean that things couldn’t very quickly get interesting. “Bathroom?”

He gestured behind her.

The bath was adjacent to his bedroom and when Sandy clicked on the light she saw his battered black suitcase sitting on the edge of a large bed. The bathroom mirror showed that her light makeup had disappeared, and her face was shiny from sweating. Wisps of curly hair surrounded her face, but without her tools and potions, her efforts to smooth them would have been useless. So she peed, washed, dried off with one of the fluffy white hand towels and hung it neatly.

Sandy knew why she was here. Jordan wanted to sleep with her, which meant she could do one of two things. One, she could thank him nicely for his time, get her shit and go home. Two, she could stick around and hope fervently that he wasn’t a dud. She hadn’t felt the pull of a man this intensely in forever, and his music matched what she’d heard him say and watched him do. She didn’t think she could resist the opportunity to turn reality into fantasy. Certainly only the most hard core serious in the female reporting fraternity would begrudge her this chance. She was perfectly aware of the flagrant conflict of interest to her unpublished story, and one part of her felt bad and wanted to be professional and turn away. But another part of her, the horny, adventurous part, whispered that this was a once in a lifetime opportunity to utterly, totally, completely, scream aloud with pleasure while Jordan’s long fingered hands stroked her body like a guitar.

She would do it, she decided, staring at her wide-eyed reflection. How many chances did any girl have to sleep with a gorgeous, extremely talented man with a gentle spirit who was also fabulously rich, and known and loved around the world? Plus, she hadn’t had sex in soooo long! She wanted to, and she would. As long as he has a condom, she thought. Sandy was grinning to herself when she opened the bathroom door and padded silently into the big room. Her bare feet hardly left a mark on the lush royal blue carpet.

Jordan was on the phone. “Whatever, Trey!”

He laughed and her eyes traced his profile, watched hungrily as he raked his hair back and stretched. He seemed to be stretching a lot, and Sandy knew just how to get out the kinks. “You can’t come up, dude. I’ve got this little gal up here right now and I’m going to do bad things to her. No, you may not join in,” he laughed, eating some of the cashews from a tin by the phone, and Sandy felt her blood freeze in her veins. A lead weight settled on her chest. “Okay, okay! I promise to save you some. I won’t use it all. There will definitely be something left for you.”

Sandy walked into the room.

“I gotta go, Trey. Yes, sir. OK. Later, man. He’s three sheets to the wind!” he told Sandy, who was gathering her belongings at high speed. “Sam and some of the boys got – you’re leaving?”

“Yeah. I’m not in the mood to have you do bad things to me, nor to have your fucked up friends join in if there’s anything left. Thanks for the interview and for the disillusionment.”

Jordan’s eyes got big as she stared at him angrily, stuffing her feet into her sandals.

“It’s like a self-fulfilled prophecy! I tell you I’m scared I’ll lose my enjoyment in your music if you act like an ass. Then you do, and sure enough, I never want to hear your shit again. But don’t worry; I’m professional enough to make the article good. Your show was great and that’s just what I’ll say,” she said, one hand already reaching for the door knob.

“Wait!

“No, you wait! I would have spent the night with you, you pompous piece of muck, but how dare you talk about me like that! You didn’t even care that I could hear you making plans to pass me around to your crew like a fucking Barbie. You are the very reason I’m looking to get out of music writing and just be a fan. Now move out of my way before I scream the paint off the walls!”

PART TWO

“Don’t scream,” Jordan ordered, not moving his hand from above her head where his strength prevented her from opening the door.

“You’ve got the wrong end of the stick, Sandy. You misheard our conversation. I did say I had a girl up here and I planned to do bad things to her, I mean, you, but it was in direct response to Trey saying the same thing to me. And that last bit about saving some for him? I was not talking about you. I was talking about the Bliss spa stuff they give you in the bathroom.”

Sandy stared at him incredulously.

“You must think I’m stupid,” she whispered, but her mind flashed back to the bathroom and the high end individually wrapped soaps and tiny bottled lotions she’d admired but had passed over for the plain white hotel bar.

“I heard you say—”

“I promise to save you some. I won’t use it all. There will definitely be something left for you,” he repeated verbatim.

“I was talking about the bath stuff, Sandy, not you, and I can prove it. Don’t leave.”

He strode back to the phone and quickly dialed a room. He held up one finger when she shifted impatiently then motioned her to come over and listen.

“Trey. OK, man, okay! Now, guess what? Remember what you just asked me about? The maid just dropped off some extra, ‘cause I told her things were missing.”

Jordan quickly transferred the phone into Sandy’s hand.

Sandy listened to a drunken Trey gush about the merits of Bliss facial products over the Crabtree and Evelyn soaps in his bath.

It was obvious that Jordan had been telling the truth. She handed the phone back when Jordan said a short, ‘Bye,’ and hung up.

“What is he?” she joked feebly. “A metrosexual?”

Jordan just smiled slightly and cocked his head at her expectantly.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “I jumped to conclusions. I didn’t mean to curse at—”

Jordan laid a long finger on her pouty lips and grinned.

“I accept your apology. Honestly, I’m glad I got to see that little spat. Before you were too good to be true!”

Sandy laughed and rolled her eyes.

“Let’s order some food,” he said.

“It’s late. Isn’t the kitchen closed?”

