“Don’t come yet. Don’t you dare.”
But that feeling of build-and-release was on him. Too good. Too quick. He grit his teeth. Think of something else. Anything!
His mind conjured fat women. It contemplated maggots in curdled milk. And it found the devil’s long white fingers, fondling him under the door. Only not his ankle this time. No, now those terrible fingers were tickling at his balls. And Clay gasped deep in horror. His thrusts slowed. His libido waned. He withdrew himself to the foreskin and got back under control.
Then, with a backward thrust of her hips, Savy took him inside again, consumed him entirely. He plunged, hard and slow, her tight ass slapping his stomach, the headboard knocking, the both of them thrashing and gasping.
So good, so good. It couldn’t really be happening. Except nothing had ever felt like it was happening more. Clay never wanted to wake.
But when he could no longer restrain himself, he groaned and his thrusting intensified and Savy urged him on. He clung to her hips as the sensation rose. As his groin tightened and his climax surged up from the vas deferens depths. And he floated there a moment, at the pinnacle, all his senses wide open, hanging over a massive rollercoaster drop, over the whole fucking world.
And they’d thrown caution to the wind, or at least Clay had, because in the next instant he was coming inside her, into that velvety warmth. He bucked and rode the spasms, writhed against the jettisons of semen, and Sav, Savy, Saaaavy! buried her mouth into the pillow to mute her wanton scream.
So good. So hot. So fleeting.
Because even at the height of his pleasure, even as this lustful eruption delivered rapture in its purest form, even then, Clay understood that nothing this good could possibly last.
When he woke, day was gone from the window and the oxygen tank was gone from the room. Savy too. In a daze, Clay regarded the tattered jeans he was wearing. No evidence they’d ever been off. Though his boxers felt cool and sticky, forcing the conclusion that something—flesh-and-blood girl or vivid wet dream—had excited him enough to ejaculate.
No evidence that Savy had ever been in the room with him either. The pile of silver and black-beaded and onyx tiger-eyed bracelets that had been on the nightstand was gone. Only a black Gaslight Anthem hoodie that he’d never seen her wear remained, hung from the bedpost.
Showering in the adjoining bathroom, Clay threw his smoky clothes back on (minus the creamed underwear), along with the hoodie, which was two sizes too small, but better than wandering around shirtless in public. He descended to street level, discovering an empty space where his Jeep should have been—and an empty pocket where his keys should have been.
He called Savy twice, leaving voicemails.
In The Knickerbocker lobby, Spider was manning the desk. His eyebrows drew up at the sight of Clay and his exposed belly under the hoodie. “You see Sav?” Clay asked.
The drummer shook his head. “She took the day off to get ready for the gig. Were we supposed to meet here?”
“I thought so.”
After a trek down to a thrift store on Sunset for a pair of Sketchers and a shirt that fit (property of the department of redundancy department property, it said), Clay lingered in the hotel lobby until Spider finished his shift. By then, they had summoned Fiasco Joe, who arrived with BadVan and a black Rickenbacker 330, courtesy of Dooley’s Den, for Clay.
“Hey!” Spider said, scrolling through his phone. “You guys hear about Davis Karney?”
“Something about a fire?” Clay delivered this as casually as he could.
“His entire mansion burned to the ground. Possible arson.”
“Shit. He’s dead?” Fiasco said.
rip rocco and deidre, the message at their grave had read. your murderer will get theirs.
“No,” Spider told them, to Clay’s surprise. “His girlfriend is, but they found Karney in the rubble and rushed him to Cedars. He’s in critical condition.”
“Oh, fuck!” Clay shouted. And every eye in the lobby was on him.
Clay had been making excuses for Savy ever since. She hadn’t stolen his Jeep, but “borrowed it” to check in on her brothers. She was going home to grab a guitar cord she’d forgotten. She was going to meet them at the Echoplex in time for sound check. Definitely by sound check.
Except sound check was over and done and the opening band, Dude Incredible, had taken the stage. Spider called The Knickerbocker, Dooley’s Den, friends of Savy’s that Clay had never met, and eventually succeeded in getting Mo on the line. Mo, who confessed to having no idea where she was; she hadn’t come home at all last night. “Okay, what the fuck is going on?” Fiasco demanded.
Clay could only shrug. “She should’ve been here by now.”
“Don’t bullshit me.” Fiasco leaned in, close enough for Clay to sniff the Pink’s nacho-cheese chili dog he’d eaten on the way over. “Why are you covering for her?”
Clay opened his mouth, ready to play the ongoing fool, the detained mob witness (dunno, my memory ain’t so good), but at that moment the backstage door burst open and they spun to find Cameron Moreno and the other Physical Jerks entering the club. “They came early,” Spider realized. “To see us.”
Fiasco’s shoulders slumped. “And they’re going to realize pretty quick that we’re one hot guitarist short of an eye-fuck.”
But they’d hardly completed the go-around of fist-bumps and bro-hugs before the door flew open again and Savy sauntered in with her guitar. Fiasco ran to her, meaning to curse her off, but Savy elbowed him aside. She beelined for Clay, grabbed him by his shirt and dragged him into the backstage bathroom—slamming the door on Fiasco’s incredulous pursuit.
“Where were you?” Clay said. “I was worried sick.”
“I needed time to think.” Savy shut her eyes. “Now I need a second
