Tease (Songs of Submission #2)(2)

“Yeah, I was just thinking.”

“About what? You just stopped dead in the middle of the floor.”

“Nothing. I’m sorry.”

“You have Ute Yanix on seven. Please, if you need a sick day, let me know. Otherwise—” She twisted her hand at the wrist to let me know it was time to get moving. I ran to Ute Yanix’s table with a smile and an apology. I took the actress’s order with a temporarily clear head that got muddied by thoughts of Jonathan’s belly hair just three minutes later.

Two weeks ago before I’d met Jonathan, I felt like a normal person. I worked. I sang. I bitched about my manager. I took care of Gabby and drank a little too much. I pleasured myself maybe once a week if I thought of it. I went from place to place, daydreaming about winning a Grammy or ruining my ex-boyfriend’s life forever. I didn’t realize how much time I’d spent plotting Kevin’s demise, but when I stopped, I filled the spaces with Jonathan.

After Jonathan, my brain seemed hard-wired for sex. I walked around in a state of constant arousal. The past year and a half had caught up with me like a train crashing into a wall. After the initial impact, the rest of the train kept moving, pushing into that front car until eighteen months of desire got squashed into two weeks.

The afternoon following my first night at his house, he sent me a text message from some lounge at LAX. He thanked me for a great night and made promises I didn’t believe he meant at all, and then… nothing. I didn’t expect anything. He wasn’t my boyfriend. He wasn’t even my lover. He was some guy I used to work for who happened to get me into bed after I’d spent a year and a half intentionally celibate. He opened a jack-in-the-box of sexuality by turning a handle I didn’t even know I had.

He’d done a whole list of little things before that, naturally. He’d been confident and charming and vulnerable all at once. He had a way of touching me that felt like static electricity without the shock, and he made me come like no man ever had before. Scratch that. I’d never even made myself come like that.

The hot heaviness between my legs was why I ran home from work most days, shut the bathroom door behind me and masturbated like a thirteen year-old. I had trouble functioning outside of work, too. I’d sent my band manager, Vinny, a termination notice littered with typos, fielded a call from Eugene Testarossa’s assistant mid-mast***ation session and stopped eating. My friend Darren had started cooking for me and watching me like a hawk.

The only thing I could do better than ever was sing.

Fuck, I was on fire. Rehearsals with Gabby, my pianist and best friend, were almost as good as the sex eating my mind. She and I could do no wrong. I could make changes on the fly, and she went with it. Two weeks ago, I’d been ashamed to sing old-time standards at a dinner club, but the performances of the past two weeks had drawn the attention of the agents at WDE. That night, they were coming to see us. Our version of Under My Skin would send Sinatra running and Stormy Weather would make it rain in L.A. In my life, I’d never felt better about my work.

I just needed to keep my mind on the paying job.

“You playing again tonight?” Robert asked as he poured alcohol into iced glasses.

“Yeah,” I said. “Late set.”

“I’m glad I saw you last week. You were hot.”

“Thanks.” The compliment was about the extent of Robert’s vocabulary, and I accepted it with a smile.

“You been okay?” he asked. “You just stopped moving for a second earlier. I wondered if you were going to fall over or something.”

“I’m fine. Just a little distracted.”

“Probably the music. Got your mind in the game.” He winked and clicked his tongue on his teeth. He was a nice guy but a bit of a douchebag.

I took care of Ute Yanix and the rest of my tables, making a concerted effort to smile and keep my mind on my job.

Toward the middle of my shift, I saw Debbie talking to a big woman by the door. The big woman wore grey, pleated pants and a matching grey jacket with darker velvet lapels.

“Who’s that with Debbie?” I asked Robert as I handed him a ticket.

“Dunno, but I wouldn’t wanna meet her, or him, in a dark alley.”

The woman was built like a rectangle topped with a blond-tipped brown mullet. Her left ear was encircled by small silver hoops from lobe to helix.

“I’m sure it’s a her,” I whispered. “She doesn’t look like a customer.”

“She probably has a script under her shirt,” he murmured, keeping quieter than the white noise of the instrumental trip-hop.

“Rolf Wente’s at table six. Maybe she wants to drop it in his lap.”

“He’ll read page one if she sucks his dick.”

“He can read?”

We giggled, trying to keep quiet for the lunchtime crowd. I swooped up my tray and delivered my drinks, took an order, and checked on the rest of my tables. I forgot about the lady in the grey suit until I went back to the service bar and saw her standing with Debbie, looking at me as though I was the reason she was there. Robert arched an eyebrow at me, and I told him to shut the hell up with my pursed lips and narrowed eyes.

“Hi,” I said when I reached Debbie and The Rectangle.

“Monica,” Debbie said, “this is Lily.”

“You can call me Lil.” The Rectangle had a genuine smile and feminine voice.