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  That adorable squeak again. He lifted his head. “I think there’s only one way to restore those legs of yours to working order, Maggie. Close your eyes, darlin’. This won’t take long.” He went to work, smiling when her head jerked back and banged against the door. “Easy, baby. Easy. Don’t go hurting yourself.”

  Her eyes opened, stared blankly at him, and then fluttered closed again.

  “Just relax. Enjoy the ride.” He dipped in for a taste of her lemony lips, felt her hands grasp his hair and her hips start to buck against his insistent fingers. Then she had the lapel of his leather vest between her teeth, with a few chest hairs caught in there too, and she was a-squeaking and a-moaning into his shoulder, her legs trembling and losing power until she slid down against the door. He moved with her, lowering himself and her, until she sat shuddering on the ground. He gave her one last firm lingering squeeze, and she rewarded him with one final squeak, a jolt of her legs, then she collapsed back against the door, heaving in great gasps of air, which in turn became raucous laughter.

  “Oh, Zippy. That was…”

  More unintelligible words in a thick accent. He leaned back against the door, watching her, and ignoring the increasingly painful bulge in his jeans. She didn’t ignore it, however. She opened one eye and slid a hand up his leg. “Your turn.”

  He glanced around. No, not here. She deserved something a little better than that. “Not yet, darlin’. My place, a glass or two of wine, then on ’til the break of dawn. Followed by sleep, then a shower, a good breakfast, some morning delight and your cell number.”

  She smiled and closed her eyes again.

  “Those legs of yours ready to get in a cab?”

  “I don’t think they’ll ever work again, Zip. You’ve gone and killed them dead.”

  “Let’s give ’em a try.” He reached down and helped her up, holding her in place until little Maggie could stand on her own. He retrieved her purse and shoes. She took them, still smiling and a little dazed. “I’ll go hail us a cab, honey. You start walking. By the time you get to the end of this alley, your chariot will await.”

  He almost skipped toward 23rd. Hell of a night this had turned out to be. Showing up at the party after being requested and nagged by the label, he’d expected another dull night listening to the latest over-praised Brit band. Instead the music had turned out to be damn good, the band promising, and Maggie May had fallen into his lap. Well, not fallen. Should he tell her he’d stuck that boot out to stop her from walking by him yet again? Probably not. He hadn’t thought she’d trip, just that she’d stop and finally look at him. Instead, she’d been too busy eying the pretty, Scottish dude with the Goth girlfriend. She really was a terrible groupie, going after the one guy in the band who had a girlfriend with him. But she was fun. And sweet. And she squeaked quite adorably when she came. And he couldn’t think of any other thing he wanted to do tonight other than get to know her better. And get out of these jeans! He stuck his hand out and a cab rolled to the curb. He turned to call Maggie, just in time to see her high-tailing it down 23rd, legs flying, arms pumping. Maggie seemed to have gotten her sea legs back.

  Chris felt his shoulders slump in disappointment. Had he said something, done something wrong? Or had Maggie just gotten what she came for? He climbed into the cab and gave the driver his address. He wasn’t going to chase a groupie. He had some pride left, after all. The cab moved off and his song continued.

  Your place or mine, said a woman so fine,

  With a kiss so sweet that I could not decline.

  She kissed me in an alley off Twenty-Third Street,

  Standing on the tiptoes of her shoeless feet.

  The song changed to a minor key.

  She loved me, then left me

  While I caught us a ride.

  Sprinting down the street,

  Leaving nothing of my pride.

  She was with the band his employers were thinking of signing. He could track her down if he wanted to. Or not. Maybe just chalk it up to a small disappointment in a string of much more major ones. Looking on the bright side, he was writing again. But how would he be able to finish it? Unless the rest of the song was him going back to the Chelsea and drinking himself to oblivion. That sounded pretty good. Oblivion would be cool. He should have listened to Rod Stewart. Women called Maggie May were bad news. He shifted uncomfortably and glanced morosely at his crotch, suddenly realizing he was still holding her damn shoes.

