Thursday evening I stayed late on campus while Hadley went out to dinner with Asha and Trey. When I’d asked my Jazz Composition instructor what it would take to win some time in the music department’s recording studio, I thought it was a major favor. Instead, he said he’d sit at the console and give me a few hours.
“Come on in and I’ll play it back,” Professor Monroe said through the intercom.
I set my acoustic guitar in the stand. In the control room, I took a seat on the couch.
Charles Monroe was a legit jazz and blues authority and underappreciated legend. Though he wasn’t a household name outside the scene, the sixty-year-old had played with or mentored some of the greatest contributors to the genre since Art Tatum and Benny Goodman were at their peaks. Basically, the man was a certified badass and a seriously wicked musician.
He leaned back in the rolling leather chair behind the vintage Neve recording console. Together we listened to the recorded playback of the tracks I’d just laid down. Monroe wore about six different varieties of the same plaid shirt with dress pants and leather loafers. Every day. He was a little guy, too. About five foot three and maybe a hundred pounds dipped in solid gold.
When Monroe laughed, which he did often, the sound was harmonic and infectious. His cheeks crinkled up so high his black eyes were nothing more than tiny slits below thick eyebrows. In class, I always preferred to picture him behind a piano with a blue spotlight sparking off the lacquer top and a lit cigarette resting in an ashtray beside a shot of bourbon.
He swiveled in his chair to face me with a hard look. I fidgeted, flicking my tongue piercing between my teeth. One look and I was a nervous fuck.
“Why are you bringing that weak shit to my class when you can write music like this?” he asked with not an ounce of humor.
I was at a loss. In fact, I just stared at him like a deaf moron until he spoke again.
“That”—he pointed toward the recording stage on the other side of the window—“is some serious passion, man. That is music. I’m sitting in here getting chills and thinking about girls I kissed in tenth grade and thirty years ago when my pop died. Where does that come from and why ain’t you bringing it with you every time I see you?”
“I...” No, that was much better. A full syllable that time. Frustrated with myself, I ran a hand through my hair. “I’ve been stuck.”
Monroe rolled his chair toward me and leaned forward on his elbows. “It ain’t stuck, son. What you laid down in there is all heart and hate and deep soul-searching questions that only have answers in the notes. That sterile bullshit you shill in class is—”
“Bullshit,” I stated for him. “Yeah. I know.”
“So?”
I leaned back, stretching my legs. “I am stuck. I haven’t written anything halfway decent in weeks. But this stuff is old.”
“Written for the piano.”
“Yeah.”
“It shows.” Monroe relaxed back in his seat and crossed one ankle over his knee. “But that’s how damn good it is. Because those songs still rumble your gut on six strings. What changed?”
I looked up, debating whether to answer the loaded question. Ordinarily, I would have dismissed the topic and shut down. Telling Monroe to fuck off would have made me an ungrateful prick.
“My mom died,” I said. “She taught me to play. And some other bad shit happened around the same time. It was a rough period.”
“So you quit?” His brow furrowed and Monroe looked at me like I’d told him I’d cut off my own nose to appease the Lord of Daffodils that resided in my anus.
“Well, uh, yeah.” My knee bounced. I forced it still with my broken hand and went about tonguing my lip ring instead. “She died on the bench while we were playing together.”
He exhaled, shaking his head. “That is rough. I get ya. And grief like that is the best damn reason to keep writing, keep playing. Man, we all got shit. I grew up in the South in the fifties,” he told me. “You don’t think I got sadness? The world is fucked. Life’s a bitch. And music makes it worth repeating every day. Damn, Josh. The best music is written from sorrow. If you don’t know that,” he said while shaking his head again, “I ain’t taught you nothin’.”
“It’s this.” I held out my left hand. The right was no different except it was wrapped in a cast. Suspended in midair, my hand vibrated. “Thinking about my mom, thinking about playing, remembering how she died, this is what happens.”
Monroe watched me shake with a critical eye until I dropped my arm in my lap, defeated. I wasn’t a musician if I couldn’t control my hands.