“I’m a celebrity, my girl. I get perks!” he waggled his eyebrows and tugged her away from the door.

“Take your shoes off. I’m putting all of your stuff out of reach,” he informed her.

“No more attempts to leave. You’re gonna give a complex.”

Sandy laughed helplessly and allowed him to tug her onto the coach where they put their heads together over the room service menu. Both decided on turkey sandwiches with hot tea to drink out of deference to the hour. He wanted spiced chai latte and she chose lemon. She listened while he charmed the concierge, begging so nicely the man was probably promising to make the food himself.

By that time, Sandy had shivered her way into one of Jordan’s sweat shirts and her bare feet were in a pair of his socks. She couldn’t have looked good with the sleeves flapping over her fingers, but he continued to grin at her, and found any excuse to touch her.

Case in point, when he rolled up her cuffs he kissed the palm of her hand. And when she made silly, sexually explicit remarks in favor of salami over turkey, he kissed her cheek and burst out laughing, hugging her to his side.

She shook her head when he asked if she wanted to watch TV, and he rolled his eyes when she produced his last CD.

“Play this,” she begged, and urged him to sign the liner notes for her.

“Don’t read it until after you leave.”

Sandy promised, resisting the urge to peek when he turned away to answer the door.

A waiter wheeled in their late supper on a trolley and expertly doffed the lids to show their elaborately made sandwiches, fries and a big bowl of dark green salad. There were also two large pieces of creamy cheesecake with a graham cracker crust.

“Compliments of the chef,” the young man grinned, accepting Jordan’s ten dollar tip and bowing his way from the room.

Sandy’s mouth was watering.

“Where do you want to eat?”

She got behind the trolley and prepared to wheel it where he said, but Jordan nudged her out of the way with his hip, and began to unload onto the floor near the stereo.

“That leather sound freaks me out,” he said of the couch and Sandy laughed and pulled the plush velvet pillows from the offending couch and laid them on the carpet for them to relax on.

They munched and talked of food. Neither liked condiments, which Sandy thought was strange. She’d never met anyone who disliked ketchup with the same intensity she did, and Jordan liked relish a lot, and so did she.

“Weird,” she said, sipping when he poured her a little of his tea and sampled hers.

He even ate the way she did, one thing at a time, no mixing. First the sandwich, then the seasoned fries washed down with tea sweetened with exactly three sugar lumps per pot.

She refilled his cup and tapped the side of his fat, spring green teapot.

“This is one of my favorite colors.”

“My favorite color is brown.”

Sandy was surprised, but then grinned. He was staring at her face, obviously referring to her skin tone.

“Yeah? What shade of brown?”

“Caramel” he said, and her brows rose as she grinned.

“I want some of this cheesecake but I don’t think I can manage a whole piece.”

“They are huge,” she agreed.

“Let’s split one.”

They ate the cheesecake with separate forks, but after two bites Jordan offered her some from his fork. Sandy opened her mouth and felt her tummy flip as he watched her lips press the sweet from the tines of the fork and roll the desert around in her mouth. He stopped eating and fed her another bite. He kept feeding her until she groaned.

“Full. We’ll probably have indigestion later,” she teased, but Jordan didn’t laugh.

He was staring at her mouth.

“What?” she whispered.

“I remember when I first met you,” he said.

“You had on this tight black top and there was a tiny little bow showing on your bra that I couldn’t stop staring at. Did you do that on purpose?”

Sandy laughed.

“No! Well, sort of. I couldn’t figure out what to wear and when I finally made up my mind I realized the bra I needed was in the hamper, and that was my only alternative. It was either be a little daring or look for another shirt, and I was running out of time. I saw you looking.”

His eyes questioned her.

Sandy nodded. “I forgot most of my questions.”

“I didn’t notice,” he whispered, and kissed her.

He tasted like cream cheese and pepper from the tea, and Sandy wanted to lick his mouth clean. She tried as he pushed the room service tray aside and rolled her onto the carpet.

He ran curious hands over her shape, and she laughed when his efforts to get inside her top were thwarted by the shirts fitted waist. Without stretching or ripping the fabric, all he could do was push it up a bit and touch her stomach, which he did, measuring the softness of her belly with slow strokes.

When he eventually rolled between her legs and pressed himself against the V of her body, Sandy wanted to yell at him to rip it off, to just yank and pull until there was nothing between them but sweat, but she didn’t say a word.

She waited to see what he would do.

He had a song called Waiting on his first album. A soulful, funny little ballad that dealt with exactly the same topic they were dealing with now.

Anticipation.

He seemed to read her mind because he slowed down. He rose gracefully and stood there exploring the shape of her mouth, nuzzling his way around her ears and chin. He licked the hollow of her throat. All the while they kissed he swayed gently against her, rocking slowly from side to side, nudging his growing erection into her belly. In response she rubbed. She rubbed herself against him thoroughly, moved as sinuously as a cat scratching the full length of its spine against the jamb of a doorway. She was like water in his arms, fluid, insistent, and his breathing grew shallow as he began to shuffle her backwards toward his bedroom.

“Know where we’re going?” he asked against her lips.

She nodded, hands finding their way beneath his jeans.

He groaned when she gripped his ass with both fists and squeezed.

“Yes, you do.”

