Head Full of Doubt, Road Full of Promise
Head Full of Doubt, Road Full of Promise
Songs:
Perfect Day, by Lou Reed
At Last, by Etta James
I Can’t Help Falling In Love With You, by Elvis Presley
Head Full of Doubt, Road Full of Promise, by The Avett Brothers
Chapter 21
He skipped the after party. It was very unlike him; and booze was flowing beautifully, and he wouldn’t have minded staying, but the idea wasn’t appealing. He was bored. His head was killing him, his mood was sour, he was missing Claire to death, and the two cunts who kept taking photos of themselves in the first row throughout the entire concert, singing along only to “Sex On Fire” didn’t help matters. By the looks of them, they were much less interested in the concert, but a lot more in getting backstage and hooking up. The very idea made him shudder and he quickly disappeared, leaving Nacho to fend off the groupies and maybe stir them towards Darren.
He was feeling tired. His stomach was rumbling and queasy. Back in February, he was massively poisoned by some bad shrimp in Spain, and had to cancel two concerts, which was something that didn’t sit well with him. Whatever it was—salmonella or e.coli, still made itself known from time to time, even now, almost two months later. The only positive thing about the poisoning was since he was feeling so bad, his mom and Claire both arrived to take care of him. It was nice. As shitty as he was feeling, having the two women he loved the most tend to his every need was something he could really get used to. However, his elation did not last long. Once he could finally move around and take in some food, or rather broth, Nathan sat him down and told him that their farmhouse was burglarized. The thieves stole some fairly expensive stuff—TVs and electronics, though he didn’t possess lots of fancy things to begin with. What was worse, was that they stole some of his private valuables; things that he’d collected over the years, mementos, memories …It really did upset him to no end. Not losing the crap, but knowing that someone out there had his things, items that were completely meaningless to the thief, but meant the world to him. Once before, he had his beautiful, new $2000 leather jacket stolen. It was maybe 2003 or 2004, and he finally made his first “fancy” purchase. Picking up a groupie, he spent a drunk and unsatisfying night with her, and when he woke up, the jacket was gone. Then just last year, he recalled being woken up early, early in the morning by the doorbell. The window of his Lexus was smashed by some well-meaning fan or maybe a writer for the Nashville Scene. The moment when the cops arrived, was preserved for posterity in the home movies. But by far, this new burglary was the most serious incident of them all.
In Barcelona, they stayed at the Hotel Majestic GL, and truly, it lived up to its name. He had a massive terrace overlooking the harbor all to himself. Though it was February and the wind from the sea was blustery, once he could walk more or less steadily, he went outside, and sat down, looking at the flickering lights of the city. He was feeling down and depressed. For some reason, it seemed that every time he tried to come closer to the life that he wanted, to owning something of his own, it was somehow snatched away. The record was doing incredibly well, yet it didn’t make much difference to him. He felt separated from life; hotel room after hotel room, concert after concert, immigration lines, planes. Yes, life’s become better and cleaner, and no longer was he sharing a Holiday Inn Express room with Nathan, or rode in a rickety van, but was he all that much happier with all that he now possessed? He couldn’t say. The only thing that actually made him happy was music, and his woman and the prospect of having a future with her.
The door to the patio opened and Claire stepped out. She was carrying a big blanket.
“Lebby, it’s cold. Why didn’t you wear a jacket?” she asked.
“Lebby”. He smiled. Sure as hell the only person who’s ever called him that, or whom he’d permit to call him that, was Claire.
“Come, sit with me,” he invited.
She came over and draped the blanket over him.
“How are you feeling?” she asked and kissed his cheek.
He took her hand and pulled her next to him. She wrapped her arm around him and put her head on his chest.
“You sure you don’t want to come to the BRITs with us?” he asked.
“Honey, I wish I could—it would be nice to go to an awards show, because obviously I’ve never been—but I can’t. Coming here was pretty unexpected. But I am glad that you are feeling better.”
“I am,” he stroked her head, wishing that he didn’t feel so well, because then, she’d stay with him longer. However, it would’ve been unfair to fake it, just to make himself happy.
“Nate talked to people back home,” she said, “when you were sleeping. Obviously the police was contacted and all that,”
He shrugged,
“Not like they’ll ever find it! Whatever…It’s gone. It’s just annoying as hell.”
“Why are you so upset about this?”
He thought and then said,
“Because I can’t do right by you!”
“By me?” she repeated.
“Yeah…I mean, I should be the man of the house. The provider. The protector. And I can’t even protect my house…I should be the one taking care of stuff, and of you…”
“Listen, you don’t need to take care of me,” she contradicted.
“Yes, I do. That’s what men do,”
“Yeah, you sound like you are in 1876…I don’t need taking care of, and this is not the great frontier—I don’t find you being robbed as so un-masculine occurrence.”
She kissed his shoulder and added,
“House or no house, you are still the one.”
He smiled.
It was good to hear.
“Wise men say, only fools rush in…But I can’t help falling in love with you…” he crooned softly to her. “Take my hand. Take my whole life too, for I can’t help falling in love with you.”
