Climbing the Rock

Chapter 2: One Year Later

September 23, 1981

Heritage, California

Willie's Roadhouse was located five miles north of downtown Heritage, on the Eden Highway, which ran along the Sacramento River levee. The club was one of four businesses that sat atop a large wooden pier, built on stilts next to the levee, that jutted out over the west bank of the river. Stairs led down from the pier to the Heritage Marina, where dozens of boats were permanently berthed and dozens more had been parked in the temporary berthing for the concert that had taken place at Willie's tonight. Similarly the parking lot located adjacent to the pier was completely full, as was every available space alongside the twisting levee road for a quarter mile in both directions. There was only one thing that could draw a crowd like this out to the small roadhouse on a Wednesday night and that one thing was listed on the marquee.

PLAYING WEDNESDAY, 9-23, the sign read, INTEMPERANCE. There was a notation in smaller print that The Stevedores, a group of hackers with even less talent then The Boozehounds, would be opening the show, but no one gave a shit about that. Tiny Tim could have been opening for all the crowd cared. It was Intemperance they had come to see.

It had been just over a year since Jake and Matt and the boys had done their first live performance at D Street West. By now they were doing at least three shows a week-Friday and Saturday nights at D Street West and Wednesdays at Willie's Roadhouse. Often they would pick up a Thursday or a Tuesday night performance at one of the other local venues. They were a household name in the greater Heritage area, even among those who disliked rock and roll music and those who never set foot in clubs. The Boozehounds, who had enjoyed a long reign as best local band, could hardly find a gig anymore, especially since they refused to degrade themselves by opening for Intemperance-the band who had kicked their asses so soundly out of the number one slot. Michaels, Hathaway, and the others had actually had to go out and find real jobs for the first time in their lives. Michaels was working at a UPS warehouse unloading trucks. Hathaway was flipping burgers on the night shift at a truck stop just outside of town.

One night after hearing this news, Matt and Jake, done up quite nicely on cocaine and beer supplied by O'Donnell after a particularly rousing performance, had driven out to the truck stop and parked themselves at the counter in direct view of the guitarist turned truck stop chef.

"Hey," Matt had yelled at him, a smirk firmly upon his face. "That's a nice hat you got there, Hathaway. It goes pretty good with the hairnet."

Hathaway had fumed at them as they'd chortled and snickered but had refused to entertain them with a reply. At least not then.

The counter waitress-a young, bleached blonde girl of about nineteen-was an Intemperance fan and was quite enthralled to find herself in the presence of the lead singer and the lead guitarist. She went on and on for a while about how "awesome" they were and about how she'd seen them play a dozen or more times and how they sounded "more awesome" every time.

"Thanks, hon," Matt told her, his eyes unabashedly looking her up and down and liking what they saw. "You gonna be at the show tomorrow night?"

"I'm supposed to work," she said sadly.

"Call in sick," Matt said, reaching out and stroking the side of her hand with his finger. "Come to the show and hang out with us after it's over, you know what I mean?"

She knew what he meant. The smile on her face said so. "I'll be there," she told him. "Count on it."

Matt ran his hand a little higher up her arm, to her shoulder, sliding it slowly down over the top of her breast before finally withdrawing it. "I'll be looking forward to it," he said, kissing the tip of his finger.

This exchange between waitress and guitar player made Hathaway turn even redder, made his hands clench into fists. It was quite obvious that he had his own, unrealized romantic interests in the young waitress. Matt chuckled again, relishing the effect he was causing.

"What can I get you guys?" the flustered waitress asked them.

"I'll have the Chef's Burger," Jake said.

"Fuckin' A," Matt said, laughing out loud this time. "Hit me up with the same. I heard the chef makes a damn good burger. Is that true, Hathaway?"

Hathaway didn't say a word. He simply turned and threw a couple of patties on the grill.

When the burgers were set before them ten minutes later, Matt poked and prodded at his for a moment, examining it from all angles like it was a used car he was thinking about purchasing. Finally he picked it up and took a bite, chewing thoughtfully for an extended time before swallowing. He took a drink of his water and then seesawed his hand back and forth.

"That's a pretty second-rate burger," he finally said. "I could do it a lot better."

