Circles Collide

Chapter 8: Blurring the Line

July 26, 1996

Oceano, California

Jake and Gordon Paladay—aka Bigg G—sat in the loungers out on Jake’s deck on the cliff, watching as the sun sank lower and lower toward the horizon. They had just smoked a joint of some pretty good Humboldt greenbud, passing it back and forth until it was gone, and were sipping from icy cold bottles of Lighthouse Ale from the Lighthouse Brewing Company in Coos Bay. A cooler next to Jake’s lounger contained ice and four more unopened bottles. Both men were dressed in shorts and simple t-shirts. They were feeling quite mellow, particularly Jake. It was Friday at last and this was his first indulgence of intoxicating substances in more than a week now.

“I really dig your place, brother,” G told him with obvious sincerity. “I can see now why you go to all the trouble of flying back and forth all the time.”

“It’s worth it,” Jake said. “Worth every penny I spend on fuel and maintenance, every dollar I spent on this land and this house, and worth every minute I lose from my life making the commute.”

“Fuck yeah,” G said. “I get it now. You got this big-ass crib sitting on this cliff over the ocean. There ain’t no fuckin’ smog here, no fuckin’ neighbors putting their nose in your business, and you go to sleep at night in a place that ain’t fuckin’ LA.”

“To ain’t fuckin’ LA,” Jake said, raising his beer bottle for a toast.

“Ain’t fuckin’ LA,” Gordon said, clinking his own bottle against it.

This was G’s first visit to Casa Kingsley. He had read an article in the LA Times this morning in which the noise complaints from a small but vocal number of San Luis Obispo County residents about Jake’s new plane had been detailed and sensationalized and then cross referenced with complaints on the same subject from various Coos County residents. G had called Jake’s cell phone to check in with him and give him a little good-natured shit about disturbing the peace. After receiving said ration of shit, Jake had invited him to fly up with him after he finished TSF rehearsal for the week to check out the plane and the house. With nothing else to do, G had agreed and met Jake at Whiteman at 4:30. The two of them had the house to themselves. Elsa had weekends off and Jake had flown her to LA this morning so she could use Laura’s car to drive to Orange County and visit her family. Laura, along with Celia and the rest of the band, were now in England, playing the first dates of the European tour. Neesh was in San Francisco attending a two-week orientation course for her new position as a junior lawyer for the firm of Brannon, Smith, and Harlow, an upper-end group that specialized in securities, equities, and derivatives. Jake had given him the grand tour of the house and then made them a couple of ribeye steaks on the grill for dinner. After cleaning up, they made their way out to the deck to watch the sunset. The hot tub remained closed and latched shut, however, since there were no women present and it was therefore forbidden under the rules of being a guy that they get into it under such circumstances.

“How goes your next album?” Jake asked him. “Getting any work done?”

“Still in the composition phase,” G told him. “I got six tunes I’ve been working up on the piano so far, but I haven’t got together with my homies yet to start taking them to the next level.” He shrugged. “I’m not really in much of a hurry. Still getting lots of airplay from the last album and still selling enough copies to keep me in beer money.”

“That’s pretty much the boat I’m in,” Jake said. “I’ve only got a few basic tunes strummed out so far and I’m not even sure I’m happy with them. Most of my time is being taken up with trying to get my set together for the TSF. It’s coming up soon.”

“How’s that going for you?” G asked.

“It’s kind of a two steps forward and one step back kind of thing,” Jake said. “Every time we start to make some progress, something happens to throw a cock-block at us. We were able to nail down Natalie as our violinist—remember her?”

“The Russian bitch that home-wrecked Celia’s pilot?”

“That’s her,” he confirmed. “It was kind of a stroke of luck, really. She moved to Texas to be with him and married him there after both of their divorces were final. She had told us when she made the move that she might be agreeable to doing some studio sessions in the future but would not go out on tour. So, I told Pauline to give her a call and see if she might help us out for the TSF. Pauline couldn’t get ahold of her though. Her number was no longer in service. And so, I was starting to think about maybe asking my mom if she would step up.”

Gordon chuckled at this. “That would’ve been something,” he said. “Your momma steppin’ up on the stage and playing with you at a heavy metal festival.”

“Hey,” Jake said. “I think she could’ve pulled it off. My mom knows how to rock when she has to. Besides, none of my tunes with violin in them are really hard rockers anyway.”

“True,” G said. He had listened to all of Jake’s solo albums and did, in fact, particularly appreciate the cuts with Mary Kingsley playing her fiddle.

“But before I could even think of a way to ask her, Natalie just up and calls Pauline out of the blue. She tells her that her husband just got a gig flying for United Express out of John Wayne and they’ve moved back to So-Cal and was there maybe any studio sessions she could do? And, just like that, violinist problem solved. She’s not quite as good as Eric or my mom, but she’s pretty damn close and she’s already familiar with a good portion of my tunes.”

G nodded appreciatively. “I like it when shit just works its way out like that.”

“Yeah, me too,” Jake agreed. “And then, just after Nat joined the team, I found a keyboardist I liked. Ron Sailor.”

“I’ve heard that name before,” G said. “I’m not sure where, but I’ve heard it.”

“He used to play with Tubular back in the late eighties,” Jake said. “After they broke up, he mostly did session work and the occasional live gig as a support player. He’s worked with Bob Seger, Neil Diamond, Stevie Nicks, and Joe Satriani. Impressive resume, right? He auditioned for me and fuckin’ nailed it. The dude is amazing on the instrument. He can play the synthesizer and the piano and he agreed to work for the basic session wages that I pay.”

“Sounds like you scored,” G said.

“Sounded like it,” Jake said. “As it turned out though, I should have talked to Bob and Neil and Stevie and Joe before I brought him onboard. He only lasted a week and a half and then I had to fire him.”

“What happened?”

“He’s a fuckin’ alky. And I mean a hard-core alky. He missed two sessions completely and was drunk at all the others. And even if I didn’t have a rule against that sort of shit, his skill on his instrument decreases proportionately with his intake.”

Gordon shook his head sadly. “That’s a damn shame,” he said. “Far be it from me to judge someone for their drinking—I’m pretty much a functional alcoholic myself—but to let it fuck up your livelihood? I just don’t get that shit.”

“Me either,” Jake said. “And I’m a man who spent a good portion of 1990 and early ‘91 drunk and wallowing in self-pity.”

“The South Island Blur,” G said. He was one of the few people on Earth who realized that Jake’s most popular solo tune was not about partying in the tropics, as was commonly believed.

“Fuckin’ A,” Jake said. “So, anyway, I still need to find a keyboard player who can lay down the piano and the synthesizer tracks, or one of each. And the TSF just keeps getting closer and closer. Hopefully, Pauline will have some auditions for me this week.”