They won the BRITs. Best International Band and Best Album. Caleb wished that Claire was there to see it.
The following day, while they were still in the UK, Matt popped the question to Johanna. The guys in the band knew that it would happen, but didn’t know when he would muster enough cajones to actually drop on one knee and ask for her hand in marriage. They already came to an agreement back in Australia, but it wasn’t an official engagement. Now, Matt went about the task in an old-fashioned way, by asking Johanna’s father’s permission first. The exact location of where the proposal took place wasn’t known—Matt and Johanna remained mum about it, but they described it as “very romantic”. The following day, more romance was in order, since the band was performing in Paris. Matt spent the day riding a boat on the Seine, eating pastries by the Louvre, and after the Olympia concert, everyone went to L’Ambroisie, a 3 Michelin star restaurant on Place des Vosges. It had a dreamy, 17th century gilded interior, exquisite food, truffles galore and an extensive wine list. By the end of the night, they had racked up a bill of more than 17,000 Euros.
Everyone was sworn to utmost secrecy about the impending nuptuals.
Johanna deleted her Twitter, so that well-meaning friends and relatives would not reveal the secret accidentally. Matt was adamant about keeping the whole thing under wraps. He was publicity shy, viewed his position in the band as that of a job, not a lifestyle, and didn’t feel that he should announce his engagement from the roofs.
Johanna and Matt were a well-matched couple. He was phlegmatic and easy going, a kind, tender guy, who could tolerate just about any sort of behavior—no wonder he stayed in the band all this time and didn’t kill himself or any of his cousins. Johanna was a bit of a firecracker, with a temper, and long used to the good, rock-n-roll life. Nevertheless, she could also deal well with Matt’s peculiarities, and he had a chilled out effect on her, which was good for her.
Now everyone was engaged. Well, everyone except for the lead singer. And the lead singer wasn’t happy about that at all. After the engagement dinner he returned to his hotel room, and when everybody thought that he had went to sleep, he slipped from under the watchful gaze of guards and wandered aimlessly around the streets of Paris, which were bustling with life. Nobody knew who he was, and he was free to window shop, walk past stalls and bistros, never gaining enough confidence to actually enter a café, sit down and order something. He wasn’t hungry, but the coffee smelled wonderful. But he didn’t know much French at all, and was intimidated by the seemingly snooty and harried Parisian waiters, with their vests and bow ties.
He knew that he’s talked a lot of shit about marriage, and that actually amused him, because now, he couldn’t wait to get married. But the timing wasn’t right for proposing. He had it all worked out in his head. How he’d do it, what he’d say. He would to be back home, back in Nashville, on the farm. Both of them were Southern kids, and despite all the gloss, when the layers were peeled away, the two of them were two peas in a pod. BBQ. Country Music. State Fairs. Beer and whiskey. Cotton Candy. To him, the most romantic scenario would have the two of them sitting out on the porch, on the swing. It would be twilight. The sun would be red and glorious, sitting low over the horizon, and the stars would be new and soft. There might be music playing in the house, perhaps Etta James’s “At Last”. He’d take Claire’s hand in his, and she wouldn’t know what was going on, and then he’d slip on one knee before her, and would ask her if she would share her life with his and become his wife. He would kiss her hand and her knees. Then he would put the ring on her finger. He loved the ring. Because she liked vintage jewelry, he actually found it at an antique shop in Spain. It was shaped like a flower, and he had the jeweler change the stones, replacing the green emerald with a hefty diamond, and adding some higher-grade pearls to the platinum leaves. She would say “yes” and kiss him. And then, she would cry. She would be happy.
They won a Grammy even, even though Caleb couldn’t actually recall the moment as he wasn’t in the audience when it happened. It was nice regardless.
He slipped into the SUV that was idling next to the venue.
“Where to, Mr. Followill?” asked the driver.
“Mr. Followill”. He preferred “Lebby”.
“The hotel.”
Where the hell was he?
Sometimes, all the cities and towns looked exactly the same. They all blended in together. Europe had a little more individuality, but even that sort of amalgamated into a jumble of buildings, narrow streets, lights, and cars. America was even worse! Some of its cities were almost exactly identical to each other, and unless he was slipped a paper telling him where he was, he wouldn’t even know what city to address in his speeches.
He stared outside the window. Oh yeah, Pittsburgh.
The trees were heavy with green leaves already—spring was in full bloom. It was April. Jeez, another spring. Time flew way too fast lately. He feared its relentless passing, which was burdening him a lot more now than it did even three years ago. But even three years ago it was a different life. He was still an indie darling back then, and things were simpler. He wasn’t a machine, a business, an enterprise that he was becoming right now. Often, looking out into the audience, and seeing only about 150 people out of 8,000 who actually sang along to his songs and enjoyed the experience of the concert, filled him with longing for the past. Yeah, back then, the money wasn’t as good and the venues were smaller, but at least every person in those venues was a real fan, who came there to sweat and dance and sing, and not take photos for their Facebook. He recalled a hot evening in some bar—one of many such evenings—where after a concert, he got to talking and drinking with a few girls, and he grabbed the younger one, a tiny, chubby thing, in tight jeans, and danced with her the entire evening, teaching her how to two-step. Those were the good times.