This pushed Hathaway over the breaking point. He threw his spatula down, whipped off his tall white hat and his hairnet, and stormed over to the counter. "You and me," he said, pointing an angry finger at Matt. "Outside, right fuckin now!"

Matt simply grinned and shrugged. "If that's the way you want it, hacker," he said. "But I think you're making a mistake."

"Now, pussy!" Hathaway screamed. "Come on! I'm gonna kick your fuckin' ass!"

They got up and headed for the door. A couple of truckers that had been watching the confrontation followed them out to watch the festivities. The fight didn't last long. Hathaway took a swing at Matt and Matt ducked easily under it. He then countered with an uppercut that took Hathaway right on the chin, stunning him long enough for Matt to drive a right cross across the side of his face. Hathaway fell to the pavement in a heap, where he lay there, moaning in pain.

Matt, who had not even broken a sweat, cracked his knuckles and then walked back inside. "Here ya go, hon," he said, dropping a twenty-dollar bill before the transfixed waitress. "Keep the change."

"Uh... thanks," she said numbly.

"See ya tomorrow night?"

She nodded. "You know it."

And he did. She had come to the club dressed in a denim mini-skirt about six inches shorter than what was currently considered tasteful. She approached them after the show, two of her girlfriends in tow, and asked shyly if they remembered her.

"Of course we do," Matt had said, putting his arm around her and drawing her close. "How could I forget the sexiest damn waitress I've ever met?"

She giggled and introduced her two friends, both of whom were equally attractive and dressed in an equally slutty manner. She then informed them that Hathaway had called the police on Matt shortly after they'd left that night but, thanks to the statements of herself and the two truckers, they had basically told him to go pound some sand.

"Don't let your mouth write checks your body can't cash," had been their parting advice.

Matt ended up fucking the waitress in his van less than an hour later. Coop and Darren ended up fucking her friends at about the same time, doing it side by side in the backstage area of the club. In other words, it was a fairly typical end of set party at D Street West.

A similar party was going on now inside Willie's Roadhouse. The Wednesday night set had ended less than an hour before and most of the band members were mingling with the remaining crowd, evaluating the girls who fawned all over them and deciding which ones were going to be invited to the inevitable post-set gathering at Matt's house. It was there that the true action took place.

As Matt had prophesized before their first performance all those months ago, there was a seemingly endless supply of women and girls willing and able to do just about anything physically possible with the members of Intemperance simply because they were members of Intemperance. These girls hung around the band in hoards, sidling shamelessly up to any member they could find and making no bones about their willingness to be bedded.

"Sluts!" Matt called them with delight, sometimes right to their giggling faces. "They're all a bunch of fuckin' sluts. God bless and keep 'em!"

Even Bill-whom the rest of the band would have sworn at one time was going to die a virgin-got laid by their second gig at D Street West. It had been a little brunette groupie with a leather mini-skirt and black, calf-length boots who had taken Nerdly's cherry at the after-gig party that night. She had enticed him into Matt's spare bedroom, sat him on the corner of the bed, made him take out his cock, and then demonstrated her lack of underwear beneath the skirt by sitting on him and grinding until he blasted off inside of her. Since then, Bill had been insatiable, his appetite geared towards the most exotically dressed and attractive groupies he could find-the more out of his former persona's league, the better.

Bill was having a little trouble deciding between two likely prospects on this night. The first was a gorgeous redhead in a green micro-mini. The second was a natural blonde in Calvin Kleins and a yellow halter that showed off her generous breasts. Both were aristocratic looking and rich. Red was a receptionist at a local law firm. Blondie was the daughter of a real estate developer. They looked at him with rapt attention as he explained to them the best way to go about producing cold fusion and why it had not yet been done in a controlled manner under laboratory conditions.

Across the room, where a group of cocktail tables had been pushed together, Darren and Coop were working as a team, entertaining a group of eight women-three of whom had abandoned their dates in the hopes of hooking up with one or both of the musicians. They had already invited the entire group to Matt's place and would cull two out of the herd there. They had no qualms about getting it on with their chosen groupie in each other's presence and had even been known to copulate with the same girl simultaneously on occasion, performing the maneuver they had termed "the rotisserie".

