She's clenching around me, tighter and tighter. It's rapture building.
And when I prompt her to let it all loose, that's all it takes.
She goes up in flames. "That's it. God, that's it... Yes... Yes."
It's all the spark I need. It consumes me whole in a blinding expulsion of unadulterated pleasure. "Holy fuck."
The pause to catch our breath and collect our wits post mega-orgasm is exaggerated. It takes a minute to come back to the present when your mind and body have just been blissfully razed and ruined in the name of lust.
I'm still inside her and she's making no attempt to leave my lap. "Franco?"
"Yeah, Gem?"
"I'm crowning you king."
I raise my eyebrows. "Royalty, huh?"
She nods her head appreciatively and her devilish smile plays at her lips. "Fucking royalty. Literally."
This woman slays me.
Saturday, January 27
(Franco)
My cell is vibrating on the nightstand next to Gemma's bed. I've been awake for a while but my arm is under Gemma's sleeping head and I don't want to wake her so I'm still in bed. I pick it up with my free hand to silence the noise.
It's a text from Gus, We're on the road headed home and I just realized I forgot my black hoodie at the studio. If you have time before you leave town can you grab it?
Followed immediately by another text, If not, no worries.
And another, It's only my favorite.
And another, I'll probably cry for days if I lose it forever.
I reply to stop the whining, If you shut up I'll stop by and grab it.
His response is quick. It's a link to the YouTube clip of "Holding Out For a Hero" by Bonnie Tyler.
I can't help but laugh because I know the song and video in all its eighties gun fighting glory. Gus and I smoked some weed one night years ago and stumbled upon this little nugget of gold. We watched it over and over. What began as pure cheese was somehow brilliance after an hour of viewing it repeatedly. The weed was good. Obviously.
Another text comes in right behind it, My hero accompanied by several dozen emojis starting with a pink heart, kissy face, thumbs up, and party hat, but when I get to the bowling ball, Australian flag, and pineapple, I realize he's just poking buttons to fill up the screen and I stop reading, but my chest still rumbles with amusement.
"What's so funny?" Gemma's sleepy voice asks as her face tilts up to look at mine.
I stroke the hair out of her face and whisper, "Gus texted. It was funny. I'm sorry I woke you."
Her eyes are still hazed with sleep, but her smile is bright. "S'okay. I need to get up." She traces the lines of the tattoo on my chest. "Just don't want to because when I do you'll have to leave."
I wrap my arm that's already under her head around her and rub her upper arm. "We should shower first."
The shower sex was spectacular.
The goodbye that followed wasn't. It was the opposite of spectacular. It was shit-tacular. Because this is where it ends. We both know it.
I go home today.
She goes home tomorrow.
The temporary us remains here. A memory.
In a funk driving out of the L.A. apartment lot I almost forget Gus's sweatshirt, but I make a U-turn and go back for it.
The red lights are all lit inside the studio when I enter, so I take it slow and quiet. Our producer, MFDM, is at the controls in the sound booth. Tape is rolling on a guy playing acoustic guitar in the booth opposite. He's probably Gus's age and his sound is soulful. He's not wearing headphones, which is strange for many reasons. His eyes are closed, the lids barely touching, as if he's walking a razor's edge of deep concentration. The body of his guitar is held flat against his torso, the hold on the instrument unconventional. But the longer I watch, it's not. He's one with the guitar, like it's an extension of him. His body sways slightly in response to the music he's making. Every musician I've ever known, no matter the instrument they play, reacts differently to music. Playing and creating is one of the most intimate acts a human can engage in. It's personality and heart projected, that's what art is. But this guy, there's something different about him. There's something about watching him that reminds me of Gus. They're nothing alike in the way they look or play, but there's this feeling that what you're witnessing is special. That there aren't many people in the world who have the gift like they do.
I have goosebumps by the time silence descends on the room.
MFDM holds his hand up in the air as if signaling him to stop and then quickly gives him a thumbs up and waves him to the booth. He never talks, which I guess makes sense since the dude doesn't have headphones on.
I clear my throat to let MFDM know he's not alone. "Hey, sorry to interrupt."
He startles, regardless of my warning, with a hand to his chest. "Franco, what are you doing here? Gus wrapped up the last piece this morning. We're done."
The door opens, and the guitarist from the booth enters.
I don't want to drag this out any longer because I need to get out of their hair and let them work. "Yeah, I know. Gus forgot his hoodie and asked me to pick it up. Mind if I take a quick look around for it?"
"No, go ahead."
"Thanks." When I turn the guitarist is sitting on the couch behind us, his attention on the phone in his hands. "Nice work, man. That was clean."
When I move he looks up at me. He's wearing an easygoing smile.
I step forward and extend my hand, not wanting to appear rude. "The name's Franco."
His focus is on my mouth, not my eyes.
While we're shaking hands MFDM says, with his back to me, "That's Ridge." And then he adds, "He's deaf."
At the same time I say, "What?" and feel like a jackass for doing so, the door opens and a blond woman walks in and hands Ridge a bottle of water and interrupts the whole scene. I'm thankful because I need a second to start over with Ridge and make this right.
He touches his fingertips to his chin and quickly signs thank you. I recognize it because my sister taught my niece to sign before she could talk. Thank you was one of the signs.
She signs back. It's more than one word.