He lifted his mouth reluctantly from hers and towed her at high speed the few feet to his room. He turned on a desk lamp and light filtered softly over the bed. It was very romantic, but Sandy was too busy watching him take off his clothes to notice. He was lean, the muscles in his arms and belly clearly defined from lugging musical equipment around on tour, she assumed. He didn’t seem the type to work out.

They laughed as they fumbled with fabric and tugged at zippers and buttons before they fell on the bed in a tangle of arms and legs. Sandy plopped a hand in the middle of his heaving chest.

“Condom.”

He muttered a curse and slapped a hand to his cheek.

“Yes.”

He rose and quickly opened his suitcase. He rummaged, throwing things comically over his shoulder, and she laughed when he rose from his knees triumphantly holding a well traveled looking three-pack of Trojans aloft like an award.

He watched her, smiling slightly as he slipped out of his boxers and rolled the condom ever so slowly on.

Sandy’s lips parted as she watched his big hand stroke and lengthen an already impressive erection.

She scooted up toward the headboard and turned onto her side, unconsciously showing the curvy line of her body to advantage as she patted the bed in front of her.

He crawled toward her, nudged his way between her legs and lie there, upper body held up on two strong arms as his eyes ran slowly over her face.

He began to kiss her lazily, rolling until they were side by side, one of her legs thrown over his. He kissed her as though he could pull her secrets out with her breath, and he didn’t leave her much. He stroked her as though he could feel her emotions, gage her needs through her skin, and Sandy thought he was doing a great job. Jordan’s idea of foreplay aroused her more than some sex she’d had in the past. His fingers seemed to have been dipped into low grade electricity. Everywhere he touched seemed to vibrate and pulse with warmth and energy. It was like the extended live version of a radio hit or a remix. There was that extra creative bit of something that made your head swing on your neck like a pendulum and your shoulders and body pop and roll like corn in a hot kettle.

Her underwear was discarded somewhere in between him suckling her breasts and teasingly slapping her on the ass. She sighed as the sting sent a shot of warm tingles below her navel. The tone of kisses changed. He ate hungrily at her mouth, began to rub himself against her, groaning as her wetness covered him.

“I may have to write a song about you,” he whispered, and Sandy laughed in delight.

Laughter quickly faded into sighs and moans. Jordan made her feel ravenous. Under his hands her body behaved like a belly empty of food. In a way she had been starved, self-imposed but still starved. Now she could only be grateful to have survived a sexual drought and fallen into some of the best dick she could remember, with a star no less! He nudged the entrance of her body and groaned when her body instinctively tightened, trying to pull him in. The head slipped in and he hissed. That strong exhalation of breath became a groan when Sandy flexed her hips up and he slipped half way.

“Stop,” he whispered, panting as he tried to control himself, but Sandy didn’t stop until he was buried to the hilt and their hips were pressed flat together.

“Move,” she said, and he laughed at the tough sounding order.

To torture he teased her gently, sliding out the barest inch, then pushing forward the tiniest bit. He pulled back, pushed forward, pulled and pushed until she gasped out, “I’m dying.”

Sandy lay there, eyes closed, mouth panting, body shivering, unable to believe it had taken so little to bring her to the brink. She was shaking and quaking like some kind of humanized volcano.

“Not yet,” Jordan insisted, withdrawing and advancing slowly with a languid flexing of his thin hips.

But Sandy wasn’t listening. She threw her hips back against his, once, twice, three times. She quivered there on the knife edge of the most explosive climax she could remember, and then he leaned forward, thrust again, and caught her in just the right spot. He thrust once more, the breath caught in her throat, and it broke over her. Wave after wave of the most exquisite sensation she’d felt in an ice age, maybe ever.

“Sorry,” she gasped out.

“I couldn’t wait.”

He chuckled softly, his lower half still moving, but lanquidly now to enhance her body’s last shudders; he wasn’t done.

They made love three times that night, one time for each of the condoms. The second time seemed even more explosive than the first. Fast and hard with lots of growling and grunting and that slippery, sexy sound of flesh slapping against flesh and juices easing the way. Sandy had never enjoyed sex so much. She had never felt so comfortable with someone she’d known for such a short period of time; she’d always believed that comfort and ease were integral parts of a successful sexual experience. That was the main reason she didn’t indulge in one night stands. But this was so worth it, she thought, lying on her back and huffing gently as her heart rate slowed after bout number two.

“I’ll say,” Jordan answered, and she jumped, unaware she’d spoken aloud.

Sandy laughed, and turned to look at him. He lay on his back, hair tussled, pale skin faintly flushed. He looked half asleep lips parted like a child and darkened a rich deep red from pressure with her mouth and various other parts of her body. The bed was huge but they lay close, and when she reached out she could touch his soft lips with the tips of her fingers. He licked them softly and blinked seductively in her direction. She smiled and wondered suddenly what her hair looked like. They’d been rolling around for awhile now.

“I wish I had the strength to get up and turn off the lamp,” he whispered.

“It’s going to get light out soon.”

“I’ll do it.”

She needed the toilet.

He grunted and didn’t move as she slipped from the bed and padded to the desk. She doused the light, thinking he’d probably fall asleep before she got back to the bed.

She blinked in the bright bathroom, and her eyes narrowed to slits before her groping hand landed on the dimmer. She adjusted the harsh overhead light to a softer glow and went to pee.