Matt was over at the bar, sipping out of his sixth Jack and Coke and talking to a young brunette dressed in a simple pair of Levi's and a blue pullover. Lately he had taken to finding one of the attractive but shy girls in the crowd, one of the girls who would never have approached he or any other band member on their own. It was more challenging for him that way, more gratifying as well as he saw the adoration and disbelief in their eyes, as he fulfilled what he liked to think of as "the Cinderella Fantasy" by inviting them to The Ball-i.e. his place-and making their dreams come true-i.e. fucking the shit out of them in assorted unconventional positions in various parts of his house.

The only member of the band not working a groupie or groupies at the moment was Jake, who was currently not even in the building. So far, despite having performed live a total of 168 times before a combined total of approximately 65,000 people, 32,000 of whom were female, Jake had not bedded a single woman besides Michelle Borrows-who had finally given him her virginity at the after-gig party on the night of their first performance and had been supplying him with regular sex ever since. Not that he hadn't been tempted at times. In fact, he had found it best to stay away from the after-gig parties if Michelle was not with him, the temptation was that strong. But if there was one particular moral he had been raised with it was fidelity in love. And at some point along the way Michelle had ceased being a mere girlfriend to him and had started being the first woman he had fallen in love with.

Since that fateful day at Salinas Bend when he had lost his virginity to the jiggly and alluring Mandy, Jake had been with a respectable number of girls and women. Most of these relationships had been short and simple, based almost entirely on lust and the alleviation of horniness. Even in the longer-term relationships, those that lasted a month or more, he had never felt anything that could even remotely be termed love. With Michelle he would have sworn the same thing was taking place. He was wrong. Love had crept up on him, stealing so gradually into his mind that it had been fully entrenched before he recognized its presence. He adored her, adored everything about her. He liked the way she smiled, the cast of her eyes, the softness of her skin. He liked the sound of her voice and the conversations they had. He liked simply sitting with her on the couch in his apartment (an apartment he shared with Bill). There had been a point where he had even entertained the thought of proposing marriage to her. But that had been before her feelings towards him had started to take a turn for the worse.

The love he felt for Michelle was mutual, of that he had no doubt. He could see it in her eyes every time they were together, could hear it in her voice whenever her defenses fell long enough for it to creep out. She was in love with him but for the past two months, maybe a little more, she had been quietly starting to push him away from her, quietly hardening herself up for what seemed an inevitable parting of the ways. Jake knew it was coming and knew he was helpless to prevent it. But at the same time the irrational part of his brain, the part connected to his heart and emotions, continued to insist that she would come around, that she would be able to cast aside what her head was telling her to do and follow her own heart.

The gist of the problem she was having concerned her parents and the upbringing she had been subjected to. She was now twenty-one years old and had transferred over to California State University at Heritage where her third year of college was beginning. Her plan was to graduate next year with a degree in English and a teaching credential. Her dream was to teach at her alma mater, Holy Assumption, where she could help educate the next generation of Catholic girls. Her delayed teenage rebellion-the thing that had brought her and Jake together in the first place-was rapidly dying, allowing her upbringing and especially her faith to regain the ground it had lost.

It seemed like not a day would go by when she didn't nitpick at some aspect of his personality that didn't fit in with this upbringing. She had started to complain to him that his hair was too long, that his language was too coarse, that he drank too much, that he smoked too much. She admonished him every time he took the Lord's name in vain. She criticized his parents and their beliefs. She had even tried to get him to attend church with her (she herself had recently started going again) and to go to confession.

"We've been sinning," she told him during one argument. "Every time we make love without being married, we're sinning, Jake. Don't you see that? Don't you understand that?"

Round and round they would go on the subject of pre-marital sex, how wrong it was, how sinful, how they would burn in hell for it. But the interesting part was that despite her newly discovered views on the subject, she could not seem to get enough of it. She loved getting naked for him and rubbing her body against his. She loved bending over and lifting her skirt up so he could slide into her from behind, his hand slapping at her ass every once in a while. And she most especially loved when he put his mouth on her blonde pussy and sucked orgasm after orgasm from her.

That was in fact what he was doing to her right now, while the rest of the band was setting up their own random sex for the night. She had been there for the Wednesday night performance-something that was rare enough in its own right these days-and had seemed to be particularly hypercritical and aloof when he'd talked to her immediately after the show. When he asked her what was wrong she fell back on her favorite excuse since school had started again in late August. "I'm behind in my studies. State's a lot harder than HCC was."