Following a long silence, he spoke again. “Rusty Grabe said he couldn’t play sober. He had stage fright so bad he tossed up in a mop bucket until he passed out before his first set at The Cooler. The man threw fists and would have bit your ear off rather than get dragged onstage without three shots of whiskey. So, one day, the boys and I mixed up some nasty shit. It was black as tar, tasted like charred pig turds, and shoved it down his throat.” He laughed, making me smile despite myself. “He got up there and killed.
“And Joey Connor developed Parkinson’s. Shook like a leaf from head to toe. So he comes to me after fifteen years and says he can’t play live anymore. He can cut records, the engineer can always piece together the good takes, but Joey was too embarrassed to get up in front of a crowd. Well, I told that sumbitch that we’d put his piano on springs and get some big fellas to shimmy the floor underneath him. That way the whole thing balances out.”
Monroe turned around and faced the console. “Come by my office after two tomorrow. I’ll have this ready for you.”
* * *
I missed my father the most when he was home. That logic was all backward, yes. I rarely thought about it during the months we spent talking on the phone. When he came to visit, it was then that I recalled how good it was to have him around. I missed the gleam of fatherly pride in his eyes. The way he hugged me as if every time I let him touch me was a gift. The sincere tone of his voice when he said he loved me. Every time he got on a plane to return to New York, I almost went with him.
My fingers pressed to the frets and my cast-wrapped hand strummed across the strings. I played the same incomplete, disjointed bars of the song that had consumed me for weeks. The chord echoed off the cement wall of the garage, mocking me.
I felt Simon standing behind me in the doorway.
“You can come in,” I said. “I’m just messing around.” I set the acoustic guitar aside and cleared off a chair for my dad. It was well past midnight. I’d left Hadley asleep in her bed upstairs an hour ago.
“Actually,” he said as I turned to face him, “I was hoping my son would have a drink with me.” My dad smiled, leaning against the doorway. “Perhaps a cigar.”
“Doctor,” I said, “I’m surprised at you.”
“Little vices, Josh. They’re good for the soul.”
“You’ll get no argument from me.”
With a bottle of brandy and two cigars, we retired to the back patio. The air was crisp, a slight breeze carrying the fragrant smoke away. We reclined in the matching Adirondack chairs.
“That one is new,” he said. Simon nodded at the tattoo over my ribs.
“Yeah. Got it a few weeks ago. What do you think?” I raised my arm, leaning forward so he could examine the image in the glow cast by the security lights.
“It’s…creative.”
I laughed, resting back in the chair. “I figured as much.”
“Hadley drew it?”
“Of course.”
“Any new holes I should be aware of?” The corner of his mouth turned up in that way he had, trying not to appear too amused with his eccentric son.
“Nope. All accounted for since your last visit.”
Telling my father about piercing my cock had been the most awkward part of the entire episode. I must have asked him a dozen times over the ensuing months if it would ever fully heal. I blew a ring of smoke, watching the circle of opaque particles widen and dissipate as it traveled. The brandy burned my tongue and warmed my throat, the perfect complement.
“Hadley seems well,” Simon said. “She’s happy.”
“She’s glad you’re home. It’s been a tough week. Some days are better than others.”
“I might have noticed a few new dents in the walls.”
“There’s that. But she’s trying really hard. She’ll get there.”
“And you?”
“I believe in her. I know she can beat this thing. I’m just working to keep it together, you know? Be supportive.”
“I have no doubts on either count.”
That right there was perhaps the most significant of all the many reasons I loved my father; he had an unwavering faith in me, even if I didn’t believe I deserved it. That sort of faith has a way of influencing a person. A man as good and honorable as Simon inspired me to be a better person, if only because letting him down was such an unappealing prospect.
“I’m happy you’ve agreed to therapy.”
“Let’s not make a thing of it,” I said. “It was a reasonable course of action, considering the circumstances.”
“You made the right decision.” Simon puffed on his cigar, closing his eyes as his head tilted back. “I miss it here the most when I return.”
“I know exactly what you mean.”
