CHAPTER TEN
Jericho
As the sun set on Tuesday I wound my way through an offshoot of Benedict Canyon, trying to follow the directions Nick gave me. The higher I went, the tighter and more nauseating the curves became. I’d felt my ears pop a mile or so back. It had taken me more than an hour to get through the rush-hour traffic, but these parts of the hills were less populated. The only other car on the road was behind me, a blue Ford Taurus with a dented fender. It didn’t look like it belonged in the neighborhood any more than mine did. The cell reception was unreliable, so I couldn’t use my GPS and had to double back more than once after missing a turn. The other car seemed to be as lost as I was and doubled back too, before finally veering off to the left when I went right. Eventually I found the correct street name and combination of block numbers on the curb matching the crumpled paper in my hand.
The house was a mid-century ranch, with warm wood paneling and angular windows up to the roof line. I didn’t know what I was expecting. Not this. It was nothing like the mansion in Bel Air or the beach palaces of Malibu. It wouldn't stand out in a middle-class suburb. While the other houses on the block exuded an aura of "go away," Nick's was more like, "come in and take your shoes off.” I liked it immediately.
I parked the car in the driveway as Nick instructed and followed the flagstone path to the front entrance. The frosted glass doors were set off by a wooden fence, obstructing the view from the street. I rang the doorbell and knocked twice for good measure. There was a small cylindrical camera mounted above the door frame, the only sign someone important lived there. I tried not to appear too self-conscious in case anyone was watching.
When Nick opened the door he was on the phone, but seemed glad to see me. He motioned for me to come inside while he negotiated with the person on the other line. It was mostly dry business talk — deal memos and contract riders. While Nick's attention was focused on the call I took the opportunity to inspect him thoroughly. His well-worn jeans hung off of his hips with the right amount of slack. A faded Ramones T-shirt hugged his chest and arms. I felt a bit fancy in my black cocktail dress. He was barefoot and I noticed a neat row of shoes by the door, so I toed off my heels and added them to the lineup. The polished hardwood floor was cool beneath my feet.
While he lingered in the entry with his phone I wandered into the living room. Judging from the delicious aroma of tomatoes and olive oil emanating from beyond the door to my right I guessed that was the way to the kitchen. There was a hallway to my left, which probably led to the bedrooms. To his bedroom. But I was getting ahead of myself.
The open-beamed living room was long and narrow, with a wooden dining table at one end and a fire bed lined with translucent silver stones at the other. It was decorated with modern furniture, all clean lines and earth tones. Directly across from me, a wall made of glass highlighted the house’s best feature by far — the view. As if showing off for me, the sunset sky was streaked with garish, rainbow-sherbet shades of pink and orange. The silver towers of Century City shimmered in the distance. Below, the lights of cars and homes were starting to blink on as twilight spread across the southland. The city seemed so tiny and insignificant from up here. No wonder the people who lived in these hills tended to develop god complexes.
"Beautiful, isn’t it?“ Nick whispered into my ear from behind me. He lightly rubbed the small of my back and my body reacted as it always did to his touch, the want growing more intense with each stroke. “This view is one of the reasons I bought the place. You can forget how ugly the city can be when you have this to look at every night."
He slipped his arms around my waist and I leaned back, enjoying the feel of his body against mine.
“Lucky you,” I said, keeping my eyes fixed on the city spread out before us.
He kissed my neck. He smelled delicious, like like garlic and butter and cheese. My stomach tumbled over itself, and not just from hunger.
“Your house is amazing,” I said, twisting in his arms to face him.
“I’m glad you like it,” he said. I gave him a quick hello kiss, which he reciprocated with a more passionate greeting before breaking it off. “Sorry I got held up."
"No problem," I struggled to keep my voice cool and even. The tendrils of heat radiating off of him made it difficult.
"It was my agent. He talks a lot. Never mind. Dinner's almost ready."
"Can I help with anything?"
"You can open the wine."
I followed him through the door on the right, which did, in fact, lead to the kitchen. He handed me a fancy-looking bottle of Pinot and a corkscrew. I opened the bottle and managed to fill two glasses without spilling a drop. As I celebrated with an uncivilized gulp he held up his glass to make a toast.
“To the beautiful view.”
I took another sip to hide the blush that must have been coloring my cheeks. I wished I knew more about wine. It tasted like cherries and something spicy. Cinnamon maybe? It was smooth going down and made my insides all warm and toasty.
After we’d each had a sip he leaned in and kissed me again. The wine took on a whole new dimension. The hard edge of his granite countertop dug into my back as we explored each other. I barely registered the discomfort. Neither of us was in any hurry to pull away until the digital kitchen timer made itself known with a prolonged beeping sound.