He had to stop. He was moping. And he knew that that usually either led to whiskey or depression. Claire would call it immediately, and tell him sternly, “Hey, quit moping!”
He smiled. She brought him to heel pretty quickly and easily.
He wanted to hear her voice, so he dialed her number and waited.
“Hello my love,” she greeted him.
“Well, hello to you too. What’s up?” he smiled. It was nice to be somebody’s “love”.
“Not much. Where are you?”
“Ummm, looks like Pittsburgh.”
“Looks like it? But it might be Baltimore or Toledo?”
“Yep.”
“What’s wrong? You sound sad.”
“Oh, you know. Just life. You ain’t here, and like I said, I am in Pittsburgh, which ain’t exactly the most fun place on earth. So you know…life sucks.”
“Oh, I am sure…bet lots of people would love for their lives to suck just like yours. Anyway, quit moping.”
He grinned.
“You just need a good night sleep.”
“I only get those when I am with you. It aint gonna happen without you around.”
“Hmmm…that needs to be remedied.”
“Couldn’t agree more!” he exclaimed.
“You ditched the afterparty?” she inquired, with some surprise.
“Yeah…didn’t feel like it.”
“So, what are you going to do?”
“Well, I am sure that the bar in the hotel has Jameson’s.”
“Oh, wonderful,” she drawled. “At least come up to the room, change, take a shower. Jameson’s won’t run away.”
“I showered after the concert,” he said. “But maybe I’ll change.”
He liked it when they talked like an old married couple.
Even though he resented Jessie, even to this day to some extent, he knew what he LIKED about her—and that was the simple, no nonsense familiarity that she had with Nathan. It was a comfortable relationship. It fit like a well-worn shoe. He finally had achieved the same thing with Claire. The last time they were together, she packed him and he loved the moment…wandering from room to room, beer in hand, watching her rummage through his closet, telling him what shirt to take, pointing him towards which drawer his socks were in, folding his jeans and t-shirts. It was so simple. Every time he passed by her, she’d give him a kiss. Delicious. They were listening to CCR and singing along, loudly. It was their time. She did laundry, he went to cook dinner—shrimp tacos, guacamole, black bean and mango salsa, rice, and then made Margaritas for them—and after dinner, it was love-making time. When she lay next to him, in post-coital bliss, her body bathed in warm light, her leg wrapped around him, she whispered to him, “I do love Mabel.”
“Who is Mabel?”
She smiled and explained,
“I call your guitar that. I don’t know why. But to me, she is Mabel. She is old and beautiful and she tells stories. She loves you and you love her.”
“Mabel…” he repeated. Yeah, his beat up Gibson, with its hole and battle wounds, was his comrade. “So be it. Mabel it is.”
Claire smiled.
“See. I knew you’d like the name,” she yawned and closed her eyes. “I like it when she is in the room with us.”
…He pressed the button on his Blackberry and sighed.
Rain drops fell on the window of the SUV. Great…A shitty mood coupled with rain. Nothing better.
“We are here, Mr. Followill,” said the driver. He opened the door and got out of the car. The night air was chilly. He sank deeper into his jacket and hopped into the lobby. Four girls ran towards him almost immediately. Apparently, they’ve been waiting here for a while, just hoping that he’d be in this hotel. He stopped of course, signed autographs, took pictures with them, made their year. For some reason, one of them, being completely flustered, her hands shaking, her cheeks aflame, took to calling him “Mr. Followill”—just like the driver. It was amusing, because most everybody were on first-name basis with him. Then he looked at her, and she must have been no older than 15, and suddenly he realized that to her, he was Mr. Followill. He was probably over a decade older than she was. Age was creeping up on him.
He finally was able to get into the elevator and thankfully, he was the only one in there. He shuddered and buried his face in his palms. What the fuck was wrong with him? Claire was right—he was kind of a whiny bitch. But then it seemed to him that everything he cherished was slowly dying or was gone.
He staggered to his room and jammed the key card in the wrong way three times, before the door finally opened and he entered, cursing.
“Renegade”, one of his favorite songs, greeted him.
Claire stepped into the light.
His heart beat so loudly, he had to put his hand on his chest, just to calm it down a bit.
She wore a black turtleneck with short sleeves, which was so tight, that it left almost nothing to the imagination and a grey skirt that was so short, it couldn’t have been more than the size of a washcloth.
She walked slowly towards him, one high-heeled foot placed steadily in front of the other, chocolate-coloured hair spilling over her shoulders.
“You are home,” she smiled and finally reached him.
“Now I am,” he murmured and drew her into his arms.
She cupped his face in her hands and gently pushed her lips against his.
He pulled her closer and stroked her head and hair, feeling the lush thickness between his fingers, and the delightful slide of her tongue against his lower lip, as well as the press of her breasts at his chest.