  Chapter 2

  Lou woke up still fully dressed. The zip on her skirt had stuck halfway down, so she’d slept in it. It had been a night of feverish dreams—lips and hands and dark, passion-fuelled eyes. Oh, Zippy. Why did you have to spoil it by asking for my number? She sighed and glanced over at the clock, gasped, then leapt off the bed. Ten past ten! The band meeting had started in the conference room ten minutes ago. She stuffed her bare feet into her Doc Martens and rushed into the en suite bathroom. Splashing water onto her face, she got a good look at herself in the massive mirror. Raccoon eyes. No problem. Hair sticking up in all directions. No problem. Boobs hanging out of her top. Problem. She rushed through the room, hurriedly grabbing her favorite Ramones t-shirt and her keycard, before slamming the door behind her and rushing to the lift. Elevator, Zippy would call it, she thought with a smirk, as she entered through the barely open doors and started stabbing at the button for the ground floor.

  She pulled on her t-shirt, tugging it down to cover the broken zip, and leaned back against the wall. She lingered dreamily over last night’s encounter, a deep shudder forming in the base of her skull, then travelling down her spine ’til it occupied and lingered at the juncture of her thighs. She slapped her hands over her face and groaned, remembering that she’d licked one of his tattoos, starting at the snake’s head on the back of his hand and followed the trail up to where the rattle had nestled in his armpit. She’d licked his sweaty armpit! And she’d loved it. She crossed her legs and clenched her thighs, trying to banish the memory of his hand between them. Her song continued in her head. I met him in New York, with his jeans so tight. I knew that it was wrong, but it felt so right. I dumped him in an alley when he got too intense, following the dictates of my own common sense.

  The bell dinged and Lou stumbled out into the lobby, glancing around until she spotted the conference room sign. Taking a deep breath, she opened the door and entered. The band was all there, plus Banshee moping in the corner. They all took one look at her, and started laughing and pounding the table. “Lou got laid!” one of them crowed, causing the others to erupt with catcalls and whistles.

  “Bastards,” Lou said coldly. It was time for business and under her frosty glare they soon settled down, looking almost serious. “Item One. All our gear is at a rehearsal space down the street. We’ll meet this afternoon to practice. But first, we need to decide on the song we’ll be doing on the show. I think we should do ‘I’m in Love with the Girl Next Door.’”

  “No fucking way!” Paolo exploded. “It disnae even have a guitar solo.”

  “That’s the sappiest song on our set list,” Bluto said. “I hate that song!”

  “It’s a crowd pleaser,” Lou explained. “And if the label signs us I’m willing to bet that would be the first single. The girls love it.”

  Paolo drummed his fingers on the table top. “So what, we’re a boy band pop group now? Trying to appeal to teenage girls?”

  “Hardly,” Lou scoffed. “You’re not pretty enough for a boy band, plus you all play your own instruments.”

  “Paolo’s pretty enough…” Banshee attempted to interject, before Lou glared her into silence.

  “So what song then?” she asked, ignoring Paolo’s returning stare.

  “Puffin’ Spliff,” suggested Chiz, probably because the loopy, frenzied drums were the best part.

  “Too many drug references. Too controversial for American television. You’re no in Glasgow anymore, laddie.”

  “Back on the Broo?” Alasdair plugged the song wi
th his favorite baseline.

  “A song about the unemployment rate in Scotland? Americans won’t get it. Next?”

  “Song for Margaret.” Paolo spoke quietly, his eyes downcast.

  Lou considered. It was a powerful song, starting slowly, mournfully, telling the story of another good woman dead from breast cancer. The song advanced, gradually building to a crescendo of grief and anger. Lou closed her eyes. It might be the best song she’d ever written and was incredible performed live. America would sit up and take notice, for sure. “Maybe…”

  She glanced up the table at Paolo. He normally hated to do that song. Not surprising, considering it was about the illness and death of their mother. Though, Lou admitted, it was just the final line he really couldn’t stand. The one about the girl, forced to abandon her dreams, to come home and get a dead-end job so she could take care of her little brother. Paolo met her eyes and she knew they were both remembering the day after their mother’s funeral: Lou barricaded in her childhood bedroom, pounding out the song on her old acoustic twelve string that her mother had saved so hard for; Paolo in the living room, mopping up his tears with his school tie. “But…”

  “I’ll play it perfectly, Lou,” Paolo said. “Promise.”