“You know something, homey,” Gordon said, “I’m a little disappointed in you.”

“Why is that?”

“Why the fuck didn’t you ask me to lay down the keyboards for you?”

“You?” Jake asked, surprised.

“Me,” he confirmed, grinning slyly. “Is it the color of my skin or something?”

“What?”

“Don’t want no darkie playin’ on your stage and making the rest of y’all look bad?”

Jake looked at him and then shook his head in amusement. “Yeah, that’s exactly what it was,” he said.

They shared a laugh. “Seriously though, homey,” G said. “Why didn’t you ask? You know I play a mean piano and you know I do all the synthesizer tracks on my cuts.”

“I guess it never occurred to me,” Jake said. “Are you offering?”

“Fuckin’ A, I’m offering. I owe you big for all the work you’ve done with me on Step and Signed and my tour. Least I can do is help you out with the TSF. Besides, I ain’t got much going on these days. Neesh is gonna be working sixty-hour weeks for a while so I need something to occupy my days.”

“Well ... all right then,” Jake said. “Why don’t we give it a shot?”

“Let’s do it,” G said. “Monday morning, nine o’clock, KVA Records?”

“That’s where we’ll be. How much money you want for this gig?”

“Not a dime,” G said. “I’m just helpin’ a brother out.”

“Bullshit,” Jake said. “I’ll at least pay you the same as I pay the other musicians—fifty an hour for the rehearsals and your cut of a hundred grand for the TSF itself.”

“If it makes you feel better to do that, I won’t argue about it.”

“It would make me feel better,” Jake confirmed. “And what about doing some of your material? We should probably at least do Step and Signed, right?”

Gordon was shaking his head. “I don’t think we should do any of my shit,” he said. “It’s your show, not mine. In fact, I don’t think you should even introduce me. No sense distracting their attention away from you. I’ll just come out with a hat and a pair of sunglasses on and play my part and let everyone wonder who that nigger on the keyboards is. It’ll be fun.”

“You sure about this?” Jake asked.

“As sure as scoring with a groupie,” G said.

“That’s pretty sure,” Jake said.

“Yep.”

They watched the sun disappear over the horizon and the first few stars come out. They then picked up the cooler and the empty bottles and headed back to the house. After throwing away what needed to be thrown away and then stowing everything else, they each opened a fresh beer and headed for the entertainment room.

“Hey,” Gordon suddenly said, “remember that talk box I gave you?”

“Of course,” Jake said. “I have it in my composition room.”

“Did you ever figure out how to make music with it?”

“Hell yeah,” Jake said. “You were right when you said it adds a whole separate layer to making notes, but I took it up to Oregon with me when we were recording the last albums and played around with it quite a lot in one of the empty iso rooms when I wasn’t needed on a track in progress. I got to be pretty good with it, actually—not quite Frampton level or anything, but I can do solos and riffs that don’t sound like somebody strangling a chicken.”

“No shit?”

“No shit,” Jake confirmed. “I might even find a way to lay down a track or two with it on my next album.”

“Bust it out, homey,” Gordon said. “Let me hear you play it.”

“Uh ... sure, okay,” Jake said. “Just help me carry the shit in here.”

They went to the composition room and hauled the amplifier, the speaker, the talk box, the microphone stand, the various cords and cables, and Jake’s sunburst Les Paul guitar back to the entertainment room. This took about ten minutes to accomplish. Hooking everything up took another ten. G then sat down on the couch across from Jake, near the speaker, and Jake sat down in a chair. He quickly tuned the guitar by ear and then set it up for moderate distortion. He played out a few riffs and a brief solo in order to get into the groove of playing. He then stepped down on the talk box pedal.

“All right,” he told G. “Here goes.”

He put the plastic tube in his mouth and then began to play some simple riffs on the Les Paul. The vibration of the strings was converted to an analog signal by the dual Humbucker pickups on the guitar and then shipped to the amplifier by the guitar cord, where it was distorted and amplified and then sent to the talk box, which was a basic isolation box with a plastic tube coming out of it. The sound traveled through the air inside that plastic tube and was emitted in Jake’s mouth, where he could use his lips, tongue, and jaw to further shape it in a variety of ways. From Jake’s mouth, it went into the microphone and came out the speaker.

He kept his lips, tongue, and jaw in a neutral position at first, so the notes he played came out sounding mostly normal, with just a bit of an echo effect. He played a brief solo and then the riff for Ozzie’s I Don’t Know. From there, he started to use his lips and tongue a bit, transitioning into the main riff for the Eagles’ Those Shoes, followed by the blues stomp from Rocky Mountain Way. He pulled these off pretty well, improving with each repetition he made.

“I like that shit, homey,” G told him enthusiastically. “It’s like Joe Walsh is in the fuckin’ room with us.”

“I don’t know about that,” Jake said modestly (and truthfully), “but I have definitely picked up the basics of the device.”

“Do some Frampton,” Gordon ordered. “That’s the gold standard there—and don’t even try to tell me you haven’t been playing around with Frampton’s shit.”

Jake chuckled. He had actually been about to make that claim. “All right,” he said. “Just don’t expect too much.”

He ran through his Peter Frampton repertoire, starting with Show Me the Way and then moving into the extended talk-box solo from Do You Feel Like We Do? Though he did not have quite the same output dynamic as Frampton had because of differing distortion levels, he was able to duplicate the talking guitar effect reasonably well. From there, he played some other examples of talk box tunes that he had taught himself: Nazareth’s Hair of the Dog, Pink Floyd’s Pigs (Three Different Ones), Bon Jovi’s Livin’ on a Prayer, and Steely Dan’s Haitian Divorce. Finally, he silenced the guitar and removed his mouth from the tube, breathing heavily.

“That was badass!” Gordon declared.

“I guess,” Jake said, taking a deep breath and holding it for a moment. “I always forget to breathe as much as I should when I use this thing. It’s like walking uphill.”

“You have got to find a way to use that thing at the TSF.”

“The TSF?” Jake said, shaking his head. “No way. We’re already pressed for time to work the set up. There’s no way I could work in a completely new tune.”

“I’m not saying you need to come up with an entirely new tune,” G said. “I’m saying that you can find a way to adapt the box into one of your existing tunes that you plan to play anyway. Extend the solo or the bridge or maybe even both on one of the less popular cuts and make it into something new. That’s what Frampton did with Feel, isn’t it?”

“Uh ... yeah, that is my understanding.”

“And the live version of Feel is now Frampton’s most popular track, isn’t it?”

“It’s certainly up there,” Jake had to admit. “Are you suggesting that I could pull something off like Frampton did? Take one of my more marginal tunes and turn it into something new by adding in some talk box.”

“Fuckin’ A,” Gordon said. “You could be this generation’s Peter fucking Frampton.”