“What brought you here?” he wondered between kisses.
“Ummm. Let me think. You.”
“Thank you…” he wrapped tighter around her and rocked them side to side. “You are awesome! I love it when you surprise me like this.”
She pulled away and stroked his cheek,
“Well, I don’t want you running like a lone wolf here. Drinking your sorrows away.”
She finally freed herself from his embrace and he sniffed the air,
“Room service?”
“Figured you might be hungry…”
What a difference a year makes. No longer were they staying in some dinky “Hilton”. This was the best hotel in the city—luxury suite, gigantic bathroom, 24 hr complimentary valet service, bowls of macadamia nuts and chocolates on every sideboard, at least fifteen varieties of mineral water, at different temperatures, and when he glanced at the dining table, quite the spread by the looks of it—vodka, caviar, foie gras, all sorts of breads and crackers, wine, and mini pastries.
His mood instantly lifted and he was smiling, as he went to uncork the bottle and pour some wine into glasses.
“Oh, and speaking of lone wolf…”
He turned around and saw Claire stand in the middle of the room, with a pair of lacy undies hanging off her index finger. They were the kind that she usually wore—cheekies (Lily had taught him the different varieties of underwear that were apparently available out there. All he knew, were granny-panties, thongs and regular, nameless underwear. He found out that there were also boyshorts, cheekies, hiphuggers, v-strings, bikinis and briefs).
“Mind telling me whose these are?” she asked calmly.
He processed her question slowly, then set the glasses back on the table and said,
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I found them, here…”
He became so hot, he actually felt his shirt sticking to his body almost instantly. Cold sweat rolled down the small of his back.
“Claire…I have no idea…” he swallowed hard.
She was silent.
“Okay, okay…” he rubbed his temples feverishly, “okay…seriously. What the fuck is this? I don’t know whose they are!”
“Really?”
“You have to believe me!” he came closer to her, pleading. His hands were shaking. “Claire. All right, listen…I don’t know. I swear to you—ask anyone. I was with the guys last night, and then I came here and I went to bed. There was nothing. With anyone!”
In his frustration, he paced quickly, babbling almost incoherently, especially when faced with her complete iciness.
“I swear to G-d! On my mom’s life. On your life! I don’t know what it is and why it’s here. Please, just believe me,” he begged, “please believe me. You have to believe me,”
“You are making it pretty hard,” she said finally. “I mean, you have a history of having sex with someone else basically in front of me.”
He was sweating and almost hyperventilating,
“No, no. That’s in the past!” he yelled. “You know it! There has not been anybody but you. For ages. Man,” he wiped his face, “what the fuck? This is bullshit! I am serious. You gotta believe me. Fucking Nate or Jared probably…”
“Blaming someone else again?” she said dryly.
“I am not blaming anyone!” he threw, aggravated. “I am telling you that I’ve been completely faithful to you. For a long time. I don’t even remember the last time I’ve been with a woman other than you.”
He paused and implored her,
“Seriously, why the hell would I fuck things up with you? Between us? For some random piece of ass?”
“It’s been known to happen,”
“Yes,” but then stubbornly he added, “but it was a long time ago. You know it. You have to believe me. I’d never jeopardize what I have with you, for anything in the world. You know how much I love you. Claire, you must know that I love you, right?”
“I do know that you love me,” she said, and her tone was softer.
“And I am being totally honest with you. You know that even when I am bad, I will still tell you. I wouldn’t lie. But I haven’t been bad. I’ve been pining for you, and truth be told, you’ve spoilt me for all other women.
“So I really don’t know anything about this. All I can say right now, is that I am freaking out because I fear that you’ll walk out that door and I won’t ever see you again. All because of some underwear, which I don’t even know who it belongs to…”
She looked at the underwear, shrugged and then said,
“Oh, this? Well, it’s mine.”
He stared at her, then threw his arms up in the air and stormed into the bedroom, slamming the door.
She smiled.
He stayed there for about fifteen minutes and then finally busted out.
“That was a fucked up thing to do!” he threw, still seething.
“Lebby…still angry…” she shook her head.
He looked at her and then, not at all convincingly, ordered,
“Don’t you even “Lebby” me!”
She got up and came to him. He stood, arms crossed on his chest, pretending to be angry. She circled him slowly, her hand making gentle contact with his back and then his stomach, until she stopped and whispered in his ear, her breath warm, his member reacting almost instantly to the pleasurable closeness of her body, betraying his desire for her.
“Don’t you think that I have to make sure, from time to time?”
“You can just ask me,” he suggested gruffly. “I’ll tell you.”
She bit the top of his ear, sliding her tongue against it, making him shudder.
“I am surprised you didn’t recognize them,” she murmured.
He wanted to cup that soft, heavy breast, but he stood still, arms folded.
“By the way,” he muttered with feigned irritation, “can you possibly wear a longer skirt? Something slightly bigger than a handkerchief, if you will?”
She smiled widely and he finally wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her to him.
“And what’s wrong with my skirt?”