Afterwards she stood briefly under the shower, gargled, then had a drink from the tap while she examined her reflection. She looked well fucked. There was no other way to describe it. Her skin was glowing. Her mouth looked full and soft, the edges curling up slightly with good feeling, and her eyes looked sleepy but satisfied. She yawned behind her hand and tried to think of a time recently when she’d had as much fun staying up late. The bathroom clock read quarter to 4. She couldn’t think of one.

Jordan had rolled onto his side and was looking at her when she came back into the room. She bent to pick up her bra. She should probably make a move.

“Put that down and come here. Lay down.”

He scooted over and patted the bed next to him.

She did.

“I turned down the air conditioning. It should warm up in here in a second.”

“Thanks,” she whispered, allowing him to stretch her out with gently stroking hands.

“You know, before we were moving pretty fast, the proverbial race to the finish line.”

“Which time?” she teased.

He grinned and licked a pattern on her belly.

“Both.”

“So?”

“So now I’d like to take my time, and I don’t want you to rush me.”

“What did you have in mind? I’m not making any promises until I know what I’m up against” she said, rolling on top of him.

“Nothing fancy, lady. I just thought I’d poke around a bit and see what turns up.”

Sandy burst out laughing and broke free.

“Where are you going?”

“It looks like I’m spending the night so I’m going to get my cell so I can set my alarm for the morning.”

“Where you gotta go?”

Sandy shrugged.

“Don’t you have to fly out early?”

“Not til 3 pm. I’ll wake you by noon. We’ll have lunch before I leave.”

“OK.” Sandy ignored the tension easing from her shoulders as she climbed back into his arms. This was a one night stand. There would be no unrequited lust or pouting or any of that other romantically inclined bullshit when they parted, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t milk the situation for every drop. She lay looking up at him, a submissive pout on her full lips.

“You were saying something about poking?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

A week later…

“Peace.”

“Sandy?”

“Yeah. Who’s this?”

“Jordan.”

Sandy almost dropped the phone. Tosha looked up in alarm when she pushed violently back from the kitchen table and leapt to her feet.

“Jordan? What are you doing?”

“Thinking about you.”

“Liar,” Sandy said, delighted.

Jordan laughed.

“Nuh-huh. I miss you.”

Tosha’s eyes had grown to three times their normal size.

“Wrote my song yet?” Sandy asked.

“No! I’m too unhappy to write.”

“I thought that’s when the best songs were written,” Sandy teased.

“Uh-uh. Actually, the best songs are written when you’re content and something sad makes you happy makes you appreciate how good not feeling sad, or missing someone, or having your heart broken really is.”

“Ah.”

“What are you doing now?” he asked.

“Talking to you.”

“Would you like to do more than talk? My plane touches down soon.”

“You’re coming to town?” she breathed, body already preparing itself.

“We’re over Lake Michigan right now.”

“I can’t wait,” she whispered, heart rate accelerating with thoughts of the pleasure she’d find in his arms.

“What hotel are you staying at?”

“The Soffitel.”

“I’ll meet you there. What time does your plane get in?”

“In 45 minutes. Be waiting at the door.”

“I promise.”

“Please Sandy.”

The faintly needy rasp in his deep voice popped the lid on her libido like the tab of a soda can.

“I’ll be there,” she insisted and hung up.

“Girl!” Tosha yelled and they did the happy dance around the kitchen.

“I can’t believe he called you!”

Sandy had told her all about their one night extravaganza the next day after Jordan left town. Tosha had sighed at the romance of it all, but romantic though she undoubtedly was, she had not asked when next they would meet.

Sandy had never really expected to hear from him again. Not even when he asked for her number. She’d just thought of it as the ‘I’ll call you,’ portion of the night when she gave him her card. She was a humble writer, and he was a star. A star musician on tour, as in there were groupies at every stop, back stage, outside the bus, and every damn place else. But she forgot all of that when she went to shower. She forgot dinner as she scrubbed down with lemon shower gel because she knew he liked the clean soft scent. He’d sniffed it out the last time they were together. She also forgot that this kind of run-when-he-calls behavior did not suit her personal standards for man dealings. She did however remember to rub her entire body with a thick expensive lotion she’d gotten on vacation in Vegas last year before she donned a close fitting, orange cotton shirt and the long version of the cranberry gauchos she’d worn to interview him.

“Condoms?” Tosha asked as she was leaving.

Sandy grinned and patted her purse.

She was sitting in the lounge drinking a beer when he arrived. She sensed him before she felt his warm lips caress her nape. She turned into his mouth and they kissed for a long, luxurious moment before they spoke.

“I missed you,” he growled into her neck, pulling her off the bar stool.

“Wait,” she begged, reaching for her drink.

“Send Corona for two and cheeseburgers and fries well done up to,” he said to the bartender and gave his room number.

The man nodded and grinned as Jordan pulled her from the bar. Jordan carried no bags, only a guitar case over one shoulder as he towed her past the front desk. His manager had checked him in before he stepped from the cab and placed his room key in his hand.

They rode the elevator with a youngish girl who kept sneaking confused looks at Jordan and envious ones at Sandy, whose hand was caught in his.