  Not like the last time they’d played it, then? The third encore. In Scunthorpe. With Paolo obliterating the hated final line by coming in early with his blistering guitar solo, breaking a string near the end, then throwing down his very expensive Stratocaster that Lou had saved so hard for, and rushing off stage. Returning the next morning. With Banshee in tow. He’d barely let go of the girl since.

  Lou looked around at the rest of the band. They were all nodding. The song allowed each of them to show off their skills. And they’d all loved Mum. She’d clipped all their ears for being cheeky and filled their bellies with tasty cheap food. She’d turned a blind nose to the smell of hash drifting down from their attic rehearsals, and had chased off complaining neighbors with a few choice words. She’d loved her children, plus anyone they’d dragged home with them.

  “Let’s do it for Margaret,” Bluto said softly, and Lou remembered how Mum would make up a bed for him in the spare room when things got too tough with his dad. He’d stayed with them for over six months once, when his father was in jail.

  She nodded her assent, then glared at Banshee who’d started bouncing in her chair and applauding. “In future, band members only at band meetings.” Banshee dipped her head and stared at her feet, her shoulders slumping. “Okay, practice is at two. The rehearsal space is three blocks away, take a left when you go out of the hotel. The address is in your packets.” She stood. “Until then get some rest. And clean yourselves up, will ye? There might be some label guys at the rehearsal.”

  She left the conference room, thinking a shower and a snooze, in that order. Paolo called from behind her. “Just a minute, Jolene.”

  Lou grinned at the in-joke, remembering the week she’d listened to nothing except Dolly Parton singing Jolene over and over. Paolo had complained, then had started calling her Jolene, as he had on and off for the last few years. She turned on him. “It’s a brilliant song!” The same old funny argument.

  But Paolo wasn’t in the mood for it today. “Listen, could ye go a bit easier on Banshee?”

  Lou shrugged. “Aye. Just keep her out of my way and especially out of band meetings.”

  Paolo stared, anger turning to something more thoughtful. He reached out and pulled her into a bear hug, then whispered in her ear. “I love you Louisa Margaret Marzaroli. But you’re going to have to let go of me sometime.” He pushed her away and stalked off, leaving her a little shaken. Hugging was not their thing. And what did he mean, let go of him?

  She went back to her room, running into Bluto in the hallway. “Bloot, could ye do me a wee favor? The zip on my skirt is stuck. Could ye use your muscles on it?”

  “Aye, nae problem.”

  Lou turned around and hiked up her shirt. “In the back there.”

  Bluto fumbled with it, swearing, before saying he’d have to rip the skirt. “That okay?”

  “Aye, go for it. Didnae like it anyway.”

  “Brace yourself against the wall.”

  She adjusted her stance.

  “So, Lou. Ye gonny see that bad boy fae last night again?”

  Lou shook her head.

  “Tsk, tsk, lass. What would your mother say about all your one night stands?”

  Lou grinned at him over her shoulder. “Considering her own man ran off with a waitress with massive tits from Blackpool leads me to believe she might approve.”

  “So did your da go back to Italy?”

  Lou snorted. “He’s never been to Italy in his life. He was born in the Gorbals, that one. His family settled in Glasgow after the war.”

  There was an almighty rip as Bluto tore the skirt all the way down the back seam. “Tightie whities, Lou? Sexy!” He handed the skirt to her, grinning as she pulled the shirt down over her thighs. “Second time I’ve done that in twenty-four hours. Might start renting myself out.”

  Lou punched him in the shoulder. “Ye big galoot. Don’t be late for practice.” He ambled off down the hallway. “And take a shower, Bloot! Ye stink like a brothel.”

  Bluto let out a bellowing laugh. “Well, if that’s no the pot calling the kettle black! I’m no the only one with the reek of the bedroom on me, lass.”