“Leaves way too little for imagination,” he complained.
She kissed his nose and said,
“I’d love for you to take it off me then…If it’s disagreeable. I do only wear it for you.”
“Ummm…it’s not really…disagreeable,” he then decided reluctantly. His hand slipped under the waistband of the skirt and he cupped her bare bottom in his palm. He pinched her and she squealed, pushing at his shoulder.
“Oh, no…” he shook his head, “now it’s punishment time!”
“Punishment?” she laughed. “All right. I suppose I deserve it.”
“You deserve it,” he assured her and picked her off the floor. She wrapped her legs around his waist and he carried her to the bedroom, where he unceremoniously dropped her on the bed. She chuckled at his roughness, as he pulled her skirt off with one swift move. But her laugh turned into a moan, as soon as his hairy cheek brushed coarsely against her inner thigh. He gripped her hands in his, and slowly kissed the inside of her leg, from the knee all the way down to her groin. Lacing his thick, stubby fingers with her thin, long ones he moved in between her legs, kissing her pubic bone, then letting his strong, long tongue take a deliberate, slow, deep swipe over her nether lips.
“Aww…” she cried, teased over and over again by his tongue, which slipped inside and roamed over the soft surface of her sex, all the while skillfully avoiding her aching, neglected clit. “Stop…”
“Pffff…” he shrugged and muttered, “as if. Suffer, my love.”
“I hate you.”
He smiled and bit a good chunk of her fleshy pubes.
“Well, I love you.”
“No you don’t,” she hissed. “Fine. You are not getting anything from me tonight.”
“It’s all right. I’ll take what I want. And the rest—I’ll live without tonight.”
He kissed her fingers and across her belly and hips, before rising and kissing her lips lovingly.
“You are like, ridiculously beautiful, by the way,” he commented, slowly pressing his lips to her eyes and then to her cheeks.
“I love you,” she whispered, “and I am sorry…But I love you so very much that it makes me insecure. I am afraid of losing you.”
He smiled sadly,
“We are weird—both afraid of losing one another.”
He released her hands and she wrapped her arms around his shoulders, quickly taking his shirt off and pressing her forehead into his neck. He held her head close to him, kissing her hair, rocking her next to his chest.
“You sure aint gonna get rid of me, girl,” he promised.
She giggled and said, “good!” Then she pushed him flat on his back. His body was strong and brown, the muscles along the shoulders and chest wide, defined and sturdy. A man’s man, even when he looked so pretty back in the day. Now his face was angular, symmetrical and the planes of it were clean, open, and dominated by those spectacular, ocean-blue eyes. She unbuckled the belt of his jeans, sliding them down the narrow hips and the thin thighs. Her cool hand lay on his belly and she stroked it slowly, tenderly, because that’s what he liked. At times, the gentle rubbing even helped with his queasiness and he didn’t have to throw up before or after concerts. She leaned and kissed him, her other hand stroking his head, running her fingers through his hair. He put his arm around her naked hips and pulled her closer. She threw her leg over and straddled him. He didn’t move to take off her cashmere turtleneck, but let his hand slide under it and found her cool naked breast, then giving it an exploratory, slow squeeze, his other hand gliding over her back and hip, touching her familiar nakedness. The length of his erection pressed into her wet, waiting sex, but now, it was her turn to tease him. Gingerly, she slithered over the tip of his member, wetting it, passing her smooth, soft lips over the head again and again, until he let out an impatient groan.
“Ahh…you don’t like it?” she muttered.
Rising to the challenge, he smiled crookedly and cocked his eyebrow, saying,
“Oh, actually I like it very much.”
The back of his fingers rubbed her smooth pubic bone and she looked down and said,
“By the way, your teeth left a mark…Thanks.”
He smiled and said,
“Sorry. But it’s kind of a sexy mark. Besides, who is going to see it other than me?”
Carefully, he spread her, exposing her to his hungry gaze, his eyes gleaming with lust, the big hands touching her intimately, pulling the wet folds apart. She grabbed his shoulder and he sat up quickly, kissing her hard, draped in the halo of her hair, his thick thumb forcing its way into her and pressing flatly on her puckering clit. He watched her steadily, placing slow kisses on her semi-open mouth, sucking on her full lips. She wrapped her arms around him, caressing the protruding slabs of muscles on his back, while he lifted her turtleneck over her hardened breasts, and gave them an appreciative assessment. Then, holding her by the back of the neck, he carefully pushed her on her back and towered over her. Heavy and thick, his member probed along her slit, the delicious sensation making her gasp, until finally, the gradual, cautious, prolonged, smooth penetration. She could hear his heartbeat, even though his chest was far above hers, but the thick vein on his neck betrayed his own arousal better than anything else. He left his hand inside of her, rubbing and pressing on her clit, just as he filled her with deep, measured thrusts. She cupped his face between her hands and kissed him.
“You lose,” she giggled.
He smiled and shrugged,
“I don’t like to lose, but in this game, I think it’s all right.”
