“No shit?” the dude asked, seemingly unsure whether to be in awe of this information or disillusioned by it.
“No shit,” Jake told him with a straight face. “In fact, that’s not really even me in the shot.”
“It’s not?”
“Nope, I’m too busy a guy to be posing for album cover photos, you know what I mean? It’s actually a body double with an airbrushed guitar in hands and then they airbrushed in an old photo of my face on him.”
“Wow,” the dude said, marveling at this.
“The stool is real though,” Jake told him. “Though it wasn’t really a brown stool. They had to change the color in the studio.”
“Man,” the dude whispered, shaking his head. “Those dudes can do some serious shit, huh?”
“They can,” Jake agreed, spying his suitcase finally dropping down.
“Hey,” the dude said. “How about you take out that guitar and play a little something for us?”
“I’d love to,” Jake told him, “but I can’t. It’s a contract thing, you know?”
“But I thought you went independent,” the dude said. “That’s what everyone is saying.”
“I did go independent,” he said. “And those are the worst kind of contracts to try to work under.”
“The independent contracts?” the dude asked, confused.
“That’s right,” Jake said. “Very oppressive. Back in the day, I could just pull my six-string out in front of any old baggage carousel in the northern hemisphere and start playing—and often I did—but under this independent contract...” He shook his head sadly. “No airport or other public transport guitar playing in the Pacific or Eastern African time zones is allowed, except on Fridays between six and nine PM Greenwich mean time, unless it’s Ramadan, of course, then I can’t even play during those hours unless I’ve been fasting.”
“That’s fucked up, dude,” the dude said, quite righteously.
Jake shrugged. “It’s the life I choose, my man,” he told him. He then reached out and snagged his suitcase as it came by. “Well, nice talking to you, partner. Good luck in rehab.” He held out his right hand to him.
“Uh ... sure,” the dude said, shaking with him. “Nice talking to you too.”
A moment later, Jake was making his way to the terminal exit, guitar and suitcase in hand, making a mental note to wash his hands at first opportunity. He was rather proud of himself for the impromptu strategy of bullshit he had just employed. Because of it, the dude had forgotten to ask for an autograph. And because no autograph had been signed, no one else had noticed that he was Jake Kingsley. He was escaping relatively unscathed. He would have to expand upon the technique in the future. Besides, it had been kind of fun.
A limousine was waiting for him out in the arrivals section. The driver put his baggage in the trunk and Jake sat down in the back for the thirty minute drive home. He resisted the urge to mix up a tall rum and coke during the trip. Whatever Laura wanted to talk about, it was probably something he wanted to face with complete sobriety.
It was 9:40 PM when Jake opened the front door of his house and carried his baggage inside. The house was quiet and sparkling clean, with most of the lights turned down. Elsa, having heard him enter, came through the kitchen and met him just as he was leaving the foyer. She was wearing her standard uniform of jeans and a button-up shirt, though usually, by this time of night, she would have changed into her night clothes and holed up in her room.
“Hey, Elsa,” Jake greeted. “I see the house is still standing.”
“For now,” she allowed. “How was your flight?”
“Quicker than I could have done it myself, but not nearly as fun,” he told her.
“Did you finish your recording for Mr. G?”
“I finished the basic track I was responsible for. I’ll probably have to fly back up soon to do some overdubs though.”
“I hope Mr. G is appropriately grateful for your assistance,” Elsa said.
“He is,” Jake said. “He was taking Bill and Sharon out to a ghetto bar to celebrate when I left.”
A look of alarm appeared on Elsa’s face. “A ghetto bar in Oakland?” she asked. “They’ll be killed!”
“I don’t think so,” Jake said. “Nerdly’s got quite a bit of street cred, you know.”
“William? Street cred?”
Jake shrugged. “G’s with him anyway. They’ll be safe.”
“I suppose,” she said doubtfully. “Anyway, go ahead and leave that suitcase right there. I’ll get it unpacked for you and wash the clothing.”
“Thanks, Elsa,” he said, setting it down. “How’s Laura been?”
“A little mopey these last two days,” she told him. “She didn’t want anything for dinner tonight and she went upstairs early. She didn’t even have the glass of wine she’s accustomed to.”
“Really?” Jake said slowly, not liking the sound of that a bit. His mind had developed several possibilities for what Laura wanted to talk about, and this news about her abstention from alcohol fed directly into one of the more alarming ones.
“Really,” Elsa said, picking up the suitcase. She looked up her employer. “There is nothing I should not witness in this suitcase, correct?”
“I wouldn’t do that to you, Elsa,” he told her. “I keep my lingerie and my sex toys in the guitar case.”
“Very good,” Elsa said. “I’ve trained you well.”
“You have,” he said. “Well, I’m going to head up. Laura has something she needs to talk to me about.”
Elsa nodded. “I hope it’s good news,” she told him.
“Me too,” he agreed.
He went to the music room to drop off the guitar and then walked up to the master bedroom. Laura was still awake when he entered. She was supine upon the bed, wearing nothing but a long white t-shirt with a cartoon cat playing a saxophone on it. SAX KITTEN was printed in playful script beneath. The hem of the shirt was well up on her upper thighs and he cast an appreciative look at her smooth legs. Her thighs were just a bit apart, letting him catch the barest impression of copper at their junction. The jiggle in her chest told him that she was not wearing a bra.
“Hey, babe,” he greeted, hoping that no matter what she wanted to talk about (even if it was THAT!) he would be able to sink into her flesh at the conclusion of the discussion. After all, it had been nearly three days since he’d been laid.
“Hi, sweetie,” she returned, giving him her smile. “Welcome home.”
She sat up and scooted to the edge of the bed (an action that rucked the hem of her shirt up even higher) and then stood to embrace him. They shared a warm kiss and a long embrace, longer than normal for such a situation. Laura just did not want to let go of him.
“What’s the matter, hon?” Jake asked softly, his hand rubbing her back.
“I ... I got some news the other day,” she said, her face buried in his shoulder.
“Okay...” he said slowly. “Is it good news or ... or bad news?”
She took a deep breath against him. “A little bit of both,” she said. “Depending on how you look at it.”
Jake swallowed slowly, feeling a little burst of adrenaline going through him. You will be calm and cool through this, he told himself, and you will deal with this situation as a rational, sober adult. “Okay,” he said softly. “How about you tell me what this news is?”
“I will in a minute,” she said, her arms still around him, her hands scratching lightly at his back. “How was your flight?”
“The flight was good,” he said, pulling himself back a little, so her face had to come out of his shoulder. “What’s the news, Laura?”
She sighed. “I don’t quite know how to tell you.”
“Just go ahead and say it,” he said. “I kind of have a feeling I already know what you’re about to tell me.”
Her eyes opened a little wider and she stared at his face. “You do?” she asked, surprised. “How did you hear about it?”