We sat in comfortable silence until our cigars were only stubs between our fingers and our glasses held more air than liquid. My headache, which had been a constant annoyance lately, dissipated with the tension in my shoulders. I felt relaxed for the first time in a while. Enjoying my father’s company, appreciating the serenity of our remote property, was just what I needed.
“Is this a private party?” I looked over my shoulder to see Hadley stepping out to the patio in those damn little shorts and my sweatshirt. Bless that girl. “Menfolk doing men things and all that.”
“Come here, sweetheart.” I held the cigar between my teeth and grabbed her around the waist, dropping her in my lap. “See? The view just improved.”
She rolled her eyes and smiled, embarrassed. “Your son is shameless,” she told Simon. “I don’t know where he gets it.” Hadley yanked the cigar from my mouth and pressed a quick kiss to my lips before taking a drag.
“Never stop courting,” he answered. “A touch of charm will earn a lot of forgiveness.”
That was my new favorite discovery about her. Punky had always been shit at taking compliments—she used to punch me in the arm for saying she was pretty—but now a few sweet nothings had her blushing like the Pope at a Boy Scout jamboree. It did good things for my ego.
“You love it,” I told her.
“You’re only half as clever and a third as charming as you think you are,” she said. Punky gave me back the cigar, then swiped my brandy snifter.
“That’s still twice as good as the next guy.”
“Well, I should get to bed,” my father announced. Subtle.
“Good night, Dad.”
“Night, Simon.”
He patted my shoulder as he passed, bending down to press a kiss to the top of Hadley’s head. “Good night,” he answered. “See you in the morning. And happy birthday.” Simon stepped inside and closed the door behind him.
“That’s right. It’s after midnight.” I set the cigar aside and took the glass from Hadley’s hand. Taking her cheek in my palm, I brought her lips to mine. “Happy birthday, Punky.” She tasted like cigar and brandy, and it was the hottest fucking flavor on her tongue.
“What’d you get me?” Hadley draped her arms over my shoulders, her eyes bright and expectant.
“Not telling. You’ll have to wait.” I cradled her to my chest, running my hand up and down her bare leg.
“It’s officially my birthday. I want my present now.”
“Too bad.”
“Josh.”
“Hadley.”
“I want it now,” she repeated with a bit more demand in her tone.
“Say it again.”
“I want it.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah, baby. I want it so bad. Give it to me now.” Hadley put on her best porn-voice impression, cracking me up.
“You naughty thing.” I squeezed her ass. “You know I can’t resist when you beg.”
“So I can have my gift?” Her smile brightened with her excited expression.
“No. But I’ll give you a ride on my cock.”
She smacked the side of my head, pouting. “You suck.”
“I’ll suck, lick, bite…whatever you want, sweetheart.” I pulled her closer. Hadley swerved when I went for her lips, so I attacked her neck instead.
“A hint?” she begged.
“You’ll have to wait and see.” I kissed along the underside of her jaw and down the blue vein while my left hand moved inside the front of her sweatshirt to capture a handful of her breast. “This isn’t the liquor talking,” I said, “and I’m not just flattering you because I’d like to get inside you in the immediate future.” I brushed my thumb over her nipple, feeling it constrict under my touch. “But you have my favorite set of tits in the world, Punky. Museum quality.”
She jerked away. “Did you really just say that?”
“Goddamn right I did.” I hoisted her up and sat her astride my hips.
“How do you do that?” she asked with a sweet smile. My smile.
“Do what?”
“Be so perfect all the time. You’re not living up to your reputation as an insufferable prick.”
“I am that,” I admitted. “And I’m not perfect.” I urged her lips to mine again. “I only need to be perfect for you.”
“Shut up and screw me,” she laughed, nipping my lip. “You’ve earned it.” I gripped the underside of both thighs, sitting forward to lift us up. “No,” she said. “Here.”
I sat back, appraising her. “Here? Really?”
“Mmm-hmm.” Hadley kissed my jaw and traced her fingers over my shoulders. “I like it out here.”
“Simon—”
“I seriously doubt your dad is going to come looking for us.”
“Can you keep your voice down?”
I pinched her nipple. She yelped and the sound turned to a deep moan when I tugged on it.
“That’s a no.”