“I am nowhere near as skilled with the instrument as Frampton or Walsh or even Sambora. I’m not sure I could pull it off.”

“You may not be as skilled as them, but you’re no slouch either. I think you can do this shit, Jake.”

Jake thought about it for a few seconds. The idea seemed to gain appeal the more thinking he did. “Maybe,” he said at last. “But if I do this, you need to step up as well.”

“What do you mean?”

“I want a keyboard solo of some kind in the tune as well. And I want to introduce you to the crowd at that point in the show.”

“Introduce me as Bigg G?” he asked. “I don’t really want to go there.”

“I’ll introduce you as Gordon Paladay,” Jake countered. “Just a brief little blast out, like Frampton did for Bob Mayo on the live version of Feel. I’ll even imitate the style: ‘Gordon Paladay on the keyboards, Gordon Paladay’. Cue the audience applause in honor of you. I then transition into the guitar solo and the talk box solo.”

Gordon nodded his head as he thought this over. “Okay,” he said. “I can get into that. Most of the people in your audience won’t even know that my real name is Gordon Paladay. The media people will pick up on it though. The secret won’t be secret for long.”

“No, but will the knowledge that you played keyboards for me at the TSF hurt either of our reputations? It’s already known by your target demographic and mine that we collaborate on our music. I think it would do nothing but give me some added street cred and you some added musical cred.”

A few more nods from Gordon. “You do have a point there, homey,” he said.

“Why don’t we take a look at the set list I put together and see where we can do this thing?” Jake suggested.

“Bust it out,” Gordon said.

There was a three-and-a-half-week break between the last date of Matt Tisdale’s European tour in Odesa, Ukraine and the first date of the Asian tour in Seoul, South Korea. This was how long it would take for the equipment to travel by ship from the port of Odesa, through the Suez Canal, arrive at the port of Incheon, and then be trucked from there to Seoul to await the arrival of the crew to set everything up. The plan had been for the band and crew to enjoy their tour break at a resort on the Greek island of Mykonos in the Aegean Sea, and, in fact, most of the band and crew were still going to do just that. But Jim Ramos, Matt’s tour paramedic, whose job it was to stay by Matt’s side at all times during the trip, would not get to see the resort this time around. Instead, he was flying back to Los Angeles with Matt so that Matt could spend the break sorting through his IRS and state franchise tax board troubles.

“Was I right about the Ukrainian gash, or what?” Matt asked as they cruised high above Belarus about an hour after lifting off from Kiev. They were en route to London, as the Ukrainian International Airlines currently did not have any planes capable of reaching the United States nonstop. That was okay with Jim. He did not really wish to fly any further with UIA than he had to.

“It was some pretty good gash,” Jim said honestly. Though the Ukrainian groupies that he had bedded since arriving in the country eight days ago were not into shaving or even trimming things down below, they had all been extremely beautiful and enthusiastic sex partners. It had been an experience to remember in a trip full of such things.

“It’s gonna be kind of hard to go back to regular gash now,” Matt said sadly. He then shrugged. “Oh well. Life goes on, right?”

“Right,” Jim agreed, taking a sip from his gin and tonic.

Matt lit up a cigarette—smoking was still allowed on UIA flights—and puffed on it thoughtfully for a moment while sipping out of his own Jack and coke. “I’m sorry about you having to miss out on that fuckin’ Greek island,” he said. “It sounded like a good place to let your schlong out on the beach and kick back for a few.”

“It’s no big,” Jim told him. “It’ll be nice to spend a little time at home.”

“I guess,” Matt said. “I really do feel bad about dragging your ass along with me. After all, I won’t need you when I’m in LA and have access to American fucking healthcare. It’s just these flights out of the third world and back to America that make me nervous.”

“Don’t sweat it,” Jim told him. “This is my job, what you pay me all that money for. And, like I said, I’d rather be home for a few weeks than sitting on an island with my schlong out.”

Matt looked at him pointedly. “You can’t possibly be serious about that.”

“Dead serious,” Jim said. “There will be other tour breaks, right? They’re setting us up in Rio for the break between Asia and South America. And then we get to go to Vegas for the TSF in the middle of it. That’s all shit I never got to do as a private paramedic. Believe me, Matt. I will never be one to complain about having to do my job. Especially not when I’m working for you.”

“All right then,” Matt said, taking another drag. “I guess I’ll keep you around a little while longer.”

They flew on for a bit, long enough for the two of them to finish their drinks and order two more. While they were waiting for them to arrive, Jim looked over at Matt once again. “I know it’s none of my business,” he said, “and feel free to tell me that, but how much tax trouble are you in?”

“That’s what I’m going home to find out,” Matt said sourly. “It will be significant, I’m afraid. According to the tax lawyer I hired, I should probably just bend over and start slabbing on the lube right now so at least when they stick it in, it won’t hurt as much.”

“Your lawyer said that?” Jim asked.

“I’m paraphrasing a bit,” he replied, “but that’s the general gist of the situation. I haven’t paid any state or federal taxes on my solo income since I started getting it.”

“None at all?” Jim asked, astounded.

“That fuckin’ scumbag accountant I had doing my taxes told me I didn’t have to,” he said. “And then the motherfucker skipped off to South America with another sixteen million of my dollars when the shit hit the fan.”

“That’s fucked up,” Jim said, unable to think of anything else.

“That’s a good way of putting it,” Matt said. “I’ll tell you one thing, if I ever catch up with that motherfucker down there ... or anywhere ... his ass is fuckin’ lunchmeat. And I mean that shit literally. I will kill him where he stands and then grind him up and turn him into hamburger and feed him to the fuckin’ dogs in the dog pound.”

Jim felt a little chill as he heard this. He had no trouble envisioning Matt Tisdale doing exactly what he just said to someone who had wronged him in this manner.

Matt dozed off a few minutes after finishing his drink. Jim watched the scenery passing by outside his first-class window (on UIA, first-class meant you got free drinks, got to sit up front, board first and exit first, and your seat was slightly bigger than the common person’s seat). He still enjoyed looking at places he had never been before. They landed on time at Heathrow and then spent the two-hour layover in the British Airways first-class lounge drinking Jack and cokes and gin and tonics, respectively. Finally, it was time to board one of the new 777 aircraft for the long flight to Los Angeles.

“Now this is fuckin’ class,” Matt said as they were directed to their seats. He had chosen British Airways specifically for the first-class arrangements.

“That ain’t no shit,” Jim said, impressed. Their seats were next to each other at the very front of the aircraft. They both had twenty-inch television screens and the seats were plush, separated from each other, had dedicated armrests, and were capable of fully reclining into the supine position. It was like sitting in a recliner in front of the TV at home.