Sandy watched Jordan ignore her. He was visibly impatient. His right foot tapping steadily as his hand unclasped and clasped hers, squeeze and release, squeeze and release. She stepped closer and pushing her free hand beneath the untucked hem of his black t-shirt. She stroked his spine and watched like a cat does a mouse as he shivered, swallowed and licked his full lips until they were damp and shiny.

The young girl got off. As soon as the doors closed behind her Jordan yanked Sandy into his arms and crushed her mouth with his.

“Stop playing with me,” he ordered.

“Stop flirting and give me what I need.”

“In the elevator?” Sandy teased.

“Anywhere,” he rasped.

He lowered his head again and this time his lips took hers gently. They rubbed slowly, licked softly, sucked rhythmically when she came up on her tip toes and wound her arms around his neck.

“We’re here.”

He pulled her off the elevator and down the hall, pressed her back against the door while he struggled with the card key.

Finally the door opened and they stumbled in. The guitar hit the carpet with a thump.

He yanked her clothes off so fast Sandy began to laugh and did nothing, reasoning it would be faster to let him undress her alone. When she was naked he stripped his clothes off, and Sandy just had time to fetch the condoms from her purse before he pushed her back on the bed and came down over her. He suited up quickly then used one knee to open her legs. He nudged her, felt the dampness he’d been longing for.

“Finally,” he hissed, as though she was late to work and he was her boss.

His eyes closed as he slid inside her.

“God, I missed you,” he whispered, hands fisting on either side of her head.

Sandy wanted to agree, but could only moan when his deep sure strokes began, and soon she needed more. She pushed against his chest until he let her move to her side so she could quicken their pace. He moaned, a familiar catch and release of breath that signaled his approaching climax, and Sandy had to hurry a little bit at the end but she was content to roll onto her back and listen to their breathing return to normal.

“I’ll be glad when this tour is over.”

Sandy laughed softly without opening her eyes.

“This from the man who tours extensively after every album, including locations abroad?”

“I do love touring, but I’m tired. I want to sleep in my own bed, not one that rolls or one that belongs to a hotel.”

“I can understand that.”

“I snatched a day to come here and see you.”

Sandy stiffened but she forced herself to lie still and not turn to look at him.

“You’re not in town working?”

“Nope.”

She didn’t know what to say so she said nothing.

“Anyway, I have to leave tonight to catch up with the guys a few states over. Think you’d like to come to New York and spend some time with me in a few weeks?”

Now Sandy did turn to look at him.

He was inviting her to his home.

“You can have your own room to write.”

Her own room? How long were they talking here?

“Sure,” she said cautiously, ignoring her heart’s excited thumping.

“I can come out there for a week and hang with you.”

They made their arrangements simply. He would call and let her know when her ticket was ready; she’d pack a bag and that would be that.

“It’s just a vacation,” she told Tosha.

“An extended interlude.”

“But—!”

Sandy shook her head.

“Don’t start trippin’. This is Jordan Mitchell we’re talking about here. Mr. I-make-panties-drop-with-every-song. Don’t read any more into it.”

PART THREE

At the end of the tour Sandy went to New York with a week’s worth of underwear and her laptop. She figured he’d be working and what not so she’d be free to work too.

Jordan had a custom built studio in his home, and he was often there, in the city at meetings, or gigging as he called paying engagements. But these were few and far in between, and he usually wanted her to come with. Sandy didn’t mind tagging along. She just took notes on everything cool and smiled a lot.

“Not a big talker, hey?” Keith asked her one day.

He’d booked them a table at Pastis for lunch, and the other celebrity diners seemed to find their table very interesting.

Sandy laughed and shook her head, ignoring the attention. It helped that Jordan had his hand down the back of her pants and was squeezing her as he ran the tip of one finger along the crack of her ass.

“I’m a writer.”

Their presence at Pastis was the first of many appearances that the paparazzi captured and reported to the tabloids. She began to get calls asking questions, which she thought was a trip since as a reporter she was used to asking for information.

“I actually said no comment today for the first time ever,” she told Jordan who laughed at her glee.

But she was smart enough to leverage her new publicity into a few writing gigs and her week turned into two, then three.

As the end of the third week approached Jordan and Sandy were snuggled under several blankets in his bed watching an old Marilyn Monroe movie on the classics channel.

“I need to go home,” she said.

Half asleep, it took Jordan a minute to catch up.

“For how long?”

She laughed softly.

“What do you mean for how long? I live there!”

“I want you to come back.”

“For how long?” she said echoing him.

“A month. I’ll pay the rent on your apartment. I know being out of Chicago is screwing up your work situation.”

“Actually it’s not. I’ve picked up a few gigs here thanks to our pictures in the tabloids,” she giggled.

There had been a great picture of him making a horrendous face while she fed him a bite of yogurt in the paper yesterday. They’d been sitting in a very untrendy diner from the night before. God knew how the photographers found them.

“Well, I’ll still cover your rent,” he insisted. “You’ve got other bills to keep up to date I’m sure.”

Sandy went home a few days later, and Jordan went with her. They ended up staying for a week. Tosha was wonderful. She made herself so scarce Sandy felt bad and told her roommate not to feel like she had to stay out.

“I’ve got a room for privacy, ding-dong. You don’t have to be gone all day.”

“I’m not. I’m working in the lab.”

Tosha was an apprentice jewelry designer, and she shared a studio on the north side.