He didn't believe it for a minute, of course. Studying and schoolwork came as naturally to Michelle as it had for Pauline, Jake's sister. But, like usual, he allowed the excuse to stand, knowing that if he pushed the issue she would simply storm out and refuse to talk to him for a few days. Though the relationship was fading and fading fast, he could not help but love her and strive to keep her near him.

"Why don't we go check out Willie's yacht?" he'd suggested as a way of easing the tension. Willie Bradford, the owner of Willie's Roadhouse, kept a forty-footer down in the marina. There were few he allowed to access his precious boat without his presence but Jake, the lead singer of a band that drew 450 people paying a $5 cover charge and swilling down $1 beers every Wednesday night, was among that few. He had his own passkey to the marina entrance and the combination to the door lock on the main cabin. He and Michelle had checked out the yacht on more than one occasion.

"I don't really have the time," she'd snapped, although Jake had already been able to see a flicker of interest in her eyes.

"Come on," he'd goaded, taking her arm and leading her in that direction. "It's only 10:30. You can hang out for a little while, can't you?"

She had given a few more token protestations but it was clear during the entire exchange that she wanted to go to the yacht. He could see it in the way her nipples poked through her cotton shirt at the very suggestion, in the way her tongue kept coming out and licking at her lips. She could go on and on about how wrong and sinful they were, but the simple fact remained that she had become addicted to the pleasures of the flesh.

"I'll eat your pussy for you," he'd whispered in her ear. "Stick my face right up under your dress and lick you until you come."

A shudder had worked her way through her body. "Let's go," she'd said.

Now, ten minutes later, they were in the cramped bedroom portion of the cabin, Michelle sitting on the tiny bed, her legs spread wide, Jake kneeling on the floor between them. Her calf-length skirt had been pulled up around her waist and he was holding her white, cotton panties to the side, his tongue lapping up and down her swollen vaginal lips. Her blond pubic hair was matted with his saliva and her secretions. Her clit was swollen and protruding proudly from its hood, demanding its own attention.

"Oh, God," she moaned, her fingers running through his long hair, her breath tearing in and out of her body.

"Mmmm," he responded, giving an extra-long lick, his hands running up and down her sexy legs.

Soon the fingers of his right hand found their way to her slit. She was tight here, very tight, so tight that the first time they'd gone all the way it had taken him almost ten minutes to work his way completely inside of her. Feeling the firm clutch of her body on his fingers never failed to kick his passion up a few notches. It didn't fail now. His cock throbbed in anticipation of nestling there. He made a quick check to see if the condom he planned to use was still in his pocket-it was-and then attached his mouth to her clit, intending to suck the first orgasm of the night out of her.

It was only seconds before she began bucking against him, her hands now pulling on his hair, drawing his face in tighter and tighter. Her legs wrapped around his back, her feet rubbing up and down. A continuous moan began to come from her mouth, the pitch going higher and higher as the spasms of orgasm began to build.

She came with a scream, muted slightly by her forearm in her mouth, but loud enough that a couple out for a walk through the marina heard it and looked knowingly at each other. No sooner had the spasms died that he was on his feet, standing between her legs, the condom wrapper in one hand, his other hand going to the snap on his jeans. In less than fifteen seconds he would be capped and thrusting within her, his mouth attached to hers, those legs wrapped around his back.

But it was not to be. She put her hand on his, halting him in mid-un-snap. "No," she said, her face still flushed and sweaty but determination in her eyes.

"No?" he asked, confused. "What do you mean, no?"

"I have to go, Jake," she said, pushing her hips back, pulling her skirt down. "I shouldn't have even stayed this long."

"You're going to leave... now?" he asked incredulously. "We're kind of in the middle of something."

"Yes," she said. "We're in the middle of sinning before God. Only this time I have the strength to stop."

"You've got to be fucking kidding," he said.

"You don't need to swear at me," she said. "You know my views on pre-marital sex. You know I feel guilty when I sin with you. I'm not going to do it this time. I can't and I won't."