Matt took the aisle seat—he had no interest in looking out the window in flight—and tried it out for a few minutes while other passengers streamed by on their way to their own seats. Some recognized him and a few greeted him, but no one asked for his autograph. Apparently, there was some taboo against doing that on a boarding aircraft.

When the boarding was pretty much complete but the door to the plane was still open, Matt suddenly stood up and got the attention of one of the British flight attendants.

“Can I help you with something, Mr. Tisdale?” she asked politely, her English accent quite strong and aristocratic sounding.

“Yeah,” Matt said. “Where’s the pisser? I gotta offload.”

She directed him to the facilities. While he was in there, the flight attendant took a moment to check out Jim. “Are you one of Mr. Tisdale’s band members?” she asked.

“No,” Jim said. “I’m his paramedic.”

“His paramedic?”

“It’s a long story,” he said.

She smiled at him. “Maybe you’d like to tell it to me sometime?”

“How’s that?” he asked, confused.

“Or any other story of your travels,” she said, a saucy smile on her face. “I have a three-day layover in Los Angeles. Perhaps we could get together during that.”

Jim looked her up and down for a few moments, taking her in. She really was quite attractive. Brunette hair, brown eyes, a feminine, curvy body. A woman who would have been quite out of his league before he was on the payroll of Matt Tisdale. And now she was propositioning him just minutes after meeting him for the first time. “I think I would like that,” he said with a smile of his own.

“Lovely,” she said. “They’re putting us up in the Hilton at the airport. Two to a room. Maybe you have someplace a little more ... oh ... private?”

“Uh ... actually, I’m going to be staying at Matt’s place in Orange County. You see, I gave up my apartment when we went out on tour.”

“Will Mr. Tisdale mind if you have a guest over?” she asked.

“You know, I don’t think he will.”

Matt did not have a problem with this. In fact, he was quite proud of his medic. “The English stewardess, huh? And she just came out and asked for it?”

“That’s how it went down,” Jim told him.

“Out of fuckin’ sight,” he said, impressed. “She’s definitely doable. Hell yeah! Bring her on over. I was going to have a talk with you about how you can’t fuck Kim the first night we’re home, but now I don’t have to.”

“Only the first night?” Jim asked.

“Yeah. I’m sure she’ll want my schlong on that first night, and I’ll want her snatch. But after that, all of LA is open to me. And while this foreign gash we’ve been getting is pretty good—particularly the Ukrainian gash—there’s still a lot to be said for good old, Grade A rated American gash. Am I right?”

“You are right,” Jim had to agree.

They took off on time and headed northwest out over the ocean, taking the great-circle route up over Greenland and northern Canada. Matt and Jim both had two more drinks after reaching cruising altitude and then reclined their chairs and went to sleep. They awoke for a bit just before the aircraft crossed the east coast of Labrador. They ate their dinners—both had seen the movie Airplane and went with the steak dinner instead of the fish—had another few drinks, and then went right back to sleep. They did not wake up again until the plane began to descend into the landing pattern for LAX.

After clearing the customs checkpoint, they met the English stewardess—her name was Holly as it turned out—in front of the terminal. She was now dressed in a pair of tight jeans and a low-cut blouse that showed off an impressive amount of cleavage. She rolled her wheeled travel bag with her. They climbed into the limo that Matt had arranged for and started heading for the western outskirts of San Juan Capistrano. All of them were quite jetlagged, though Holly was probably more used to it. They had left London at 4:10 PM Greenwich Time, flown for more than eleven hours, and it was now 7:45 PM Pacific Time, but their bodies were telling them it was early in the morning, right around sunrise. Fortunately, Matt had a great remedy for this. He poured everyone a healthy shot of Jack Daniels and they put them in their stomachs.

Holly was quite impressed with Matt’s mansion on the beach. She was also quite impressed to meet Mary Ann Cummings, declaring that she had seen every one of her films and owned multiple videotapes from her production company.

“Which is your favorite?” Kim asked her.

“I have to say that To Fill a Mockingbird is the one that gets me the hottest and that I’ve watched the most.”

“Ahhh yes,” Kim said. “People do seem to like the whole brother and sister aspect of that film. What about my production tapes?”

“The Amateur Lesbians series,” Holly said without hesitation. “I own every volume.”

“Interesting,” Kim said with a knowing smile. “The subject interests you?”

“It does,” Holly agreed.

“Ever had a chance to try it yourself?”

“Not yet,” Holly said. “But if the opportunity ever came up...”

“Maybe that will happen,” Kim suggested.

They ate dinner—even though it felt to the recent travelers that they should be eating breakfast—and had a few more drinks. Matt then declared that he needed to get his dick wet and that Holly and Jim should make themselves at home. He led Kim to the bedroom. Jim and Holly soon retired to the guest bedroom and became better acquainted—intimately acquainted you might say—themselves.

Holly stayed the night. The next day, shortly after lunch, Jim and Matt sat in easy chairs and watched enthusiastically as Kim and Holly stripped down and had a lengthy and hot session of lesbian sex on the couch. After about forty-five minutes or so, Matt declared that it was time for the guys to get in on the action as well. He stood and started stripping off his clothes. Jim hesitated for a moment, feeling a little awkward—should they maybe ask permission first? he wondered—but then he got over it. He started pulling off his own clothes.

“All right, you get Kim,” Matt directed. “I’ll start on the stewardess bitch.”

“Uh ... okay,” he said. Kim was currently kneeling on the floor, her face between Holly’s widely spread legs, licking away. Holly was leaning her head back, an expression of bliss on her face, her hands running through Kim’s hair.

“Condoms are in the bowl there,” Matt pointed. “And remember the rule of two guys in the foursome.”

“No touching each other,” Jim recited.

“Except to high five,” Matt amended. “Let’s do this.”

They did it. Matt crawled up on the couch next to Holly. “Here, baby,” he said. “Why don’t you suck on this a little?”

Jim worried that Holly might balk at having an unfamiliar erection shoved in her face, but she did not. She unhesitantly slurped it down and went to work on it, occasionally taking her mouth off to moan when Kim licked a particularly erogenous region. Jim then grabbed a condom out of the bowl and put a helmet on his little soldier. He walked up behind Kim and put his hand on her ass cheek, stroking gently. This, he had learned in his travels with Matt, was the accepted etiquette for asking permission to enter during an event that fell under the definition of an orgy. Kim moaned out an enthusiastic “mmm hmmm” to him and repositioned herself so her butt was sticking up in the air. He got into position and put himself inside of her.

They had a good time for the next two hours or so, using up two condoms apiece. Jim came once while fucking Kim and once while fucking Holly’s ass while Kim licked his balls and Matt fucked Kim’s ass. It was a good time, and it is mentioned here because it was the only good time that Matt managed to have during his tour break. He spent the rest of the time prepping himself to have his own ass fucked by a much bigger dick than his or Jim’s.

