“Take care of yourself, Teach,” Squiggle told her. “Maybe we’ll play together again sometime.”
“Anything is possible,” she told him, giving him one last hug and then tussling his hair.
Laura absolutely insisted on showering first.
“I cannot wait to get my hands on your dick,” she told him, hunger in her eyes, “but I am not going to let you see me, smell me, taste me, or fuck me while I’m all sweaty, gross, and my hair smells like cigarettes.”
“I don’t mind,” he insisted.
“I do,” she told him. “Now go pour us some wine and wait in the bed while I get cleaned up.”
“Wine? It’s ten o’clock in the morning.”
“I’m still on Sau Paulo time,” she reminded him. “It feels like mid-afternoon to me. And besides, I’ve been flying all night long. I want some wine, some dick, and then some sleep. In that order.”
“Yes ma’am,” he told her, smiling and giving her a little salute.
He got the wine for her but she did not end up drinking any of it. When she emerged from the bathroom she was wearing only a white robe over her bare flesh. Jake was wearing nothing at all and his little buddy was standing tall and proud, ready to perform the service for which he had been designed and constructed.
The robe came off and they fell into each other’s arms. They kissed hotly, their tongues swirling together, their hands touching everywhere, everything. Jake licked and sucked her nipples for a few minutes and then began to kiss his way southward, heading for that freshly shaved, sweet smelling junction between her legs. He barely made it to her belly button, however, before she hooked her hands into his armpits and began pulling him back up.
“Fuck me!” she demanded, her voice full of lust.
“Let me eat you first,” he said. “You love it when I put my mouth on your pussy.”
“I do,” she said, “but I don’t want that right now. I want cock, baby and I want it all the way in!”
Though he really wanted to get a taste of her juices, he did as requested. He slid his body up atop hers, found the proper positioning, and sank into her hot wetness in one stroke.
It was absolute heaven after so long feeling only his own hand for stimulation. He hardly thought of Celia at all as he began to thrust in and out of her.
April 1st, also known as April Fools Day, was a beautiful example of early spring in southern California. The temperature at noon was seventy-two degrees, with just enough of a westerly wind to blow some of the smog out of the basin and let one see the actual blue of the sky above.
Jake and Greg were spending the day at the Pacific View Country Club above Malibu. Greg had been a member of this exclusive set of links for the past ten years and the two of them played here together several times a month when time, work schedules, and weather permitted. Greg, who was a better golfer, almost always won the matches. Jake, on the other hand, almost always won the bets when his handicap and his greater propensity for shining under pressure were factored in.
He had already taken the first nine by sinking a twenty-foot putt just prior to the turn and edging out Greg on the automatic press. Now, as they mounted the tenth, fresh beers in hand and Cuban cigars smoldering in the cart’s ashtray, Greg declared it was time to start kicking some rock star ass.
“You always say that,” Jake told him, pulling a driver from his bag walking up to the tee.
“I know,” Greg said sourly. “This time, I’m going to do it.”
“Care to double the bet?” Jake asked lightly, knowing that Greg could not resist such a thing even when he knew he was likely going to lose.
“How about we double the stakes but take out the automatic press for the game?” Greg suggested.
“I can still request the press if I’m behind?” Jake asked.
“Of course,” the actor told him. “But I’m not compelled to grant it.”
Jake smiled. He knew that Greg could no more refuse a request to press the bet than he could refuse to have an olive placed in his martini. “Deal.”
“All right,” Greg said. “Let’s do this.”
The tenth hole was a long, picturesque par 5 that stretched along the ridge and offered stunning views of the ocean (the name of the club was not false advertising by any stretch of the imagination). Jake, who had won the ninth hole, made a slow, easy swing and blasted his little white ball more than two hundred and fifty yards downrange, where it rolled to a stop near the right side of the narrow fairway.
“Nice,” Greg said, nodding. He then proceeded to outdrive Jake by a good twenty yards and end up with favorable positioning for the second shot.
They put their clubs in their bags and got back into the electric cart. Greg was behind the wheel for this round—they took turns being the driver from round to round ever since Jake had yelled at the pompous actor several years before that he wasn’t a goddamned limo driver—and he drove them down the well-maintained cart path. Both puffed on their cigars as they made the journey.
“You seem a lot more relaxed since Laura got home,” Greg pointed out.
“Yeah,” Jake said, nodding. “There’s still a shitload of stressful things going on, but ... you know ... when you’re back to getting regular sex after a long stretch without it, it does tend to have a mellowing effect.”
“I wouldn’t know,” Greg said sourly.
“She’s still not giving up the trim?”
“She’s not refusing to have sex with me,” he said, “but she’s not offering it up either. The two times I’ve gotten some since she’s been home were only after I initiated things quite strongly and fought through a concrete wall of disinterest on her part. And even after all that, she just laid there and let me do what I needed to do, not participating much in the effort.”
“That thoroughly sucks,” Jake said with sympathy. He knew, after all, how passionate Celia could be in bedroom.
“No kidding,” Greg said. “Quite honestly, taking myself in hand is more pleasurable than that. At least my imaginary lover moves a little.”
“I wish I knew what to tell you,” Jake said. “Is she still giving you the silent act?”
“She claims she isn’t. She’ll talk to me when I talk to her, answer whatever I’ve asked, but that’s about it. We talk about business things, scheduling things, household things, but not much else. She doesn’t tell me about her day, not even if I ask about it. She doesn’t ask about my day. When I tell her things about my day, she just nods and grunts—never asks any follow-up questions.”
“It certainly sounds like you have a communication issue of late,” Jake said.
“That might be the understatement of the year,” Greg said.
They had arrived at Jake’s ball. He got out, took a quick look at his distance to green—it was still well over two hundred and fifty yards—and then pulled out his three wood. He took a few practice swings until it swished over the grass at just the right level and then addressed the ball. Greg kept respectfully silent behind him. He swung the club and the head made good contact with the ball, launching it into the air with a resounding smack. It sliced a little to the right, but not enough to really matter. It landed thirty yards short of the green, bounced a few times, and rolled to a stop an easy chip shot away.
“Nice one,” Greg said when Jake got back in the cart.
“Could’ve been better,” Jake said as the cart began to roll again.
“It can always be better.”
“This is true,” Jake allowed. He took a puff from his cigar, a drink from his beer. “If it makes you feel any better, Celia’s not all that communicative at tour rehearsal either.”
“No?” Greg asked. He seemed a bit surprised by this.
“Strictly business with me and the Nerdlys both. Even with the band, she’s short, succinct, to the point and not much else. She even yelled at Charlie the other day when he took too much time disinfecting his bass during the encore break. Almost made him cry.”