"That would be the chicken," he hummed against my lips.
He motioned for me to step aside and tugged open the wide drawer behind me. As he retrieved a silicone pot holder from it I caught a glimpse of a collection of cooking gadgets that would have made a professional chef green with envy. I was starting to think he’d seriously downplayed his cooking abilities. The pan came out of the oven looking like something from the cover of food magazine, sauce bubbling beneath toasted cheese. He set it on the counter next to a wooden salad bowl full of leafy greens, then pulled out a baking sheet with toasted garlic bread. I should have been thrilled to be dating an excellent cook as well as a movie star, but it only made me feel more inadequate. I loved food, but I’d never been much of a chef. If he was for real he was way out of my league.
“It needs some time to rest,” he informed me. We both took another swallow of wine. “How about a tour of the house?"
He reached for my hand and we pressed on, holding tightly to the stems of our wine glasses. We stopped before the hall began and he pushed a button on a remote control. The fireplace in the living room came alive, its flames low and blue. He gave me a quick, tentative smile, and pushed another button. Leonard Cohen’s deep, raspy voice came through a hidden speaker, crooning “I’m Your Man.” The seduction routine was adorable, but utterly unnecessary.
"Too much?" he asked, wrinkling his nose in a way that had become familiar to me. "I'm suddenly realizing this house screams playboy bachelor lair." We laughed together and my nerves calmed a bit.
“No. It suits you.” He gave me an incredulous look. “In a good way,“ I amended.
"I had very little to do with it, actually. Most of it was like this when I moved in. The decorator did the furnishings. I made a few decisions, like eggshell or ecru paint for the walls. Exactly the same color, by the way.“
"Well, you seem to have adapted okay.”
"You probably won't believe me, but I don't do much entertaining here."
I did believe him. It made me a little sad to think of him rattling around in this big, beautiful house all by himself.
“Yeah, I can imagine all the wild parties you must have,” I joked, but it didn’t land. Nick's attention was focused somewhere down the hall. He came to a decision and turned back to me.
"There is one thing in this house that is all mine.” He took my wine glass from me and set it down on a narrow side table next to his. "Come on. I want to show you something."
I followed him past a stark white bathroom and a home office with a desk covered in scripts. At the end of the hall the door to the master bedroom was wide open. I could see the corner of the bed, covered in a dove-grey comforter, and artsy black and white photos hanging on the walls. There was only one door in the hallway that was closed. I couldn’t guess what was inside, so I asked, “What’s in here?”
“Nothing special,” he said, his eyes focused somewhere further down the hall. “Just a guest room. Here’s what I really want you to see.”
We stopped at a set of double doors past the master bedroom. Beyond them, there was another hallway lined with old movie posters. Finally, we came to two more doors, covered in padded red leather, with long, vertical brass handles. When I saw what was on the other side all I could do was laugh. His bright, hopeful expression faded into confusion. It wasn’t the reaction he expected, but I couldn’t help it.
"All those nights we spent on my couch watching Netflix on my crappy TV," I said in between fits of giggles. "When you have this?”
We were standing in a movie theater, or a small replica of one, complete with movie-theater seats, movie-theater lighting and a movie-theater screen. The walls were deep red, decorated with brocade drapes and porcelain sconces. Instead of a projection booth there was a high-tech control panel in the middle of the back row and sleek round speakers lurking in the corners.
"Hey, I love your couch," he said, jumping to its defense and claiming another piece of my heart. "But I gotta admit, I kinda love this too."
"So do you, like, spend your nights sitting in here in the dark all Norma Desmond-like, watching your old movies, lamenting how ‘they don't make pictures like that anymore?’” I said the last part in a dramatic Gloria Swanson voice, the back of my hand to my forehead.
He laughed, then grimaced. “No, I can't watch my own movies. I am all for bringing back the term 'pictures' though. So quaint."
He didn’t elaborate, but I’d already suspected as much about his aversion to his own work. We’d watched a dozen movies at my place, but never any of his. It struck me for about the millionth time how different Nick was from Jordan and Adam. Particularly Adam, who not only loved to watch himself on screen, but would rewind scenes and do live commentary for me. I didn't think about it at the time because I was trying to be a good girlfriend and take interest in his work. Looking back now, though, it pretty much summed up our relationship — The Adam Show.
I stopped myself before my thoughts went too far down that road and realized Nick was no longer by my side. He was behind the console, working the controls with nimble fingers. The lights dimmed and the screen flickered to life. Clark Gable and Claudette Colbert appeared in silvery black and white, their single beds separated by a thin sheet hung over a makeshift clothes line. It was the famous “Wall of Jericho" scene from It Happened One Night.