He trembled in place for a moment, strongly considering just dropping his pants, putting on the condom, and taking her anyway. She might protest a little but she would let him, especially once his cock entered her pussy. She would wrap those legs around him and beg him for more. But in the end he didn't do, couldn't commit what would technically qualify as rape. Instead, he slumped backwards, sitting down on a small chair against the bulkhead.

"Why are you doing this?" he asked, putting the condom back in his pocket. "Is this some kind of punishment?"

"No, Jake," she said. "I told you, I have to leave. I have an 8:20 class in the morning and I'm already out too late."

He shook his head angrily. "Why don't we cut the bullshit?" he suggested. "Tell me what's really bothering you." He snorted a little. "What's bothering you that's not normally bothering you, that is."

She opened her mouth, undoubtedly to insist that her 8:20 class was all that was on her mind, and then closed it again. She sighed, her hands smoothing her skirt out. "That song you played tonight," she said. "The new one."

"It's In The Book?" he asked, although he knew that was the one. It was the only new song they'd performed. And he had a pretty good idea why she wasn't too keen on it.

"That's the one," she confirmed. "It's about The Bible, isn't it?"

Now it was he who sighed, slumping a little further against the bulkhead. He had known this was going to come up at some point, he just hadn't thought she would pick up on the meaning of the lyrics in It's In The Book so quickly. The song was about the negative lessons The Bible taught, a well-researched and poignant tune that Jake-who had penned it-was quite proud of, but that any person who identified himself or herself as "a good Christian" would probably take offense to.

"Intolerance and hatred, bigotry and pain

It's in The Book... It's in The Book

Violence, oppression, jealousy, shame

Persecution in God's name,

It's in The Book... It's in The Book"

That was just one verse of the song. There were six others plus a particularly vehement bridge just prior to the guitar solo that was a borderline rant. In short, the song was an angry condemnation of fundamental Christianity and organized religion.

"Yes," Jake said. "It's about The Bible."

Michelle's face tightened up, her eyes narrowing to slits. "You're making fun of The Bible, Jake," she said. "Sweet Mary, Mother of God! Do you think that's funny or something?"

"Funny?" he asked. "Did it sound like I was trying to be funny? There's nothing in that song that isn't true, hon. The Bible does teach intolerance and hatred. It does teach bigotry and pain. Do you deny this?"

"You're taking things out of context!" she shouted. "And your doing it just so those Godless people out there will worship you even more. Don't you ever fear for your soul, Jake? Not even a little?"

"I'm not going to discuss religion with you," he told her. "We've already been over this again and again. My beliefs are not your beliefs. You've known that about me from the start. Why are you suddenly having a problem with it?"

"I've grown up since we started dating," she said. "You know, maturity? You ever heard of it? You certainly haven't developed any in this past year."

He took a deep breath, biting back on several hateful replies. Finally, he asked, "What is it you're trying to say?"

"I don't know," she said, a tear running down her face. "I've grown up, I've matured, I'm working my butt off to try to achieve my goals in life. I love you, Jake. I love you dearly, but look at what you're doing with your life. Look at yourself! You've dropped out of school and you have no intention of going back, do you?"

"If there comes a time I need to go back, I'll go back," he said. "Right now we're pulling off three sets a week, sometimes four. We have rehearsals two days a week and jam sessions where we try to put together new songs on the other days. This band is my job, Michelle. Don't you get that?"

"Oh I get it all right," she said. "And how much are you making at your job, Jake?"

"You know how much we make," he said. This was an old argument too. "Five hundred dollars a set at D Street and six hundred a set her at Willies. Other clubs usually pay us somewhere in between."

"All of which doesn't amount to squat when you divide it up among the five of you and take out taxes, does it?"

"No," he admitted. "It really isn't that much."

"It's less than what people on welfare make," she accused. This wasn't strictly true, of course, but it wasn't all that far off either.

Nor was Michelle the only one to have made this argument to him. His own parents, the two people in the world who he should have been able to count on to support him in anything he did, were constantly asking him when he was going to get this "rock band phase" out of his system and go back to school.

"I know you love making music, honey," his mother had told him the last time he'd been over for dinner. "And it's obvious you and your band are very good at it. I mean, we've seen you play, right? But I think your talent would be put to much better use as a music and voice teacher, don't you? Can you imagine, sharing your gift with the young? Wouldn't that be beautiful? But to do that you need to get your college degree and your teaching credential. And that means going back to school."