  Lou fumbled around for her key card. Where was it? She shook out the skirt and it fell to the ground. She bent to pick it up. A sandaled foot came into her field of vision and stood on the card. Long brown feet in leather sandals. The head of a tattooed snake bared its fangs at her, and she followed its sinuous body upward. It looped and disappeared behind a kneecap. She looked up into the angry eyes of Zippy, and stood up. Slowly.

  “Woman, ain’t you got a lick of shame? Throwing yourself at one guy in the lobby? Getting your clothes ripped off by another only a few floors away? Darlin’, this is no way for you to live your life.”

  “Shame? What’s that?” She took a good look at him. All fresh and clean and smelling so good. She offered him a tentative smile. “You stalking me, Zip?”

  “I’m returning your shoes!” He held them out. “And there is no one called Maggie May registered here.”

  Lou sighed and grabbed her stilettos. It seemed he was another zipless who refused to stay unzipped. She shuddered at the memory of that art student from Milton Keynes. What was wrong with men these days?

  “What’s your real name?”

  “Jolene,” popped out. “And how did you find me?”

  “The bands playing that club always stay here.” He cocked his head, eying her. “Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Jole-e-e-e-en,” he sang, in a pleasing husky baritone. “Always loved that song.”

  Lou could feel a snaky little green tendril curling itself around her heart. He loved her favorite song! She mentally uprooted the tendril, stomped on it and killed it dead.

  “Thanks for my shoes, Zip.” She swiped her card. “Now, fuck off.”

  He put a hand on her arm. “How are the legs, Jolene?”

  Now that he mentioned it, and now that he had a hand on her, the legs were feeling a little shaky. She shook her head. No. Don’t go there, Lou. She felt like kissing him, but glared at his hand instead.

  He removed his hand, speaking softly. “I wouldn’t mind an explanation. I was up all night wondering what the hell I did wrong for you to high-tail it like that. Throw me a bone, Jolene. Then I’ll fuck off.”

  She looked up. That smile really was awfully addictive. Could she amend the zipless rules? She had left the poor man in an advanced state of arousal. She’d never done that before. She looked him up and down. Baggy shorts belted at the waist, a crisp white shirt of the type she knew Americans called wife beaters. He hadn’t shaved, his hair was down, and oh sweet Mary, Mother of Jesus, he had a dimple. In the end, her body overruled her brain. She pushed open the door. “You’d best come in.”

  * *
* *

  Chris entered the room. Just the explanation and then he was out of there. Jolene. It was a good name for her. Famous. Musically-related. Evocative. And just about as bad news for a man as the previous Maggie May. He sat down in the nearest chair and observed her. She looked different today. Last night she’d been clumsily slutty. Today she was rough-edged and punky. He liked it.

  She held out a hand to him. “Fancy a wee shower with me?”

  Unbelievable. She’d taken her pleasure from him last night, then took off after the boys in the band. God only knew what she’d gotten up to last night and with which one. Or maybe even more than one of them.

  “No, thank you, ma’am,” he said coldly. “You’ve had a busy day already.”

  She frowned. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

  “The guy you were hugging in the lobby—”

  “I’ve known him since he was a baby.”

  “The guy ripping off your skirt—”

  “Met him when he was five. I had to clean the encrusted snot off the neglected little brat’s face.” She walked towards him, an accusing finger pointed right between his eyes.

  “So you’re saying—”

  “I’m saying you’ve got a nasty wee mind to have assumed I’m a groupie.”

  She said it in an angry voice, but hope leapt in his throat—and something else was attempting to leap in his shorts. “So you’re kind of a band mother or something?”

  “Or something,” she agreed, her hand stroking down his hair, cradling his cheek, one finger moving to touch his lips. He kissed her fingertip.

  “And last night? What did I do wrong?”

  “Nothing, Zippy. Nothing at all. You did everything right. You did everything—” She swallowed audibly. “You did everything more than right.” She turned and went to sit on the bed. “The truth of it is, I lost the bottle.”

  “Huh? You lost what?”

  “The bottle. I lost my nerve. I was scared.”