Hadley was a loud lover. A fact I rather enjoyed, but my father didn’t need the soundtrack. We were much closer to his bedroom out here than upstairs in one of our rooms. Although, the way sound traveled through the house, it might not matter where we were.
“I’ll be good,” she whispered. Hadley sat back on my lap, dipping her head to flick her tongue over one of my nipples, teasing the piercing. She looked up from under her lashes. “Promise.”
“You’ll do no such thing.” I tugged the sweatshirt over her head and pulled her forward. She arched her back, shoving her tit in my mouth.
Hadley writhed in my lap, grinding her hot cunt over my erection. With my right hand around her hips, I encouraged her movements. My teeth scraped the tight peak of her nipple. Her hands went to my hair, tugging and holding me there. I tended to the other breast, flicking my tongue piercing across the sensitive tip.
“Damn it, Josh.”
Her hands dropped to my jeans, ripping at the buttons until each one popped open. Punky’s greedy fingers found my dick and pulled it free. I thrust into her hand, then pushed Hadley back until her feet met the floor.
“Off,” I said as I snapped the elastic band of her shorts with one finger.
With my left hand, I stroked my cock, appreciating the view of her half naked in front of me. Teasing me, she slipped her shorts and underwear to the floor in a slow, deliberate movement.
“Come here,” I said, and tugged her to straddle me.
Hadley grabbed the back of my neck with one hand, the other fisting my cock to guide me in. I groaned and pressed my forehead to hers as she sank down, my dick prying open her tight channel. Cradling her ass in my lap with my broken hand, I moved my left between us to rub circles over her clit. Hips working back and forth, she didn’t lift one inch, just sliding her ass across my thighs with me burrowed deep inside her.
I found her lips, kissing her hard. I love you, they said. I worship you. You fucking own me and please don’t ever take this away from me.
Hadley’s forehead fell to my shoulder and she held on. Muffled noises of anticipation were concealed behind her clenched teeth and clasped lips.
“Hang on to me,” I said.
Hadley’s arms closed around the back of my neck. Hoisting us up from the chair, I took two strides and pressed her back against a pillar. Bracing her there, I swept both her legs over my arms. With more freedom to move in this position, I slammed into her. Again and again our bodies collided in a speedy rhythm. Her muscles tensed. I felt her snug hole clench around my cock.
“That’s it, sweetheart.”
A tiny scream burst from her lips. The sound lasted only a split second before her teeth clamped down on my shoulder, silencing her announcement of completion. The sharp sting of pain shocked my system. I came hard, unable to stop myself. Bracing my body against Hadley, her back to the pillar, I panted in exhaustion. Every muscle tingled and shook. I was barely fucking standing, so I backed up and took her with me as I fell into the chair.
“Fucking hell,” I hissed. “Punky?” My hand combed through her hair. “You can let go now.”
Her teeth retreated, leaving an impression in my shoulder. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be.” I stroked my fingers up and down her spine. My dick twitched inside her. “That was fucking spectacular.”
She nuzzled against my neck and ran her nose along the sweaty column, her lips leaving kisses along my throat. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” I answered. And then I opened my eyes to the black spots still littering my vision. “Actually, yeah. Really okay.”
So fucking beautiful with her cheeks flushed red, her eyes sleepy, and her hair a wild mess.
“You didn’t have an attack.”
“No.”
“That’s good.” Her lips turned up and stopped before they revealed a full smile. As if she was reluctant to celebrate this fact. “Why not?”
“No idea. And I’m not going to linger on the thought.” I swiped my thumb over her bottom lip. “Maybe we’ll just have to make love standing up from now on.”
She laughed, burrowing her face against my neck. “I feel like I just got punched in the uterus.”
My head fell back and I laughed with a full voice. “Goddamn, Punky. Such romance. Such poetry.”
“Fuck off. That thing needs a warning label.”
“I’ll do it. I’ll get a surgeon general’s warning tattooed on my cock.”
“Will you stop it with that?” Hadley sat up, grabbing my jaw. “I like your dick just the way it is. No more ink or hardware on that part. Okay?”
“Whatever you say, sweetheart. He is your humble servant.”