"Tell me how good it feels," he crooned in her ear. "Tell me it's good."
"It's good, Conti. It's good."
"Doll… doll… God, I love you. I love you so much." He pushed himself inside her and began pumping away to the rhythm of "I Can't Get No Satisfaction" that kept playing over and over in her head.
It was the song that the Doves did best. Paige sang backup, Jason was on bass, Benny at the drums. Mike played the keyboard while Conti sang lead, banging his Gibson and thrusting his hips to the rhythm.
I can't… get no… satis… faction
Conti dug his fingers into her buttocks, tilting them higher to receive him, plunging deeper. She let her mind slip away from what was happening, to a beautiful, pure place-a country garden with hollyhocks and larkspur and an old iron pump in the center. She imagined the sound of birds and the scent of honeysuckle. She saw herself lying back on a homemade quilt under a shady old tree. And at her side a plump, rosy-cheeked baby kicked happily and batted the air with its fists. Her baby. The baby she had lost when she'd had her abortion.
I can't… get no…
I can't… get no…
Conti let out a low, strangled moan and buried his mouth in her neck. As he shuddered, he seemed so vulnerable to her that she felt a foolish need to protect him. She stroked his back, giving him a sad kind of comfort. How many men had shuddered over her like this? More than a dozen. A lot more. Her friend Roxie said a girl wasn't really promiscuous until she'd hit triple digits, but Paige had felt promiscuous ever since she'd been raped.
When Conti had calmed, he drew back and gazed down at her. "I love you so much, doll."
Tears glistened in his eyes, and to her surprise she felt her own eyes fill. "I love you, too," she replied, even though she knew she didn't. But it seemed unspeakably cruel to say anything else.
Their bedroom romp had made them late, and they had to hurry. All five members of the Doves waited tables at a club called Taffy Too, named after the original owner's dog, who presumably had been Taffy One. They received no salary and only half their tips, but the Doves put up with it because the owner let them play a one-hour set at eleven o'clock each evening.
Taffy's was a third-rate club located in the heart of one of San Francisco's less picturesque neighborhoods, but occasionally some big shots slumming it would end up sitting at a front table. Conti thought the Doves might get discovered that way. In Paige's more depressed moments she thought that perhaps Conti was the only member of the Doves talented enough to perform any place better than Taffy Too's, but generally she repressed such thoughts. She might not be the world's best singer, but somehow she was going to make a success of herself and rub it in her father's face.
They had almost reached the alley that led to the back entrance of Taffy's when Conti lifted his arm and yelled out, "Yo, Ben, my man!"
Paige winced at the loudness of Conti's voice. Benny Smith, their drummer, approached. He was small and thin, with a short Afro and light brown skin.
"Hey, Conti. What's happenin'?"
Conti slid his hand up under her hair and wrapped his fingers around the back of her neck like a high school jock with his cheerleader girlfriend. "Nothin' much. You hear anything more about that dude from Dee-troit Mike was telling us about?"
"Dude's disappeared," Benny replied. "But I hear some dudes from Azday Records showed up at Bonzo's last night."
"No kidding? Maybe they'll come over to Taffy's."
Paige didn't think that was too likely. Unlike Taffy's, Bonzo's was a semirespectable club that booked better acts. She listened as Benny and Conti continued to trade rumors, acting as if each day held a golden key that would open the door to their success. She no longer remembered what that sort of optimism felt like.
They had a thinner crowd at Taffy's that night than normal, so the latecomers who arrived in the middle of the Doves' third Stones number were even more noticeable. Paige, wearing a cheap blue sateen jumpsuit with flashy metal studs, was beating her tambourine against her thigh when the two men took their place at the front table. One of the men was in his early fifties, the other younger. They both looked prosperous. Their suits bore the unmistakable sheen of silk and she caught the glint of expensive watches at their wrists.
Benny nearly knocked over his drums when he spotted them. As they finished "Heart of Stone," he whispered, "Those are the dudes from Azday records. I recognize the old guy-he's Mo Geller. Come on, everybody. Don't fuck up! This is it!"
Conti looked over at her, a panicked expression on his face. She felt surprisingly calm, given the importance of the event, and she gave him a reassuring smile. Benny hit the downbeat and the band kicked in. As she felt the beat of the song, she whipped her head to the side, letting her hair fly. It caught the lights so that it looked as if shimmering golden flames were leaping up from her head. She shook it again. Conti turned toward her as he sang. A wildness seemed to hit him, and he laughed at her-a sexual dare. She caught his mood as he picked up the beat. His hips moved and she laughed back at him-then stuck out her lip in a sexy, taunting pout. He came over to her, not missing a beat of the music, and leaned into her. She whipped him with her hair. They did a frenzied, dirty dance while the other band members called out encouragement. When the number ended, they got more applause than they had received in months.
The two men stayed through the rest of the set, and afterward bought them all drinks. "You kids generate a lot of excitement," Mo Geller said, clinking the ice cubes in his glass. "Got any material of your own?"
Benny assured him that they did, and the Doves took the stage again, performing two songs that their bass player had written. When they were done, Mo handed them one of his cards. "It's early to be talking about a contract, but I'm definitely impressed. We'll be in touch."
All of the Doves went to Conti and Paige's place afterward to celebrate. They smoked grass, told stupid jokes, and drank cheap wine. Conti started to talk about how much all of them meant to him and dissolved into sentimental tears. They were giddy and silly, high on pot and their first brush with success. By the time dawn lightened the sky, the men had curled into various corners of the apartment and fallen asleep. Paige, however, was sitting wide awake in a chair by the window.
At six o'clock she slipped out of the apartment and made her way down the littered hallway to the pay phone that hung near the front door. Digging a coin from the pocket of her jeans, she pushed it into the slot and, after a few moment's hesitation, dialed. Susannah would still be in bed, and the housekeeper shouldn't be in until eight. Unless her father was out of town, he would pick up the phone himself.
"Yes?" He answered brusquely, as if he were speaking into his office intercom.
She tangled the dirty, stretched-out telephone cord through her fingers. "Daddy, it's Paige."
There was a moment's silence. "It's six o'clock, Paige. I'm just getting dressed. What do you want?"
"Look, I'm sorry I couldn't make it to your birthday party. I-something came up."
"I wasn't aware that you'd been invited."
Her mouth twisted bitterly. She should have known that Saint Susannah was responsible for the invitation. "Yeah, well, I was."
"I see."
She turned to face the grimy wall. Her words came quickly, fiercely. "Listen, I just thought you might like to know that a man from Azday Records came to hear us play last night, and he wants to talk to us about a contract."
She squeezed her eyes shut, barely breathing as she waited for his response. She wanted to frame the words for him so he would say what she needed to hear-words of enthusiasm, of praise.