Wesley Brimm was the tax attorney that Pauline had set Matt up with. He met the man for the first time in person at the Brackford, Redman, and Jackson offices in Brentwood two days after the impromptu orgy in his mansion. He was a short man of slight build, his features prissy and feminine looking, his voice matching his features, but he was reputed to be one of the foremost exports on federal and California taxation laws as they related to people and/or corporations who made more than a million dollars a year. It was he who advised Pauline and Jill on KVA tax issues.

“You are in serious trouble here, Matt,” was his summary of the situation.

“I kinda got that impression,” Matt said.

“As expected, the franchise tax board notified the IRS of the income discrepancy they uncovered, and the IRS immediately ordered an audit of your taxes from 1991 to 1995.”

“I know,” Matt said sourly. “You had me fax that form that released all my documentation to them and authorized you to be my mouthpiece.”

“That audit began two weeks ago,” Wesley said. “They haven’t even started working their way backwards yet. They’re still doing the preliminaries of 1995’s taxes and already you’re in very deep water.”

“What are we talking here? Jail time?”

“Oh no, they’re not going to pursue incarceration,” Wesley said. “If you’re in jail, you’re not making money. And they want their money. And they will do anything in their power to get it. To get all of it, plus interest and penalties.”

“And what is in their power?” Matt wanted to know.

“It would be easier to tell you what is not in their power. They have many avenues at their disposal, and they are already starting to implement them. Just based on the preliminary exam of 1995, they have already put liens on both of your California real estate holdings, have put a hold on your ability to transfer large amounts of money out of your bank accounts, have frozen your certificates of deposit and bond holdings, and set a tracker on any sale of stock certificates in your name.”

“Assholes,” Matt spat.

“They’re doing the job they are paid to do,” Wesley said. “And they do it extremely well in situations like this.”

“What happens next?”

“When the audit is complete, they will issue their findings and tell us what the amount of back taxes plus interest and penalties you owe. They will demand payment of the full amount within ninety days.”

“They won’t let me negotiate a payment plan or some shit like that?”

“They will negotiate with me on that manner, but it is they who get to decide what is fair and equitable. They are not going to simply tell you to pay a couple thousand a month until it is paid off. They will expect at least half of each of your royalty checks for starters.”

“Half?”

“Half,” he confirmed. “In addition, they will move to seize and auction off your nonessential property to pay down the debt. Your helicopter and your yacht will be the first things they go after. They will likely make a move on one of your domiciles as well.”

“My domiciles? What the fuck does that mean?”

“Your real estate holdings,” Wesley explained. “You own a condo and a house in California. They will argue that you do not need two residences. My guess is that they will go after the San Juan Capistrano home because it is worth more.”

“They can’t take my fuckin’ house!” Matt yelled.

“They can’t take both of them,” Wesley corrected. “They can take one. And since the San Juan Capistrano house is worth more, that’s the one they will go after. Now, a judge may disagree, especially when I argue that that domicile is your primary residence, but they’ll have the LA condo at the very least. And they’ll keep the lien on the other house no matter what. You will not be able to sell it without their say-so.”

“This shit’s like Nazi-fucking-Germany!”

“No, it’s like the United States Internal Revenue Service when you owe them a lot of money,” he said. “And things don’t end there. They know about all of your possessions, Matt. They subpoenaed the records from your insurance company, including the appraisals of value. Everything deemed unessential is up for grabs. Your guitar collection, for instance. It is valued at three hundred and twenty-six thousand dollars. They will go after that.”

“My guitars?! What the fuck, dude?” And then something even darker occurred to him. “My Strat! They can’t take my Strat from me, can they? I’ll never give it to those motherfuckers! I’ll burn it first!”

“The Stratocaster you play is insured separately and listed as a unique asset,” Wesley said. “By itself, it is currently valued at ninety-five thousand dollars, though I personally think it would sell for much more at auction. And yes, they may try to go after it, but I am reasonably sure I could convince a judge that that particular guitar is essential to your income stream and reputation as a musician.”

“Reasonably sure? What the fuck does that mean?”

“It means that I can’t promise you that some judge will not order it turned over, but it is unlikely.”

“Oh ... okay,” Matt said, feeling a little better, but not much.

“My strong suggestion to you,” Wesley went on, “is that we ask for permission for you to start selling off some of these assets yourself.”

“How does that help anything?” he asked, pondering the loss of his yacht and his helicopter and one of his pads. He hadn’t even ridden in the helicopter yet! Had never even met the pilot he’d hired to fly it! And now he was going to have to fire him along with all the other crew of the yacht. It had been a long time since he had felt like crying—probably more than thirty years—but he felt like that now.

“You’ll get more money for them that way and pay down the debt faster. If the IRS seizes your yacht and your helicopter, for instance, they’ll just auction them off with little to no effort and take whatever they get. But if you sell it, you have a vested interest and can work to get a better price. Same for your LA condo. In addition, if you sell the condo yourself, then the argument about them seizing the San Juan Capistrano domicile becomes null and void.”

Matt nodded miserably. “I guess I understand that shit,” he said. “What about my pad down in Cabo? Will they try to take that too?”

Wesley shook his head. “That possession is out of their reach,” he said. “It is in Mexico, not the United States, and they have no ability or jurisdiction to seize it. However, I would strongly suggest that you consider selling it as well.”

“Sell my Cabo house?” he asked, outraged. “Why the fuck would I do that if I don’t have to?”

“For money to pay them off,” the lawyer explained. “My understanding is that you own the house in Cabo San Lucas free and clear, correct?”

“Well ... I own the house itself,” he said. “Paid cash for that motherfucker when I bought it. Two hundred fuckin’ Gs. But I don’t own the land it sits on. Those fuckin’ beaners won’t let Americans actually buy the land from them. I have a ninety-nine-year lease on the property—well, ninety-five years at this point.”

“That doesn’t really matter,” Wesley said. “You have de facto ownership of the property.”

“De facto?”

“That means that for all intents and purposes, the property is yours to do with as you please,” he explained. “That ninety-five-year lease would transfer to any potential buyer, so the land retains the same value it would have if you did legally own it. And real estate in Cabo San Lucas—particularly two acres of actual waterfront real estate—is extremely valuable right now. I checked with our real estate department on this. Even without the house on it, that land would be worth well over a million dollars American now. With the house, it’s worth maybe one point four million.”

“Damn,” Matt said slowly. “That’s a pretty good investment I made, isn’t it?”

“It was,” Wesley agreed. “You bought at exactly the right time, just a year or so before Cabo San Lucas was discovered and became a major tourist destination. You could unload that property today, by the close of business hours, for one point three million minimum. That would be a pretty decent chunk of what you will end up owing to California and the IRS.”

