gone for both of them, was a more leisurely, more playful ballet. Climbing a gentler curve of sensuality, fingers and mouths exploring, they became truly lovers. Her touch was new on his body and knowing on her own, their bodies sweat-slick in the heat, the humid air.
And though a second orgasm was beyond him, a second erection was not. When she straddled and rode him, leaning on his chest with one hand, being close to her and feeling the sensuality radiating from her was like being an old cat soaking up a spring sunbeam. When her body shook and clutched and she cried out her pleasure, his body was indistinguishable from hers, and he was part of what they made together, drawing from it a peace almost as profound as hers.
“You see,” she said, blowing out the candle and snuggling against him, “I knew it would be all right.”
And it was. But it could not last. When the moment was passed, the connection broken, all the thoughts which had been driven away while he lived in that moment, in a world of senses and sensation, returned to him. Joining them was an uncertain flavor of guilt and confusion, the deception which stood between him and the young woman in his arms tainting the contentment he might otherwise have felt.
“You’re still troubled,” she said, disappointed, as they cuddled together, legs entangled, Her cheek on his chest. “I wanted to take that away from you.”
Tidwell smiled in the darkness, wry and sad, as he stroked her hair reassuringly with his aged fingers.
“You took me away from it, at least for a while,” he said. “And even that is more than I would have thought anyone could do.”
CHAPTER 19
—CCA—
“…
Wonders Upstairs, said the sign at street level.
It seemed an outlandish claim for such an unprepossessing structure—a barnlike two-story wood frame building on a commercial street ten blocks from the Rice University campus. Downstairs was the Small Planet Grocery, a busy food and drug co-op which seemed to have an exemption from every licensing law and packaging code. Above, under the gambrel roof, was Wonders.
Daniel Keith recognized on first sight that the three-hundred-seat club was organically one with the co-op below—that is, Spartan, quaint, and inexplicably successful. Everything that wasn’t handmade seemed secondhand. Half the seating was comprised of unpadded wooden benches, the other half of uncomfortable plastic chairs packed too closely together.
Most surprising, the only performance support was a twelve-channel sound system and an autospot. There was no net feed, no audio optimizer, no prompter—to say nothing of such cutting-edge technologies as a SyncScreen or harmonizer. But, as Keith learned when he editorialized aloud, that state of affairs was the result of the owner’s philosophy, not his poverty.
“What fun is it if there’s nineteen layers of insulation between me and the performer?” snorted Bill “Papa” Wonders, he of the great white beard like an Elizabethan ruffled collar. “That’s like putting a tourist in a six-axis harness and a thrill-ride helmet and calling him a gymnast. My musicians work without a net.”
The audience had somewhat better support: A little bar and food counter in a glass-walled annex sold bottled drinks, light polypep, and a smattering of desserts—all of the crunchless variety, out of consideration to the performers.
But it was the music, not the menu, which filled the seats in Wonders at fifteen dollars per, six nights a week. Techjazz, English vocal, electric filk, revival rock, antitonal—everyone agreed that Papa Wonders had eclectic tastes. Most agreed that he also had good taste.
Which is why only Tuesdays were free for sampling new performers, two on a split bill, an hour set each with a break between. Tonight, the poster in Wonders’s narrow stairway read:
Tuesday
December p.m.
CHRISTOPHER McCUTCHEON
Traditional Guitar
+ + +
BONNIE TEVENS AMBIKA
Synth Moods
At a quarter to eight, Keith slipped into the little room that served as the performer’s warm-up room and found Christopher bending over his instrument with surgical concentration.
“What’s up, guy?”
“Broke a string.”
“Ah. Better here than on stage, eh?”
“Better,” Christopher agreed. “How are things outside?”
“Greg has the recorders all ready to roll. The multi is audience center, fifth row, so he can do splits on your fingering, and the tank camera is front row left. And he’s doubling sound with a digital MIDI.”
Christopher shook his head. “God. He really went overboard.”
“You ask a techie to help, you let them do it their way,” Keith said with a shrug. “Nobody’s going to think it’s strange.”
“No? Fifty thousand dollars of hardware and fifty people in the audience?”
“Says who? The room’s filling up nicely. I think it’ll be close to full.”
Christopher was taken aback. “Really. Bonnie and Ambika must have a following.”
Keith shook his head. “If they do, they’re gonna have to stand in the back. There’s a good dozen archies out there, and at least half the other faces look familiar. Looks like word got out around the center.”
“That Greg’s doing, too?”
Grinning, Keith said, “Well, not exactly. I didn’t think you’d mind a friendly audience, after all the work you’ve been banking. And with graduation Friday and winter holiday coming up this weekend, I didn’t have to twist any arms. We even got a few out from Noonerville.”
Christopher sat back, the neck of the guitar held loosely between his knees, and looked sideways up at his friend. “Thanks, Daniel,” he said. “I don’t mind. I just hope I’m up to it.”
“Just have some fun,” Keith said. “They’ll enjoy it if you do.” He nodded. “You’d better finish with that.”
“It’s tuned,” said Christopher. “You know, I’ve never done a whole set with just the Martin before. But that’s what Bill asked for.”
“High time,” Keith said. “All that synth fill and bangbox stuff is for cowards.”
“Who told you to say that?”
“Papa Bill did.”
“He would.” Christopher’s expression darkened. “Just to save me from looking—I don’t suppose Loi or Jessie—”
“Sorry. No,” Keith said. “Not unless they came in while I’ve been in here.”
Tight-lipped, Christopher shook his head. “I didn’t expect them.”
“Still at war?”
“Trenches and mortars. They won’t pick a new counselor, I won’t go back to the old one. We lob words back and forth at each other a couple times a day.”
“Bad juju. But save it for later,” Keith said, glancing at the clock behind Christopher. “Five minutes. I’m going to get out of here and let you collect yourself.”
“Yeah.”
“You all right?”