I joined him at the console and ran my fingers lightly over the buttons, sliders and switches, careful not to disrupt anything. I brushed the back of his hand and his fingers automatically intertwined with mine. “I love this movie. It’s a classic.”
"Still holds up," he agreed, his voice quiet. “Do you want to see how it all works?”
“You can show me later.” I stepped in close to kiss him. He didn’t hesitate, wrapping his arms around me and slowly stroking my back as he deepened the kiss. We’d gone farther than this at my house, hands exploring under clothes, but there was a new energy to our embrace, a promise and a possibility that wasn't there before.
The really weird thing about dating a movie star — besides, you know, everything — is that it feels like you know them so well, when you really don’t know them at all. Nick’s face was familiar, like an old friend’s. He had the same mannerisms as that person up on the screen, the same killer smile. But there were things he held back, things he didn’t show to the cameras. There was so much more to Nick than the people he pretended to be — that luscious scent, the smoothness of his skin, the perilous heat in his stare. It was the difference between seeing a preview and seeing the entire movie.
The real Nick, my Nick, held nothing back now as his hands explored my body with unrestrained urgency. I was transfixed by his slightly dazed expression, the glimmer of light and shadow playing across his face in an unsteady rhythm. This Nick was all for me, only for me. And god, what a turn on that was.
Up on the screen, I faintly registered Clark Gable scandalizing Claudette Colbert with talk of men and their preferred methods of undressing. Nick turned us around and backed away from the console, towards the row of seats beyond it, pulling me with him, our mouths never losing contact. He dropped down into one of the cushiony velvet seats and I followed, straddling him, my skirt hiked up almost to my waist, knees pressed lightly against his outer thighs.
“You’re so beautiful. Do you know that?” he said, lifting my chin so he could meet my eyes. “Seriously, Kate. I have no words."
"Then don't talk," I said, lowering my lips to meet his. He reciprocated with unexpected ferocity. The tight coil of tension in my core began to unwind.
I moved my hips forward and back. The plush, hinged seat rocked beneath us. He let out a muffled groan as I slid over his lap. His hands ran up and down my sides, slower now, deliberate, stopping right beneath my breasts. Finding my collarbone, he placed a kiss in the soft hollow there. I froze. It was only for a fraction of a second, but he caught it.
“You all right?” he asked between ragged breaths.
“I haven’t been with anyone since . . .“ I trailed off.
He nodded and I was glad I didn’t need to say more. “It’s okay. I don’t care. I just want to be with you.”
“What about . . .”
He reached into his pocket with two fingers and took out a condom. A mixed sense of relief and vindication washed over me. I couldn’t help but smile; he was as ready for this as I was.
“I want to be with you too,” I said.
“Thank god. Because I'm going crazy here."
I wanted to ask what took him so long, but I couldn’t because his mouth was on my neck and I lost the ability to speak. I reached down to grab the hem of his shirt and we broke apart only long enough for me to pull it over his head. His chest was as perfect as it looked on screen, only this was way, way better because I could touch him, could feel how smooth and taut he was. I traced the outlines of his shoulders, pecs and abs with my hands, enjoying the stifled moans I drew out of him as I traveled lower. brushing my fingers over the growing bulge in his jeans.
He tugged on the zipper of my dress and guided it down my back. I stood up to allow him better access, then peeled the dress off and stepped out of it. There was something delightfully satisfying about the hungry look that came over him as he studied me in my black lace bra and matching panties. I stifled a self-conscious urge to cover myself and let him take me in while the images projected on the movie screen bathed us in silvery luiminescence.
But looking wasn’t enough for either of us, so I sank back down onto his lap. We pressed every inch of exposed flesh against one other. It still wasn’t enough. Nothing else existed outside the theater, outside that moment. His hands shaped patterns of sparks all over me. Sopping wet and aching with desire, I stripped off my underwear and bra. He caressed my breasts, then brought his mouth to them, licking and sucking my nipples in turn until they were hard as pebbles.
I helped free him from his jeans and boxer shorts. His naked body — lean, firm, as ready for me as mine was for him — was the sexiest thing I’d ever seen. He handed me the square wrapper and opened it with my teeth. As I rolled it over him carefully he ran his hands over mine, guiding me. We reached for each other at the same time, our bodies and souls drawn together by an irresistible force. Then it was my turn to guide him. Our story unfolded in staggering gasps and desperate caresses as we finally, finally, came together as one. All inhibition, all hesitation, gone, I gave in to the fantasy and surrendered to the shimmering dark.