Matt was shaking his head. “No fuckin’ way,” he said. “I ain’t selling my house in Cabo. I’ll keep it until I die.”

“Are you sure that is a wise decision, Matt?” Wesley asked. “My understanding is that you only spend a few weeks there a year.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Matt said. “That house is mine. I love it almost as much as I do my fuckin’ Strat. I ain’t givin’ it up.”

Wesley gave a sour face but let the subject drop. “All right then,” he said. “You hang on to the domicile in Mexico.”

“You were talking some shit in one of our phone calls about how the only way I can claim that my income isn’t taxable is if I renounce my American citizenship.”

“Yes,” Wesley said carefully. “I did say that.”

“Is that shit still on the table?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, if I renounce my citizenship and move my ass down to Mexico, does that make all this shit go away?”

“No,” the lawyer said simply. “You would still be on the hook for the back taxes and the penalties that you incurred before you renounced your citizenship. As to future income after you did such a drastic thing, even that is up to debate if you are still primarily obtaining your income from music sales in the United States. And even if that all went well—which is very questionable at best—you would literally have to live in Mexico the majority of the time and be able to prove that you are living in Mexico. And you would then have to start paying taxes to Mexico on your income.”

“Mexico has taxes?” he asked. He had never even considered such a thing.

“Yes, Matt,” Wesley said patiently. “Mexico has taxes. And I would suspect that their version of the IRS is not as polite as ours.”

“Wow,” he said. “Who woulda thought?”

And so, over the next ten days, Matt and Wesley worked together with the firm’s real estate department to begin working on the liquidation of some of his most beloved assets. Wesley spoke with the lead agent in charge of the Matthew Norman Tisdale investigation and was given permission to begin unloading things. He was warned very sternly that each transaction would be watched very carefully for signs of deceit, that each transaction would need to be signed off on by him, and that the capital gains taxation was still very much in play.

“Capital gains tax!” Matt yelled, outraged, when he was told about this. “You’re telling me these motherfuckers are going to tax me on the money I make by selling my fuckin’ condo and my fuckin’ stocks when the only reason I’m selling them is to pay their asses?”

“That is correct,” Wesley told him.

“This shit ain’t right, dude,” Matt said.

“Right or not, it’s the way things work, Matt.”

“Assholes,” he spat again.

“So ... anyway, we were talking about the listing price for your condo in LA. I’m told that one point three million is not an unreasonable number. Shall we start there?”

While Matt was putting his condo and his yacht and his helicopter on the market (and starting to grudgingly think about putting some of his guitars on the market as well), the Celia Valdez tour was in Madrid, Spain for four sold-out shows. They were staying in the Westin Palace Hotel, a quaint, huge hotel that had been built in the early twentieth century and had once been the largest hotel in Europe. Celia and the band had flown into Madrid-Barajas International the morning after their last show in Marseille, France. They had two days to enjoy the city before the first date. It would take that long for their equipment and crew, which was traveling by trucks and buses respectively, to arrive and be assembled.

The weather was pleasant in Madrid, a little on the warm side with blue skies and a gentle breeze blowing. The hotel suites they stayed in were pleasant as well, a little dated, but with all the luxuries and perks that the travelers had grown accustomed to. They checked in and then met for lunch in the Rotunda Restaurant and Lounge which sat beneath a large glass dome. Everyone chowed down on Spanish food and drank a few glasses of Spanish wine (except for Eric, who had had to take a Xanax for the plane ride) and then went back to their suites to take naps. They had just finished back-to-back dates in Marseille with an early travel day after the final show and all were tired and out of sorts.

Celia closed her curtains and blinds. She turned the air conditioning to high. She turned off all the lights. She then stripped herself naked and snuggled in under the covers of the King-sized bed. She was extremely horny and planned to paddle her pink canoe all the way to the Falls of Orgasm before her nap. She had not had anything resembling actual sex since the last night she had spent with Suzie, Jake, and Laura in Caracas before flying in Jake’s plane to Barquisimeto. That night, she and Suzie had enjoyed a long, luxuriant session of sapphic love in Celia’s suite and then slept the rest of the night in each other’s arms. Since then, not so much as a kiss. While staying in Barquisimeto, Suzie had had her own hotel room while Celia slept at her parents’ house in her old bedroom. They had not wanted to give her parents or brother the idea that there was any truth to the media stories about the two of them. And then Suzie had flown off with Jake and Laura while she had stayed behind in her hometown. And she had not seen or talked to Suzie since. Aristocrat tour management was flying them all first-class commercial between the European cities so there was no need for a dedicated aircrew.

She thought of Suzie now, as her fingers began to idly play with her inner thighs, her outer lips. Suzie with her wonderful feminine kisses, her large nipples, her skill with her lips and tongue. She juiced up a little, began to feel the familiar tingling of sexual arousal, but could not seem to get fully into the fantasy. With a sigh, she started thinking about that one night in Portland with Jake—a memory she did not take out often—and that juiced her up a little more but, for the first time ever with that particular memory, she still could not quite get into things, could not bring her arousal up enough to make a reasonable push toward her destination.

What is the matter with me? she thought, frustrated, but it was a rhetorical thought. She knew what the problem was. It had happened before. She had reached the point where paddling the pink canoe was just not going to cut it any longer. She needed the real thing in some way, shape, or form. But there was no prospect in sight, neither male nor female. She knew she would have no trouble getting herself laid if she really wanted to—by either sex—but she needed to have an emotional connection of some sort or she simply would not enjoy it. Sometimes she thought it must be easier being a man. Men did not care who they had sex with. They could bang someone whose name they did not even know without a second thought.

And so, feeling horny and frustrated, her fingers still touching her soft lower lips, she fell asleep, unfulfilled. She slept for four hours straight, hardly moving at all, soft little feminine snores occasionally coming out of her mouth. She likely would have slept for another two or three hours if the phone had not started ringing, dragging her out of her slumber.

She groped for the handset and finally managed to pick it up and put it to her ear.

“Marie Vasquez’s room,” she grunted into it.

“Hey, C,” Laura’s voice said. “It’s me.”

Celia blinked a few times and slowly sat up. “Hey, Teach,” she said. “What’s up?”

“I was calling to see if you were going to go down to dinner tonight.”

She yawned. “What time is it?”

“About eight-thirty,” Laura told her. “I just woke up from a pretty good nap a few minutes ago.”

“Ugg,” Celia grunted, seeing that she was still naked and probably smelled a little like a wet vagina. “I think I’m going to do the room service thing tonight. I do not feel like showering and doing my hair just to go down and eat.”

“That’s kind of what I was thinking as well,” Laura said. “Just thought I’d check in with you first.”

“I appreciate it,” Celia said. “If you want to, come over to my room and we can eat together. Maybe have a few drinks.”