She closed her eyes, enjoying the burning thickness of him, every push causing her to gasp for air. The mat of hair on his chest scraped pleasantly against her nipples when he stooped to give her tongue a wide swipe with his. His fringe fell over his forehead, sticking to the sweat that covered his body. The crucifix swayed monotonously, swiping against her cheeks and her chest. His hips were strong, bumping hard against her pelvis, into her, every thrust precise and deep, forcing air from her lungs, his hand pressed between their bodies, the hard thumb resting on her clit, making her shudder endlessly from waves of pleasure that engulfed her body. He moved her leg up, his bearded face grazing the tender skin of her inner thigh, as he placed her ankle on his shoulder, kissing her knee softly. She thrust her hips higher, meeting his every push, her round breasts rolling pleasantly beneath his chest, her hand squeezing the small of his back, trying to pull more of him into her. He drew her thumb into his mouth, sucking on it strongly, making her twist and moan against him, feeling the muscles of her womb squeeze him hard and so pleasantly, that he bit her finger and tasted blood, coming in her and with her. It was explosive and beautiful and he pressed his lips to hers, kissing her firmly, trying to be gentle, but failing. He was hungry for her, and he kissed her ravenously, and his penis never even softened, before he eagerly thrust in her again. Claire cried out loudly, happily and readily, tireless just like he was, rolling with him and lying side by side with him. He wrapped her long leg around his waist and held her close, exchanging long, deep kisses with her, stroking her face and her breasts. She held him by the neck, her face dark with desire and radiant, the blue eyes glowing in the semi-darkness of the room. And all he heard, was her whispering, “G-d, I love you…”
…They slept, then they woke up and he was feeling restless from happiness, so they went downstairs and sat at the bar till the wee hours of the morning. He went to play pool with random, insomniac businessmen who stayed at the hotel, and she drunk a bottle of Chardonnay by herself and ate three shrimp cocktails.
“Come on gorgeous…you are looking pretty lonely over here,” he came up to her and winked. “Nightcap in my room?”
“Some pick up line,” she rolled her eyes.
He laughed.
“I also like how you smell,” he muttered, coming close to her and burying his face in her head, “of sex and wine and perfume…I kind of want to eat you…” after a pause, he added, “in many ways…”
“It would be nice if you stopped grossing me out.”
He laughed loudly, wrapped his arm around her waist and they went to the elevators.
His pool buddies watched them go, shaking their heads.
“Fucking rock stars. They can have anyone—any hot chick. And they do!”
Claire woke up alone. The sun was beating in the windows in the living room. She yawned, glanced at the clock—10:40am. Great.
She got up, stumbled to the bathroom, peed, washed her face, brushed her hair, so she could look a little more presentable, and then stumbled back into the bedroom and slipped under the covers. She dozed off, until she heard the door open and a shout, “You still asleep?”
“I was,” she moaned.
“Wakie, wakie,” he entered the bedroom, rolling a cart in front of him.
“Here, get yourself together,” he said. “Coffee…fruit…croissants.”
He grabbed a cheese filled roll from the tray and plunged on the bed beside her.
She sat up and he kissed her.
“How long are you staying?”
“Today, tomorrow and the weekend.”
“Ohhh,” he smiled widely, “awesome!”
“Are you all hopped up on goofballs or something?” she inquired.
He laughed and shook his head.
“No! I am just happy that you are here.”
He put his head on her shoulder and took out his Blackberry from his jeans. She took a long sip of coffee and bit into an almond croissant.
“Look at this!” he exclaimed.
She took his phone and looked.
“Wow. Riveting stuff. What is it?”
She was looking at a photo of a large hole in the ground.
“You should be riveted,” he agreed.
“Yeah?”
“This, my dear woman, is the site of your future home. Well, and mine.”
“Is it?”
He nodded, visibly excited.
“For now, before it’s built, I’ll just buy a place for me…I don’t know, a condo or something.”
“Where?”
He shrugged.
“Oh, oh,” she snapped her fingers, “those new condos, right by Loser’s—what about them?”
“Oh yeah,” he contemplated the idea for a moment, “that’s not bad.”
“I was talking to Taylor,” (Taylor was Taylor Swift, whom Claire met at some event a few months back and with whom she bonded) “and she said that she is buying there. You could be neighbours!” she laughed.
“Hey, Taylor is a cute kid. She is our homie.”
Claire was laughing.
“Used to be you’d get all coked up with Kate Moss. Now Taylor Swift is your homie. How things change.”
“Hey, Taylor is all right. Anyway, look at this,” he scrolled through a series of photos, all basically showing the same hole. It was nothing to look at, but clearly he was extremely excited about it, so she couldn’t disappoint him with indifference.
He rubbed his hands together and said,
“So I am thinking—three-four bedrooms…”
“One story, please,” she chimed in.
“Really? Why?”
“I don’t know. I like one story houses. I always am afraid that babies would like fall down the stairs or somebody will trip…it’s weird.”
He looked at her warmly, and took her hand.
“We wouldn’t want falling babies…How many?”
“What, babies?”