Nor was he the only one under such parental pressure. Bill's mother, who was Jake's mother's best friend and fellow philharmonic orchestra-mate, regularly instilled similar lectures on Bill, although her suggestions included using his piano skills to try to land a position with the Boston or the Philadelphia or-dare they dream-the New York Philharmonic.

"Look," Jake told Michelle now, "I know I barely got a pot to piss in right now. But I'm doing what I love to do, don't you understand that? I love being a musician. I love getting up on stage and hearing those people applaud and yell for more of the music that I'm playing, that I wrote and composed, that I fucking sing. There's nothing else in the world that feels like that. Nothing. And until that thrill I get by doing this goes away, or until the people stop wanting to hear my music, I'm going to keep doing it. Do I think I'll ever make it big? Probably not. Matt's sent that demo tape we made to about two dozen agents trying to get someone to represent us and we haven't even got so much as a rejection letter in return. Does that change my mind? No. Because right now I'm living exactly the life I want to live. I'm having the time of my life, Michelle, and how much money we're making doesn't have a goddamn thing to do with that. I'm sorry if that doesn't fit in with your plans of a decent boyfriend."

There were more tears running down her face now. "It doesn't," she said, shaking her head. "It doesn't fit in at all."

He didn't know what to say. There didn't seem to be a right reply here. God, how this hurt. He could feel the pain like a physical thing, welling up from his gut, spreading throughout his body. He felt a tear running down his own cheek now. He brushed it angrily away.

"I have to go now, Jake," she told him, standing up. "Will you think about what I said?"

"What's to think about?" he asked bitterly. "You're asking me to choose between my music and you."

She shrugged, sniffing a little. "If that's the way you want to look at it," she said. "When you're ready to be with me on my terms, give me a call."

"Yeah," he snorted. "And when you're ready to be with me on mine, you do the same."

She didn't answer. She gave him a sad smile and climbed the small ladder to the door. She opened it and slipped out into the night. Jake did not go after her. He knew when the point of futility had been reached.

He fumbled around in his pants pocket for a moment and finally came out with a crumpled pack of smokes. All of the cigarettes inside were bent and broken. He straightened the end of one and fitted it onto the filter of another. He dug in his pants again and finally came up with a lighter. He sparked up, smoking slowly while he cried.

"Point of futility," he mumbled to himself, a part of his mind already composing the barest beginnings of lyrics to go along with that phrase, that concept, while the rest of him grieved. "How's that for a fucking tune? The point of fucking futility."

He stayed down there for almost twenty minutes, long enough to rig together and inhale three cigarettes, each one shakier than the last. Finally-once he felt himself under control (and with that phrase, The Point of Futility, still dancing in his brain) he got up and cleaned up the mess he and Michelle had made, leaving the yacht more or less as he'd found it.

He locked up and walked slowly back to Willie's, towards the booming of bass from the jukebox, towards the sound of revelry in progress. When he entered the smoky room he didn't make it more than a dozen steps before five girls and a couple of guys surrounded him. All began babbling about how great of a show it had been, how he rocked, how they were good enough to "make it" if they could just get a break. He mumbled his thanks to them and separated himself as quickly as he could, finding his way to the bar, where Chris the bartender brought him a rum and coke without even being asked.

"Thanks, Chris," he said. "You got a pack of smokes back there for me too?"

"Bet your ass," Chris told him. He reached under the bar and came up with a red and white hard pack that contained Jake's favorite brand. He slapped it down before him along with a clean ashtray. "Should I put it on your tab?" he asked with a smirk.

Jake chuckled back. "By all means," he replied.

The "tab" he was referring to was non-existent. Willie supplied free drinks to the band members (but not their groupies) as long as they remained on the premises since their presence encouraged people to stick around after the show and order drinks of their own. Cigarettes and cheeseburgers and hotdogs had never actually been specified as being on the house but the bartenders all liked the band to hang out too for the tip volume they produced so they interpreted their instructions rather loosely.

Jake downed half of his drink in a shot and then fired up his first intact cigarette of the last hour. As he blew out the first plume of smoke and tapped the ashes into the glass tray, Matt came over, a cigarette hanging out of his own mouth.