“Trust me. I’d rather be here in ya’ll’s face, but when the muse calls, I answer!”

It was quieter in Chicago, fewer interruptions and distractions, and they were able to focus on each other. Of course Jordan’s cell chirped frequently, but he ignored it, preferring to handle business during the day to free their evenings and nights. They explored all of Sandy’s favorite museums, restaurants, and stores, and Jordan insisted they visit all the blues and jazz spots like The Green Dolphin and Buddy Guy’s Legends. They held hands and laughed as they walked along Michigan Avenue, trysted in movie theaters, and kissed in the deserted corridors of the grocery store late at night.

Once, when they went to one of her old high school friend’s party she gave him a blow job in the park behind the house. He returned the favor by joining her downtown after she’d finished working a temp job.

Before dinner at Bandera they made use of the large cavernous space under the law firm conference table to check the carpet for lost earring backs. That was their story anyway.

Sunday night Jordan helped her pack for the return trip to New York. They had an early flight Monday; Jordan had to be there for an afternoon meeting.

“I won’t need that,” she said, when he put her thick toweling robe into the suitcase.

“It won’t be cold enough for months. I need to give some of this shit away,” she muttered, looking at the bomb they’d exploded in her bedroom.

“Jordan. Will you stop stuffing shit in there? You think I can’t see you? I do not wanna lug this gargantuan suitcase all over O’Hare!” she laughed.

“Why don’t we have one of those services come over and pack up all your things and ship them? Then we could go have a drink.”

“I can’t afford that, and I don’t want all my stuff. I only need enough for a few weeks.”

He pouted, but brightened to suggest that she stow some of her things in his suitcase. He was convinced she didn’t have everything she needed, and he didn’t want her to do without.

“We can buy whatever, but I want you to be comfortable. I’m most comfortable when I have all my things around me.”

Me too, Sandy thought, but I’ll never have all my things around me at your house. She kept this less than stellar observation to herself though. She was very careful not to say anything that might give him the impression she was angling for more than what they had. What that was, she refused to try and define. She would not begin hatching plans about Jordan Mitchell, who’d probably slept with more people on one tour than she had in her entire life. She would simply enjoy their interlude while it lasted.

“Can you get me that big, ragged-edged book with the multi-colored pages from that drawer?”

He opened the drawer she indicated, reached in and began to laugh.

“Wha—?”

He was holding up a partially smoked joint.

“Were you just gonna keep holding out?” He teased. “Let’s light this sucker and watch a movie.”

Sandy laughed. “Help yourself though I’m not at all sure you should be smoking with your voice. I don’t know what’s in there now,” she said pointing to the remote.

“My old concert DVD,” Jordan found.

“I can’t believe you’re still watching this.”

“I like to roll one and smoke while I listen, maybe write a short while the music seeps in.”

“Yeah?” He whispered, lighting the joint.

“I look at your hands and your face while you sing. It helps me feel it, the way you play that guitar,” her voice trailed off as though carried by smoke.

She put aside her packing and her finger meandered slowly from his zipper to his chin, ran over his bottom lip.

“Watching you perform is beautiful,” she said quietly, pulling deep when he passed.

“It makes me want to crawl inside you and take a nap. When you did that John Mayer tune ‘Man on the Side’ I fell a little in love with you, you know? It was so sexy. You gave it your all, and the audience loved it.”

She exhaled, inhaled deeply again.

“You were in great voice and when you hit that second chorus.” She shook her head and her lips brushed his.

“It damn near brought a tear to my eye. It was perfect.”

She held the joint to his lips, watched them press together as he sucked in smoke.

“Women screaming like that,” she asked suddenly.

“What does it do to your head?”

Jordan laughed and grabbed her by the waist.

“You are something else, you know that? I sound great. What did you do by yourself before I came?” She rubbed against him, hard.

Every soft part ground slowly against every hard part of him as she stretched against his body.

“When you tell that story about being six and rubbing your face against your mothers’ friends’ stockings?”

She sucked rhythmically on his tongue.

She’d pulled his pants down. The joint had been discarded in the ashtray. She lifted her skirt and settled herself above his hips.

“I almost peed myself laughing. When people sing your shit back to you,” she began, as the tip of him slipped into the top of her.

“It feels like this,” he told her and rolled her on to her back.

“Tell me more of what you like about me,” he grinned, licking delicately at her ear lobe, the satiny scented patch of skin behind it.

Their hips slid together with a bump and he moaned softly.

Sandy kissed him, a soft, barely there type kiss that had him thrusting into her as fast and hard as he could. She smiled into the damp salty flesh where his arm joined his body.

“Does it make you wanna fuck when people rock out to your music? When all those girls are clapping and screaming your name and holding up signs saying ‘Do Me’ and –”

He growled and came down over her like a tornado, all fast moving limbs and hot breath as he drove himself in and rocked until she thought her heart would burst from her chest and dance around the room.

“I know whenever I hear your music, I just wanna hop on and fuck you until the music stops” She whispered, when they lay together catching their breath.

“Yeah?” He asked. “Well, I don’t need any musical stimuli to make love to you.”