“Yeah…”
“I don’t know. Three-four.”
He smiled and said,
“Well, that sounds really good.”
They talked about the house for a long time. Bedrooms for their yet-to-be-conceived children, a spacious kitchen, and vast outdoor space, with a pool, an outdoor kitchen, a built-in grill and pizza oven, as well as a koi pond and a fireplace. The conversation was interrupted by a knock on the door.
“Ugh…Nate…” he got up and went to let his brother in.
“Oh, Claire-bear, you here!” greeted her Nathan. “Now I understand why our Caleb is floating around on cloud nine. He was very mysterious about the cause of his unusual cheeriness.”
“Yeah, our Caleb isn’t known for being cheery,” smiled Claire. Caleb stuck his tongue out at her and she stroked his shoulder. “He is such a classy guy too.”
“Let’s see—Jared had some big drag-out fight with Alisa again. Caleb is floating in the clouds with happy unicorns. One is up. Another one is down. I am even-Steven, as usual.”
“Life’s great for Nate,” teased him Claire. “It even rhymes!”
“I can’t complain.”
Nathan was pleased with himself, took a swig of his Michelob Ultra and added, “hurry up kids. We gotta go soon.”
He left and Claire said,
“I have to take a shower.”
“You shower, and I’ll shave.”
They hurried to the enormous bathroom and to his delight, the shower was enclosed in seamless glass and he could easily watch her shower in the mirror, while he was shaving.
She stepped out of the robe and he gave her a long wolf whistle. She grinned and shook her head.
“Enjoying the view?” she asked, while trying to figure out the workings of all twelve knobs in the shower.
“Don’t mind if I do,” he said, filling the sink with water.
She struggled, as water jetted out, almost swiping her off her feet, only to turn into a gentle mist, and then some sort of rain concoction, followed by steam. He was laughing quietly, while she cursed.
“Man, what are you gonna do without me?” he exclaimed at last, and marched to the shower, opening the door, and quickly finding the correct knobs. At last, water began to flow normally. Before he could step out, Claire drew him into her embrace and water enveloped both of them.
“And where am I going to dry these jeans?” he murmured.
She kissed the corners of his mouth and then his chin and his neck, whispering,
“I am sorry for ruining your jeans. I’ll get you new ones. I promise.”
He was soaked through already and didn’t care. Holding her slippery, warm body next to him, he took her lips in a lingering, deliberate kiss, leisurely running his hands over her sleek body, brushing his thumbs over her nipples, and her mouth.
“I just really wanted to kiss you,” she confessed.
“You can ruin as many jeans as you want, if it’s kisses that you need,” he smiled and caressed her cheeks.
“I’ll try not to.”
He finally exited the shower and she watched him grimace as he pulled off his jeans.
“Oh…this feels disgusting…” he made a face, when he finally threw them in a wet pile.
He rubbed himself with a towel rapidly and then returned to his place by the sink.
She shampooed her hair and asked,
“So, what’s with Jared again?”
“Pfff,” he shrugged, smearing shaving cream over his neck and cheeks, “they’ve been fighting like cats and dogs lately.”
“Again?”
Jared and Alisa enjoyed a lengthy, but volatile relationship, which was made worse by Alisa’s extreme jealousy. Jared didn’t always help things with his behavior, flirting, clubbing, and with his obvious enjoyment of female attention, which was given to him aplenty. Even though the band tried to play down the incident, but just a couple of months back, at the Brits, Alisa got violently jealous of some girl who was putting the moves on Jared. Jared wasn’t even reciprocating, but it was enough for Alisa, who threw a drink in the girl’s face, and then got into a huge brawl. Security and bodyguards had to get involved and pull the two women apart. Luckily, eveyone was pretty buzzed, so the real reason for the fight wasn’t apparent to everyone. Caleb agreed to take the blame for the time being, and the next day, headlines announced “Kings Of Leon Come To Blows At The BRITS!”. Caleb read the reports, and muttered, “Better it be me beating up Matt, than our women looking like hoes and rejects from the Jerry Springer show.” Then it was the dreaded intervention time, where Jared had to sit down with Caleb and Nathan, and hear them tell him to get some control over his woman.
“Yeah…I don’t know exactly what happened, ‘cos I can’t keep track of all their drama. But I guess the two of them went out to some bar or club the other night, and Jared was recognized and probably he’s had one too many…So the ladies were coming on pretty strong…Well, I am guessing Alisa didn’t like that.”
“I am guessing the same…,” she agreed.
Everybody split into “Team Jared” and “Team Alisa”. Johanna and BettyAnn were on Alisa’s side, the rest, were “Team Jared”. After his unsuccessful attempt at seduction and some hard times, Claire and Jared patched things up, and he liked to come to her for advice. Of all the girlfriends, he liked her the most, and there was secret camaraderie going on between the two of them. However, Jared was still baffled by the fact that Claire loved Caleb. “But he is so…Caleb,” he’d exclaim with disdain. Claire would only smile. There was no point in explaining. But she still thought that Jared was in the right. He was faithful to Alisa, and considering how young he was, and that he’s been with Alisa for years, and with all the temptations that came his way daily—he did very well. Consequently, she couldn’t find it in her to blame Jared for his mischievous shortcomings. If Alisa still couldn’t understand that these are going to be the rules of this strange game, and that the women would never disappear and that there would always be temptations and flirtation, well, then it was Alisa’s problem. Jared did the honorable thing—proposed to her, decided to share his life with her. Clearly he was in this for the long haul. But it seemed that Alisa was intending on sabotaging the good thing that she had going.
