Jeff Gelb: Hotter Blood: More Tales of Erotic Horror

His words broke through her hypnotic stupor and she pushed herself into a sitting position. "Oh, I think we do. I do, anyway."

He leaned close and gave her a little kiss. "Have you ever heard the phrase, 'It's like taking a shower with a raincoat on'? That's what it's like for a guy. And besides, you don't have anything to worry about."

"Buh-but I know about your repu-reputation," she breathed. "I've heard the stories. All those women… some say men, too…"

He laughed loudly this time. "And you believed them? They're just stories . Anybody in my position has to put up with that. I don't even pay attention to them anymore. It comes with the territory. I just wanna make music. Jeez, you think I'm screwin' around as much as they say? I'd be in an AIDS ward by now if I was!" He stroked her breasts, slipped his fingers under her bra while tugging at the strap with the other hand and kissing her shoulder gently. Electric tingles shot down through Caryl's body from the spot touched by Hawk's lips. "We don't need one of those things," he whispered, kissing her again. "We want skin, right?" Another kiss. "Flesh against flesh." Another. "Our juices mixing with nothing in between." He had the bra off and was working on her panties now as he sucked on her breasts and rubbed himself against her.

But she didn't feel right about it, couldn't enjoy what he was doing to her because her stomach suddenly welled up with fear at the idea of having sex without any protection and her mother's calm, rational voice echoed in her mind: Whether you're married or not, screwing around is just not common sense. Right ?

Right? Right? Right?

His tongue was on her nipple and his hand was between her legs, fingers making their way between her lips, which had grown so wet and —

— she reached down and grabbed her purse with one hand, trying to push him away again with the other, gasping, "No! Wait! A second! No!" but —

— he straddled her, held her head between his hands and massaged her temples with his fingers as he looked into her eyes and whispered, "We're going to make love… and it's going to be beautiful."

Caryl's muscles relaxed. Her legs loosened and she allowed him to remove her panties completely and lower his head between her thighs. His lips made her arch her back; his tongue made her whimper like a child; his fingers made her cry out. He moved up her body, licking all the way, and hiked her legs over his shoulders. Slowly, carefully, he slid his erection into her, staring into her eyes during every moment of it. Caryl bit her lower lip so hard she tasted blood and her hands clutched at the bedsheets as if for life. Her breasts rose and fell with pistonlike speed as Hawk began to move inside her, and after a few moments of stinging pain… it was wonderful…

And now she lay beside him, stroking his satiny skin and watching him sleep. His eyes opened suddenly and he turned to her, smiling, as if he'd never been asleep.

"I'll get a car for you," he whispered. "You can go home and get anything you need. I want you to come to L.A. and live with me. Our plane leaves in three hours."

Caryl let herself into the apartment quietly. Something by Mozart was playing softly on the stereo in the living room, and the lamp by the recliner cast a shaft of light into the hallway. Caryl braced herself, hoping that her mother had fallen asleep while reading in her chair so Caryl could just leave her a note, but she suspected otherwise. She suspected correctly.

The recliner creaked as Margaret Dunphy stood up, and her footsteps sounded on the hardwood floor; Caryl's back stiffened as her mother appeared in the hallway.

Margaret Dunphy was tall and slender with graying brown hair and a soft face. She wore a long bathrobe of maroon velour and smiled at her daughter warmly.

"So, how was the concert?" she asked, folding her hands.

Caryl felt herself blushing and turned away, whispering, "It was… guh-good."

"Did you go out afterward?"

"Uh-huh." She nodded.

"What did you do?"

Caryl's gut tensed into a knot. "No," she breathed, "I didn't. I–I'm sorry. I can't lie to you. I didn't actually… go out afterward."

"Oh. What did you do?"

Tears burned the back of her throat as she spoke, trying to control her voice. "I, um… Hawk? The singer I went to see? He… invited me backstage."

"Really?" She smiled as she said it, with no sign of anger, as if she were happy about the honor given her daughter.

Caryl had expected that; although her mother was a Christian, she was neither a Bible-beater nor a tyrant. But that only made it worse, because Caryl knew she was going against her mother's wishes, and that hurt.

"So you got to meet him," her mother said.

"Uh-huh."

"Well, that must have been nice. I know how much you admire him. What was he like?"

Staring at her feet, Caryl said, "Nice." There was a long silence, so long that Caryl could not bear it any longer and suddenly, unexpectedly —

— she told her mother everything. Everything .

The next long silence was even worse. Her mother's smile disappeared, but slowly. And it was not replaced with an angry glare — only a raised eyebrow.

Finally, Margaret said, "I hope you were… careful. You know what I mean, don't you?"

"Yes. I know what you mean." Caryl couldn't bring herself to tell the whole truth about that .

"So, you've decided to go? And live with this man?"

Caryl nodded.

"Do you think it's serious? I mean, do you think there's, you know… marriage in the future? Or is this just… oh, I don't know… an affair?"

Still not looking at her, Caryl said, "I don't know. I only met him tonight. I mean, really met him."

"Well." Margaret put her hands on each side of her daughter's face and smiled. "You know what you want. I just hope what you want is what's best for you. You might think I'm a fuddy-dud, but I'm aware of this Hawk's reputation, you know. I read magazines and papers. I watch television."

"Yeah, we talked about that and… he said they were just rumors and he's not like that at all. He said… well, he told me that… oh, Momma, I don't want you to hate me. I know you think this is wrong and… well, I just don't want you to hate me."

Embracing her daughter, Margaret sighed. "Oh, I could never hate you, Caryl. I just want you to be happy. That's all."

Hawk's three-story house in Bel Air was spectacular. The yard was like a green shaded field with a pond and ducks and so many singing birds, and inside, the rooms and hallways were endless. Secretaries, assistants, butlers and maids attended to Hawk's slightest whim and they all treated Caryl as if they worked for her as well as for Hawk.

She was given free reign of the house and Hawk encouraged her to look around as much as she liked; he would be busy with meetings for the next few days, then he had three weeks free and they could do whatever they wanted, spend all of their time together, stay in bed for days at a time if they felt like it.

So Caryl looked around.

She went from room to room and floor to floor, staring in awe at framed pictures of Hawk with the Who, the Rolling Stones, Elton John, Led Zeppelin, Joe Walsh, Roxy Music, Peter Frampton and more, all of them signed. She admired his Grammys and American Music Awards and People's Choice Awards, all on dustless shelves behind spotless glass. She went from room to room, finding giant blowups of his Rolling Stone magazine covers and his album jackets, paintings of Patti Smith and Stevie Nicks and Joan Jett, framed gold and platinum records. The halls were lit by wall sconces — white ceramic hands that held glowing globes — but on the top floor of the house at the end of the hall, the last few globes were dark and the shadows were long. Caryl reached for the knob of the very last door and a hand touched her shoulder. Starting, she spinned around.