Make love. Not fuck. Nope, Sandy told herself later when her blood had cooled and her heart had settled down. I’m not taking the bait. She looked at Jordan’s sleeping face and as her eyes traced his plump, parted lips and her ears and spirit relaxed to the sound of his gentle breathing, she warned herself not to start drawing writer-like distinctions between words. He was just being sweet. It doesn’t mean anything, she told herself for the dozenth time.

But it became harder and harder to make herself believe that. When they went back to New York this time, Jordan insisted she use the drawers. She’d refused before saying she didn’t want to throw off his space for such a short visit. Now he ignored her and dumped her things in next to his without asking. He shoved his clothes aside in the closet, found some empty hangers and would have stood there hanging her things had she not laughed and shooed him away.

“Go make a hit record,” she told him. “I got this.”

And when people came by for an impromptu party the next night, he kept her on his lap or her hand in his, clearly articulating their close relationship to some of the biggest music producers and artists in the business. When he was invited to a party that weekend, he insisted on taking her shopping to find something to wear when she said she’d rather stay in.

“I didn’t bring the right gear to hobnob with those kinds of people.”

“I told you we should have hired a packing service,” he told her.

Sandy called Tosha to whine.

“What is your problem?” Tosha asked irritably.

“It’s like you’re trying to sabotage this thing through disconnection or something. Do you think that man would be flying your ass around and shacking you up at his house if he didn’t care? As you keep pointing out he is Jordan Mitchell, and while you are very cute, funny and all the rest, Naomi Campbell you ain’t, sans temper tantrums of course!”

Sandy burst out laughing and Tosha did too, but she continued very seriously.

“If you feel like you can’t talk about the relationship yet, fine, but don’t be so quick to step back from it. Especially when it seems like Jordan is doing everything he can to step forward. It’s a dress for God’s sake! Be grateful he’s not a frickin’ miser, or one of these nutballs who think that independent women don’t get gifts or they’re gold diggers.”

Sandy thought about what her friend said and when Jordan got home from the studio she asked him what kind of dress they should buy since she’d heard of one or two stores in New York that she wanted to check out and…

He just laughed.

“I see that shopping gene I thought you’d somehow been born without has reasserted itself! No time like the present. Let’s go now. The shops will be open for a few more hours.”

They browsed and looked and Sandy tried things on. Watching Jordan closely for signs of impatience as the sales girls fawned over him, Sandy saw nothing out of the ordinary. He seemed to enjoy having her paraded around in front of him for his approval, which he gave or withheld like some pale Middle Eastern pasha. They finally settled on a strapless red velvet dress with a handkerchief hem. She looked soft and very feminine with her plump bosom on display and the softly jagged hem fluttering around her shapely legs.

The party was a mix of glam and ultra casual. Jordan of course was wearing jeans but when Sandy saw what some of the other women were wearing she was glad she’d made an effort. Tosha had Fedex’d a faux ruby necklace she’d designed to go with the dress and it collected lots of compliments from men and women nestled as it was in the curves of her breasts.

Jordan held her hand as they walked around greeting this person and that one, and when they met up with an old friend he hadn’t seen in awhile, he did something so shocking, Sandy’s mouth almost fell open.

“Tommy! Where’ve you been?” Jordan laughed, thumping a short round man on the back.

He tugged Sandy forward.

“This is my girlfriend Sandy. Sandy, meet Tommy Tisdale, my other favorite writer.”

Sandy, smiling with her hand out, froze, and the round mans’ eyes narrowed speculatively, but he greeted her nicely.

“So this is the mystery girl I’ve been hearing and seeing so much about. And you’re a writer.”

“Yeah, that’s me. The mystery writer,”

Sandy said in her deadpan, sarcastic way and everyone standing nearby laughed, including Tommy.

“What kind of writing do you do?” she asked, and Tommy obligingly launched into his historical research and documentary work on the blues genre of music.

Sandy looked as though she was listening attentively but she only heard every third word. The word girlfriend was ricocheting around her brain like a boomerang, and she had to force herself not to stare at Jordan and/or demand an explanation.

“And what did you learn from Tommy when you two were hanging out?” she asked Jordan when a long pause indicated that Tommy was done speaking.

“Not how to play I hope,” and their area of the room rocked with laughter.

Jordan laughed and looked so smug and pleased with her that Sandy had to blink back tears. This is really happening, she realized. I’m Jordan Mitchell’s girlfriend.

Eventually their little group disbanded as people searched out drink refills, the buffet and other groups of people, and when she and Jordan were alone he whispered, “I hope you don’t mind me telling people you’re my girlfriend. I guess I should have asked you first, but it slipped out.”

“I don’t mind,” she said quietly, adding “As long as you mean it.”

It was her first commitment-like comment.

“I mean it,” he told her, kissing the back of her hand, still joined with his.

All of a sudden Sandy was so horny and fired up she couldn’t stand it. Her eyes narrowed on Jordan’s face and his got big as he watched her. She looked around the room. The party was being held in someone’s huge upper west side apartment and Sandy quickly located a corridor that led off to the bedrooms. She pulled him discretely along, pausing impatiently while people greeted him and she was introduced until they reached a bedroom that had its own bath. She pulled them in, shut both doors and her hands went immediately to his belt and zip.

“There’s a condom in my purse. Get it out,” she ordered.

Jordan quickly found it in her little evening bag.

“You must have been a girl scout,” he breathed.

