— she knew there was something she had to say, something she had to do, to make sure of, but she couldn't remember what, until —
— he pushed her down on the bed gently and laid down beside her, pressing his erection to her bare thigh, and then —
— she remembered. Caryl's mother, Margaret Dunphy, was a devout Christian and disapproved of premarital sex. But, unlike many others who shared her belief, she condemned no one who felt otherwise and always knew Caryl might choose to live her life differently than Margaret had. For that reason, she'd told her daughter to make sure she was prepared and never to engage in sex without protecting herself, not only to prevent pregnancy but also to prevent the transmission of diseases. "The Bible doesn't condemn promiscuity just because God didn't want us to have fun," she'd told Caryl once. "It just took a few thousand years for the reasons to become painfully obvious." It was not Margaret Dunphy's belief that AIDS was God's punishment to the sinful; it was, quite simply, she thought, the result of man's lack of common sense. "Whether you're married or not," she'd said, "screwing around is just not common sense. Right?" So, because of her mother's concern, and with her approval, Caryl kept a few condoms in her purse at all times. And if this was it, if this was going to be her first time, she was going to use them.
"Wait," she whispered hoarsely, the frantic pounding of her heart making her voice hitch rhythmically. "Just a second."
"What?" He raised his head, frowning.
As she reached for her purse, the only thing she managed to say was "Pruh-protection."
He chuckled and wrapped his fingers around her wrist, pulling it away from the purse. "We don't need that."
His words broke through her hypnotic stupor and she pushed herself into a sitting position. "Oh, I think we do. I do, anyway."
He leaned close and gave her a little kiss. "Have you ever heard the phrase, 'It's like taking a shower with a raincoat on'? That's what it's like for a guy. And besides, you don't have anything to worry about."
"Buh-but I know about your repu-reputation," she breathed. "I've heard the stories. All those women… some say men, too…"
He laughed loudly this time. "And you believed them? They're just stories. Anybody in my position has to put up with that. I don't even pay attention to them anymore. It comes with the territory. I just wanna make music. Jeez, you think I'm screwin' around as much as they say? I'd be in an AIDS ward by now if I was!" He stroked her breasts, slipped his fingers under her bra while tugging at the strap with the other hand and kissing her shoulder gently. Electric tingles shot down through Caryl's body from the spot touched by Hawk's lips. "We don't need one of those things," he whispered, kissing her again. "We want skin, right?" Another kiss. "Flesh against flesh." Another. "Our juices mixing with nothing in between." He had the bra off and was working on her panties now as he sucked on her breasts and rubbed himself against her.
But she didn't feel right about it, couldn't enjoy what he was doing to her because her stomach suddenly welled up with fear at the idea of having sex without any protection and her mother's calm, rational voice echoed in her mind: Whether you're married or not, screwing around is just not common sense. Right?
Right? Right? Right?
His tongue was on her nipple and his hand was between her legs, fingers making their way between her lips, which had grown so wet and —
— she reached down and grabbed her purse with one hand, trying to push him away again with the other, gasping, "No! Wait! A second! No!" but —
— he straddled her, held her head between his hands and massaged her temples with his fingers as he looked into her eyes and whispered, "We're going to make love… and it's going to be beautiful."
Caryl's muscles relaxed. Her legs loosened and she allowed him to remove her panties completely and lower his head between her thighs. His lips made her arch her back; his tongue made her whimper like a child; his fingers made her cry out. He moved up her body, licking all the way, and hiked her legs over his shoulders. Slowly, carefully, he slid his erection into her, staring into her eyes during every moment of it. Caryl bit her lower lip so hard she tasted blood and her hands clutched at the bedsheets as if for life. Her breasts rose and fell with pistonlike speed as Hawk began to move inside her, and after a few moments of stinging pain… it was wonderful…
And now she lay beside him, stroking his satiny skin and watching him sleep. His eyes opened suddenly and he turned to her, smiling, as if he'd never been asleep.
"I'll get a car for you," he whispered. "You can go home and get anything you need. I want you to come to L.A. and live with me. Our plane leaves in three hours."
Caryl let herself into the apartment quietly. Something by Mozart was playing softly on the stereo in the living room, and the lamp by the recliner cast a shaft of light into the hallway. Caryl braced herself, hoping that her mother had fallen asleep while reading in her chair so Caryl could just leave her a note, but she suspected otherwise. She suspected correctly.
The recliner creaked as Margaret Dunphy stood up, and her footsteps sounded on the hardwood floor; Caryl's back stiffened as her mother appeared in the hallway.
Margaret Dunphy was tall and slender with graying brown hair and a soft face. She wore a long bathrobe of maroon velour and smiled at her daughter warmly.
"So, how was the concert?" she asked, folding her hands.
Caryl felt herself blushing and turned away, whispering, "It was… guh-good."
"Did you go out afterward?"
"Uh-huh." She nodded.
"What did you do?"
Caryl's gut tensed into a knot. "No," she breathed, "I didn't. I–I'm sorry. I can't lie to you. I didn't actually… go out afterward."
"Oh. What did you do?"
Tears burned the back of her throat as she spoke, trying to control her voice. "I, um… Hawk? The singer I went to see? He… invited me backstage."
"Really?" She smiled as she said it, with no sign of anger, as if she were happy about the honor given her daughter.
Caryl had expected that; although her mother was a Christian, she was neither a Bible-beater nor a tyrant. But that only made it worse, because Caryl knew she was going against her mother's wishes, and that hurt.
"So you got to meet him," her mother said.
"Uh-huh."
"Well, that must have been nice. I know how much you admire him. What was he like?"
Staring at her feet, Caryl said, "Nice." There was a long silence, so long that Caryl could not bear it any longer and suddenly, unexpectedly —
— she told her mother everything. Everything.
The next long silence was even worse. Her mother's smile disappeared, but slowly. And it was not replaced with an angry glare — only a raised eyebrow.
Finally, Margaret said, "I hope you were… careful. You know what I mean, don't you?"
"Yes. I know what you mean." Caryl couldn't bring herself to tell the whole truth about that.
"So, you've decided to go? And live with this man?"
Caryl nodded.
"Do you think it's serious? I mean, do you think there's, you know… marriage in the future? Or is this just… oh, I don't know… an affair?"
Still not looking at her, Caryl said, "I don't know. I only met him tonight. I mean, really met him."
"Well." Margaret put her hands on each side of her daughter's face and smiled. "You know what you want. I just hope what you want is what's best for you. You might think I'm a fuddy-dud, but I'm aware of this Hawk's reputation, you know. I read magazines and papers. I watch television."