“Hmm,” Laura said thoughtfully. “The sounds like a good idea. You need to give me a few minutes to get dressed. I’m currently just wearing my old sweatpants and a t-shirt.”

“You don’t have to dress up on my account,” Celia told her. “I’m only across the hall. And I’ll be wearing my jammies as well.”

“A pajama party huh?” Laura said. “Sounds like fun. I’ll be right over.”

“Okay. See you then.”

She hung up the phone and then went to her travel bag, which she had yet to unpack. She rummaged around in it and found a pair of baggy gray cotton shorts and a long t-shirt with a faded picture of Winne the Poo on it. She pulled the shorts over her legs, not bothering with underwear, and the t-shirt over her head, not bothering with a bra. She washed her hands with soap and water in the bathroom sink. As she was drying them on the hotel towel, she heard knocking on the door.

She put her eye to the peephole and verified it was Laura out there. She then opened the door and let her in. The sax player was a little bleary-eyed as well. Her hair was down and uncombed. She was dressed in a ratty green t-shirt with a picture of a kiwi bird on it and a faded pair of black sweatpants. Her socks were plain white. The way her small breasts jiggled as she entered told Celia that she had not bothered donning a bra either. She took a moment to admire the sight surreptitiously. Ever since she started having sex with Suzie, she found herself appreciating the female body and its attributes on more than a strictly aesthetic level.

“What are you drinking?” Celia asked her as they walked into the suite’s sitting room, where the bar was.

“I don’t know,” Laura said. “What are you going to have?”

“I’m thinking a vodka and tonic,” she said. “They have some of that new stuff that Jake introduced me to: Grey Goose.”

“Oh yeah,” Laura said with a nod. “That stuff is pretty smooth. I’m surprised they have it here in Spain. I thought it was just in the states.”

“This hotel is known for catering to Americans,” Celia said, walking over to the bar.

“Oh, I guess that makes sense. I’ll take one of those as well.”

“Two Grey Geese and tonics coming up,” Celia said, pulling down two water tumblers.

They sat down at the dining room table to sip their drinks and peruse the room service menu. Since the hotel catered heavily to American tourists there was plenty of American cuisine to choose from. They both chose instead to order some Spanish cuisine since they were, after all, in Spain and neither of them had ever been in the country before or sampled its food. They both went with the paella, a rice dish made with chicken and various peppers. Celia made the call, ordering the dinner, a few appetizers (in case she got hungry later) and a bottle of local white wine. They were able to down two goose and tonics apiece before the knock on the door came.

Laura, who was not as recognizable as Celia, answered the door while Celia stepped into the other room to be out of sight. She let the server in and watched as he set up their plates on the dining room table and opened the wine for them. She then tipped him with a one thousand peseta note—the equivalent of about five dollars US—and thanked him in Spanish for his effort.

“Food’s on!” she yelled to Celia once he was gone.

They both found the paella to be quite spicy but delicious. They ate the entire meal and finished the bottle of wine. After setting the dinner dishes out in the hallway for pickup, Celia made them each another goose and tonic and they went out onto the small balcony. The sun was low in the sky but had not set yet and the breeze was pleasant. They could see the main avenue in front of the hotel, which was still heavy with foot and vehicular traffic. They sat down in the reclining chairs and watched night approach Spain’s largest city.

“I wish we had some cigars,” Celia said. “I could really go for one about now.”

“Me too,” Laura agreed. “Maybe you can get Larry working on that tomorrow.”

“I will put it on my list,” she said.

“Ask him if he can score a little pot too,” she said. “I know we can’t travel with it, but if he could get me just enough for the six days we’re here, that would be nice.”

“I’ll ask him,” she promised.

“You would think they have good pot in Spain, wouldn’t you? I mean, it’s a warm country, kind of tropical in places. Isn’t that where good pot likes to grow?”

“I do not know enough about the subject to speak with authority,” Celia said. “But I am certain there is pot for sale somewhere in Madrid. And if there is, Larry should be able to find it.”

“He does have a nose for sniffing out black market items,” Laura said.

“As any good tour manager should,” Celia said.

They talked of inconsequential things mostly, with occasional brief forays into the subject of Greg and Mindy and Grand Oldfellow. Celia was more amused than anything else about the stories circulating in the entertainment media about how Greg was trying to wrestle custody of the infant from the unfit mother (he most certainly was not, and Celia did not have to be told this to know it to be true). They drank two more goose and tonics as they talked and watched night conquer the city. By the time they went back inside, both were fairly tipsy.

“One more?” Celia asked, holding up her empty glass.

“I think I’m going to pass,” Laura said. “I’m going to go back to my room and take care of a little business.”

“A little business?” She had no clue what Laura was talking about.

Laura giggled. “Yeah. You know? Personal business.”

Understanding washed over her. She felt herself flush a bit with arousal as the imagery popped into her mind. “Ohhhh,” she said with a smile. “That kind of personal business. I tried to conduct a little of that kind of business myself earlier.”

“Oh yeah?” Laura asked, her eyes shining a bit.

“Yeah,” Celia said sourly. “It didn’t work out for me.”

“You’ve reached the line, huh?” Laura asked sadly. This was something they had talked about before—usually while drinking. The line was the point where self-pleasure no longer relieved the tension, where you had to find an actual partner of some kind or learn to live with the frustration. Celia had not been up against the line since the night she seduced Suzie that first time.

“I’ve reached the line,” Celia said with a nod. “I’m not sure how I’m going to relieve it this time, to tell you the truth. Suzie is four thousand miles away from me and I’m not one to just go pick up some random guy.”

“I’m getting pretty close myself,” Laura said. “Ever since Njord outed us, I don’t dare use my normal relief valve. And Jake is not in a position to fly out to visit.” She sighed. “What can you do?”

“Exactly,” Celia said sadly.

And then a strange little smile appeared on Laura’s face. “Maybe there’s something that we can do,” she said softly.

Celia looked at her sharply. Surely, she was not going to suggest... that, was she? “What do you mean?” she asked carefully.

“Well ... maybe it’s just because I’m a little drunk and a lot horny, but the sight of your boobies bouncing around under your shirt has gotten me kind of hot.”

“Have they?” Celia asked, licking her lips a little, both fearful and excited about where this conversation was heading.

“Like you would not believe,” Laura said.

“Okay,” Celia said, making note that Laura’s nipples were now visibly protruding against the inside of her kiwi-bird shirt. “And how does that help your situation? You’re not going to suggest that you and I ... you know...”

“Not at all,” Laura said. “The idea is appealing, but I don’t think we should do that.”

“Then what should we do?” Celia asked, noticing that her nipples were now getting hard as well.

“Just a little variation of what Squiggle and I did that one night. A girl-time variation.”