She had him out of his clothes now and stroked him firmly until his dick stood straight out from his clothes.

“Brownie drop out,” she told him, lifting her hem as she pushed him onto the closed lid of the toilet and positioned herself over him.

“But I figure since my boyfriend is one of the sexiest musicians on the game, I should always be ready.”

Jordan groaned, his face buried in her cleavage as she slowly sheathed him and began to ride.

“Slow down. No stop, stop!”

Of course she didn’t and he shuddered and cursed while she laughed. He lifted her off him and propped her against the sink while he righted his clothes and disposed of the condom. Then his face was between her legs. Sandy’s hands clutched the sink and a few minutes later she had to bite her lip to keep from making noise as she came. Jordan licked and sucked until the last tremor faded and Sandy, heavy lidded and so relaxed she could have napped for hours, sighed happily.

They washed up and laughed as they set the bathroom and their clothes in order. When they emerged found another couple trysting on the bed.

“Sorry,” Jordan laughing at the woman’s open mouthed horror as they sped by.

The man between her legs barely noticed them.

“Let’s go home,” Jordan whispered, but when they went for their coats, Keith had someone in tow who Jordan had to meet, and he was reluctantly dragged off in one direction while she went in another.

She had to call Tosha. There had been another small room on the other side of the kitchen, and finding it empty, Sandy closed the door and dialed.

Tosha sighed romantically when she learned what had happened. She laughed when she learned about the bathroom sex.

“Now do you believe me?”

“I have to. He’s introducing me as his girlfriend. I’m shocked on one hand, elated on the other, and if I had one more hand I’d probably be standing somewhere on Maxwell street banging it against my head like a nut.”

“This is bigger than a Greek town crazy, my girl. He’d gonna tell you he loves you soon I bet.”

“It’s only been like two months!”

“Which means nothing,” Tosha said shortly. “Time is relative and completely unrelated to feelings. Stop trying to define shit by those dumb society rules and just open your heart and enjoy him!”

“Open my heart and enjoy him,” Sandy repeated. “And if my open heart begins to love him, then what?”

“Then we’ll both have open hearts that love each other,” Jordan said.

Sandy spun around and found him standing there in the open doorway. She’d been so engrossed in the conversation she hadn’t heard him approach.

“Did he hear you?” Tosha yelled so loud they both heard her.

“Call you back,” and Sandy hung up.

They stared at each other without speaking, the word love shimmering between them like a wraith. Jordan was giving her the soft look he sometimes got when she did something silly to make him laugh and he had to squeeze her until she squeaked.

“I think I love you,” she blurted.

“I know I love you,” he answered calmly.

“Now let’s go home.”

And they did.

Jordan and Sandy spent that night making love. No fucking, no having sex, this was different. It was slower for one thing, and there was more touching and stroking. Jordan savored the soft texture of her skin, and Sandy’s fingers enjoyed twining in the tiny curls of his chest hair. He snuggled into her arms, twining their arms and legs until a sudden separation would have ‘caused either or both of them an injury. He popped her nipple into his mouth and suckled contentedly while she drowsed in his arms, enjoying the gentle tugs and their radiating sensations. Whenever they had sex before it was like someone lit a fuse and they exploded, now it was almost like they had never touched before, and Sandy supposed they hadn’t, since they hadn’t touched each other with love. Jordan sensed it too.

“I’ve never felt like this before,” he whispered into the soft damp flesh of her neck.

Sandy kissed him softly.

“Me either, baby.”

“That’s the first time you’ve called me baby that way,” he informed her, and Sandy’s husky laugh sounded perfect in the dark. As did her sweet apology. She whispered to him that she was sorry for doubting him, and for holding back before. She admitted that she’d done so out of fear and told briefly of a terrible heart break a few years before that had left her with a well of bitterness so deep she’d found it tough to climb out. She was brutally honest when she admitted that she’d guarded her heart selfishly and told him that she would give him her all from now on, and that’s what she expected from him as well.

“If you ever get to a point where—”

His kiss stopped her words.

“Stop looking for the end,” he told her. “I’m honest and so are you, and if there comes a time that one of us falls out of love we can handle it, and we’ll handle it without savaging each other.”

Sandy sighed. “I was lonely,” she told him quietly.

“So was I,” Jordan agreed.

“But now we’re together, and we’ll love every minute that we have.”

And they did. Jordan and Sandy officially went public with their love story in a feature she created for Rolling Stone on musicians’ girlfriends a month later. The toughest thing about making the transition from devoted fan to musician girlfriend is not getting used to the paparazzi, she wrote. It’s not getting used to the attention or the privilege or any of the peripheral things that come along with celebrity. The toughest thing is not blending love of a person with love of the music, nor separating the two. The toughest thing about the relationship is like anything involving love, she wrote, in the easy, relatable manner that kept her working long after the novelty of her status as Jordan’s lady wore off. When you’re in love, no matter what stage, the hardest thing is giving your heart and all that it entails freely. It’s like a song. The music can wash over you like warm sweet water but if your ears aren’t attuned to the sounds, the beauty flows right out and lands in a pool with everything and anything. And if you’re not careful the strains of your particular love song end up floating in that stagnant pool or maybe drifting in an ocean of bad feelings from your past and worries about your future. In reality, as in that song, all you have is the moment, that pleasure, that time, that music and that man.