Claire rinsed her hair, and Caleb, who was done shaving came to the shower and propped himself against the glass.
“Like I said, I kind of wish Alisa’d go away,” he decided.
She shook her finger at him and ordered sternly,
“You keep your mouth shut! No need for brutal honesty a la Caleb Followill. Don’t you dare say anything to either Jared or anybody else! Got it?”
“Okay, okay,” he drawled defensively. “So what, I can never say nothing to him?”
“No, you can’t. It’s his life. His mistakes to make.”
“I aint ever liked her much…From day one,”
“Yes, yes, I know the story. She fancied him, didn’t give you the time of day, and you are still pissed about it.”
“Bullshit!” he exclaimed. “Jared told you that?”
“Maybe…”
“That little bastard liar! I never fancied her. She just came off as a gold-digger.”
“Regardless of what your feelings are, all I can see you do, is tell him to sign a prenup. That’s about all.”
Deep down, she agreed with Caleb. Besides, he had a unique ability to read a person almost instantly, and almost always with absolute clarity. He was never wrong. At times, it was nothing more than a couple of seconds, and he could tell a person’s story with amazing accuracy. It was a bit spooky. So he read Alisa more than two years ago and his opinion of her didn’t change.
“Oh fuck!” he threw his hands up in the air, “I have to do an interview! Christ, it’s like in 3 minutes!”
“Go call it in then!”
She finished her shower, dried her hair and wrapped a towel around her waist.
Snippets of conversation were heard from the room.
“Yes, America is finally coming around…Grammy is amazing…Unexpected, because it was not a song that we even wanted to put on the album…No, “Sex On Fire” is not based on a real sexual relationship…”
She came out and flipped him off.
He tried to stifle a laugh and flipped her off too.
“We’ll tour America until the fall…yeah, yeah…some big festivals…Reading and Leeds…Lollapalooza and Austin City Limits…there is talk of that too, but I am not sure…”
He answered the questions, the same questions he’s been answering day after day—to reporters, on the radio, for newspapers, websites, news agencies, TV programs…Same questions about his dad, their childhood—wont people understand that his “childhood” ended almost fifteen years ago by now—fights with Nathan, and yes, painkillers were taken during the writing of this album, and yes, he had to have surgery following a fight…blah, blah, blah…
He was sitting on the sofa, sipping wine, watching Claire move about the suite, taunting him with her beautiful bare breasts, her lovely flat stomach and her long legs. She stood in the doorway, brushing her hair, and he beckoned her to him. She walked over and stooped to kiss her forehead. Without missing a beat, he answered a question about doing the benefit concert for the Australian bushfires, and placed a tender kiss on her nipple.
Claire went back to the bathroom, and he finished up his interview. Jared sent an angry text, saying to hurry up. Then their manager Andy sent a text reminding him of another interview, which he had to do at 3pm today. He got up, put on some clothes and consulted his list of upcoming press, concerts and appearances. It made him shudder. Right now, his marriage proposal, their house, babies—it all seemed like an impossibility. A real dream and nothing else.
He folded the sheet and threw it in a waste basket. It made him depressed.
“Hon, you ready?” he entered the bathroom. She was sitting by the mirror, already dressed, lip gloss in hand.
“Yeah, I am ready.”
“Good. My baby brother is sending me mean texts telling me to haul ass.”
He noticed a small, flat, round pill box on the vanity. It was open, displaying neat, circular rows of tiny pills.
She watched his reflection in the mirror. When he saw her contraceptives, his face fell. Claire was sure that he didn’t know how apparent his disappointment was.
“I’ll get the bags,” he said and turned to leave.
“Wait,” she said quietly. He stopped and turned to look at her.
“If we are going to make this decision,” she whispered, “it shouldn’t be yours or mine. It should be ours.”
He was silent, but she could see that he knew what she was talking about.
He came closer and she took his hand.
“I’ve accomplished what I had set out to accomplish,” she said, “at least for this stage of my life. I’ve got three weeks till I graduate…I’ve gotten what I wanted, but now, I want to be with my man. That’s all. Now, it’s time to build a life with you.”
He squatted before her and brought her hands to his lips.
“You know that this is the only thing that I want in life.”
“I know,” she stroked his head, “and the only thing that I want, is to be with you. On buses, in hotels, on planes and in immigration lines. Nothing sounds better than that!”
He chuckled.
“Good life, huh…”
“Good enough. Any life would be fine, as long as I live it with you.”
She took the pill box and handed it to him.
“I am all yours now.”