"Hey, Chrissie," Matt shouted, banging an empty glass down on the bar, his words more than a little slurred. "Fire me up again, brother!"

"You got it, Matt," Chris replied. "Another Jack and Coke."

While his drink was being constructed Matt sat down on the stool next to Jake and put his arm around him, pulling him up against him. "What the fuck's the matter with you?" he asked. "You look like shit. Get ahold of some bad weed?"

"Naw," Jake said. "I'm all right."

"The fuck you are," he said, pulling him tighter against him before releasing him. "I've seen happier faces at a fuckin' funeral." He looked around for a minute. "Where's your bitch at? She bail on you?"

He nodded. "For good," he said. "We broke up."

Matt looked at him, his eyes widening a little. "You mean... like... broke up?" he asked. "You and the little Catholic girl?"

"Yep," he said, taking another drag. "She couldn't take being with the poor Bible-degrading musician any longer. She told me to call her when I decided to cut my hair and go back to school and be a respectable fucking member of society."

Matt absorbed that for a few seconds, nodding sympathetically. "That's some shit," he said.

"That it is," Jake agreed.

"Tell me something," Matt said.

"What's that?"

"Did you get to tear off one last piece before she went?"

Jake looked at him agog for a moment and then burst out laughing. "No," he finally said. "She got me to eat her pussy for her one last time and then went into her spiel right after."

Matt was truly appalled. "That is just fuckin evil," he declared.

"No shit."

"Well, at least you'll leave her with a happy memory, huh?"

"Yeah, I suppose."

"Well don't trip too much on it," Matt told him. "Ain't no bitch worth it and that's the fuckin truth. Score yourself one of these groupies here and bring her back to my place when we leave. I'll reserve the spare bedroom just for you."

"Thanks," Jake said, "but I think I'll just head on home tonight. There's a new song I've been thinking about. Maybe I'll try to strum a little bit of it out."

"Suit yourself," Matt said. "But remember that horseshit about all work and no play and all that. You'd do yourself good to get your dick straightened by someone other than Miss Holier Than Thou."

And before he could reply Matt picked up his fresh drink and headed back the way he had come, leaving Jake to contemplate those words of wisdom while he sipped his own drink.

It wasn't more than a minute or two before one of the groupies came and sat next to him. She was about nineteen or so, a brunette, with long, straight hair styled after Brooke Shields. She wore a pair of Calvin Klein jeans that were so tight it appeared circulation might have been cut off to her legs. Covering her torso-barely-was a fluorescent pink tube top that allowed her large, obviously braless breasts to bounce and jiggle with every move she made. She carried what appeared to be a Long Island iced tea in one hand and a long, skinny cigarette stained with lipstick in the other.

"Hi," she said brightly, turning her body towards him and making sure her boobs gave a particularly expressive wobble in the process.

"Hi," he replied, keeping his expression neutral. He didn't really want to talk to anyone right now but she was a fan and it was bad business to be rude to one's fans.

"I'm Colette. Colette Jones."

He gave her a polite smile. "Jake Kingsley," he said.

She giggled. "I know that," she said. "Everyone in here knows that. I saw you sittin' here all by yourself and thought I'd... you know... come and join you. Keep you company, ya know."

"That was very nice of you," he told her.

"You guys did an awesome show tonight. Totally awesome."

"Thank you," he said. "I'm glad you enjoyed it."

"You have such a hot voice," she said, leaning a little closer. "I guess girls tell you that all the time, don't they?"

"I may have heard that once or twice," he allowed.

"I just love music," she said. "And you guys totally rock. This is like the fifth or sixth time I've seen you now. A couple of times here but mostly over at D Street. That's like my favorite club, ya know. Everyone knows me over there."

"Do they?"

"Oh yeah." She giggled again. "I guess I have something of a... ya know... a reputation there."

That was his opening of course. He was supposed to ask her just what sort of reputation she had. From there the sexual talk would begin, culminating in an invitation to the party at Matt's house. Though Jake had never participated in this dance before, he knew its steps well enough by listening to the tales of the other band members. But he wasn't really interested in dancing. "That's very... uh... interesting," he said.

"And very well earned, I'm told," she said saucily.

He suppressed a sigh. "Look, uh..."