“Explain further,” Celia heard herself saying. A part of her mind was screaming at her to end this conversation right now before her friendship with Laura and possibly even Jake was harmed. But another part—a bigger, more emotional part—was quite interested in where this was leading.

“Maybe we just sit down on the couch over there,” Laura suggested. “And maybe you take off your shirt and let me look at those boobies of yours, admire them. And maybe I could put my hand in my sweats and play a little while I look. And maybe you would like to have me look at your boobies and you could play a little as well. And maybe that might get the both of us on the right side of the line again.”

Celia felt another shudder of black excitement ripple through her. She felt her vagina juice up a little more. She could now feel the hardness of her nipples rubbing against her shirt as her breathing picked up and drove the friction a little faster.

“But we don’t touch each other?” Celia asked, a little breathless.

“That was the deal between Squiggle and I,” Laura said.

“And he tried to violate the deal, if I recall.”

“He did,” Laura agreed, “but I prevented that with just a word.”

The voice of doubt began to fade in Celia’s mind. The sheer naughtiness of what Teach was suggesting was driving it into a hole. “Do I get to look at your boobies too?” she asked.

Laura smiled. “That would only be fair,” she said.

The last remaining shred of doubt was buried with these words. “All right,” she said. “Let’s do it.”

“Let’s do it,” Laura said, heading for the couch.

They sat down next to each other, close, their legs nearly touching, Celia on Laura’s left side, and then turned toward each other a bit, so each could see the other without turning their heads ninety degrees. Celia felt some awkwardness trying to take hold, could see in Laura’s face that she was experiencing the same.

But before any doubts could be expressed, Laura said: “Take off the shirt, C. Let me see them.”

Celia did not allow herself to think any further. She reached down and grabbed the hem of her shirt. She pulled it up and over her head, allowing her bare breasts out into the light. She dropped the shirt on the floor and turned a little more toward Laura.

“My God,” Laura whispered in awe. “They’re beautiful. The most beautiful boobies I have ever seen in my life.”

Celia was blushing furiously now. “Thank you,” she said. “Now it’s your turn.”

Laura nodded and pulled her own shirt off, revealing a pair of nicely shaped, apple-sized breasts capped with pencil eraser sized nipples that were standing up proudly. Her excitement kicked up considerably at the sight of them.

“Yours are quite nice as well,” she told her.

“They’re kind of small,” Laura said.

“They’re perfect,” Celia insisted. “I am actually drooling looking at them.”

This made Laura blush furiously. She then lowered her eyes and took in Celia’s breasts again. Her right hand then began to move downward. “I think I’m ready to get started,” she said.

“Yeah,” Celia said. “Me too.”

Laura’s hand dove into her sweatpants and disappeared. She immediately began to rub herself. Celia’s shorts were so baggy that she was able to simply pull the crotch of them to the side, showing Laura her wet sex. She had not shaved in three days now, so she had stubble, but Laura did not seem to mind in the least.

“I can smell you, C,” she whispered. “And you smell really good.”

At these words, Celia put her fingers on her sex and began to rub and stroke, sending waves of sexual pleasure radiating out of her. She looked at Laura’s breasts while she played, imagined putting her hands and mouth on them. These thoughts and sights drove her excitement onward.

They played like this for perhaps five minutes, both of them getting more and more flushed, their breathing getting heavier, the smell of female sexual arousal getting thicker in the air. And then Laura took her left hand, the one that was not buried in her sweatpants, and extended it out to her left. She let it fall upon Celia’s right breast, where it began to softly caress the flesh.

“I ... I thought we weren’t supposed to ... to touch each other,” Celia panted, enjoying the touch immensely.

“The rules are that if you don’t want me to do this, you tell me to stop,” Laura returned, now twirling her finger around Celia’s nipple.

Celia did not tell her to stop. It felt too damn good. In fact, she could now feel the orgasm starting to build inside of her, climbing toward the peak, edging closer to the point of no return. There was no way she was going to interrupt now.

“Harder,” she told Laura. “Squeeze it a little harder. Be rough with it.”

Laura complied, adding some force, squeezing the nipple now and again, handling the boob like a man would. This had an immediate effect on Celia. The orgasm began to build faster now, becoming a positive feedback loop that fed upon itself. She began to pant faster, to moan in bliss, and soon the release point came and waves of intense pleasure exploded throughout her body.

“Oh my God, that was hot,” Laura panted, still rubbing away at her own sex frantically.

“Now it’s your turn,” Celia told her. She took her hand away from her own sex and twisted her body even more toward Laura. She then reached out with both of her hands and took both of Laura’s breasts in them.

“Oh yes,” Laura panted, speeding up her rubs even more. “My boobies love to be touched.”

But Celia could not confine herself to simply touching. Acting on an impulse she did not even attempt to question, she leaned forward and took Laura’s left nipple in her mouth. She began to tongue and suck on it.

“Oh my God!” Laura panted. “Oh my God, oh my God!”

Laura exploded with her own orgasm thirty seconds later, her pelvis bouncing up and down on the couch, Celia’s mouth suckling her nipple through the entire thing.

When the spasms finally died down, Celia took her mouth and hands off Laura’s body and sat back up. Both of them slumped in the couch cushions, letting their breathing get back to normal, letting their heart rates drop back down, letting the sweat dry on their skin. They sat like that in silence for the better part of five minutes. Finally, they turned their heads and looked at each other.

“I enjoyed that,” Celia said simply.

Laura nodded. “Me too. It was very intense.”

“Was it a wise thing to do though?”

“I don’t know,” Laura said. “I guess time will tell.”

“Are things going to be awkward between us now?” Celia asked next.

“I don’t think so,” Laura said. “We weren’t really ... you know ... doing it with each other. We were just two friends helping each other through a tough time.”

“You don’t think we crossed over a line in our friendship?” Celia asked.

“I think maybe we blurred the line a little,” Laura said. “I don’t think we crossed it.”

Celia nodded. “Well ... okay then,” she said. She leaned forward and picked up her shirt from the floor. She pulled it back over her head and let it drop into place. Laura did the same.

“Well, I guess I’ll head back to my room now,” Laura said. “Thanks for having me over.”

“Anytime,” Celia said.

Laura stood up and picked up her key card from the writing table where she had left it. She then turned back to Celia. “Oh, there is one thing I probably should have mentioned before we actually ... you know.”

“What’s that?” Celia asked.

“I have to tell Jake about this.”

Celia’s eyes widened in surprise. “Jake? You have to tell Jake about ... about ... what we just did?”

“Yes,” she said simply. “It’s part of our agreement. But don’t worry. He won’t be mad. I’m sure he’ll find the whole story kind of hot.”

She simply could not think of a thing to say. Laura gave her one last smile and then walked out the door, letting it close behind her.

Madres de Dios, she thought. How do I get myself into these situations?