"Colette," she provided.

"Right... Colette. I... uh... well I'm really having kind of a bad night. You see..."

"Did you have a fight with your girlfriend?" she asked, her eyes shining now.

This threw him off stride a bit. "What makes you say that?"

"Well, everyone knows you have a girlfriend. The girls are all jealous of her and the guys are all hot for her. She is pretty cute." She scowled a little as she said this. "Very wholesome looking, ya know, although she does need to learn how to dress a little better for the clubs. I mean, really... a cotton skirt and a peasant blouse? Puh-leeze. But anyway, we always see you here with her. If she's not with you than you leave early. So, since she was here with you earlier and now she's gone and you're still here, sitting by yourself and drinking at the bar, you must've had a fight, right?"

"You're a regular Sherlock Holmes," he told her.

She puzzled over that for a moment and then finally seemed to get the premise, or at least she pretended to. She laughed as if that was the funniest thing she'd ever heard. "Right," she said, leaning closer and slapping lightly at his arm. "So what did you guys fight about?"

"Don't you think that's a little personal?" he asked.

She shrugged, her breasts jiggling distractingly from the motion. "It helps to talk about it. That's what they say."

"Is that what they say?"

She nodded seriously. "Oh yes."

"Well, if it's all the same to you, I kinda like to keep things penned up inside, you know? I'm an artist. Suffering is good for us. At least that's what they say."

This time his humor shot cleanly over her head, not so much as nicking a hair on its way. "I can respect that," she told him.

They sat in silence for a bit. Jake turned his attention back to his drink, swallowing it down and waving to Chris for another. He was hoping Colette would simply take the hint and leave him alone. She may have done the former but she was passing on the latter. She sat there next to him, puffing on her cigarette and sipping from her own drink, trying to think of a way to get the conversation rolling again. Finally she just fell back on instinct.

"Do you like my boobs?" she suddenly blurted.

Jake looked slowly over at her. "Do I like them?"

She nodded, smiling sexily. "Most guys love them," she said. "That's why I wear these kind of tops. It shows them off. I mean... if ya got it, flaunt it, right?"

"I suppose that's a good philosophy," he said.

She puzzled over his words for a moment and then smiled. "Right," she agreed. "That's my philosophy. So... you wanna touch them?"

"Huh?"

"My boobs, silly," she said with feigned shyness. "I'll let you if you want. I'll let you do anything if you want."

"Umm, that's uh... very nice of you to offer, Colette, but..."

She stood up, taking a step closer to him, so she was standing between his outspread knees, close enough for him to feel the warmth radiating off of her body, close enough for him to smell the perfume she'd put on. "Look," she said softly, "I think you're totally hot, Jake. Your voice makes me so fuckin' wet and I'd give anything to make it with you."

"That's very flattering, but..."

She leaned forward, her hands coming down onto his shoulders, her thighs now touching his, her cleavage now less than eight inches from his face. She bent down and kissed him softly on the forehead. "Take me to the party tonight," she whispered. "You won't be sorry."

The feel of her softness against him coupled with the view down her halter was having an effect. His groin, after all, was throbbing mildly with blue balls from his earlier, unrelieved session with Michelle. The fact that she was basically offering him her admittedly gorgeous body did little to dissipate the horniness that had suddenly sprung up. But on the other hand, he had broken up with his girlfriend of nearly eighteen months less than an hour before. Wasn't it a little too early for this? Wasn't their some sort of decorum that should be observed? Especially since it was possible-unlikely perhaps, but possible-that Michelle might just have a change of heart and call him in the morning with an apology.

He probably would have maintained the willpower to refuse her if not for what happened next. After kissing his forehead, she leaned down a little more and kissed him again, just to the left of his left eye. As her soft lips made contact she sniffed a little and then smiled.

"You ate her pussy out tonight, didn't you?" she asked.

"What?" he asked, his voice not quite steady.

"I can smell her all over your face," she said with a pleasant sigh. "I love the smell of another girl's pussy."

"You... you do?" he asked, his cock taking a large lurch at the words.

"Mmmm hmmm. My girlfriend from high school and I used to go down on each other when we had sleepovers at my house. Just to see what it was like. I used to love tasting her." She shuddered a little. "This is getting me so hot, Jake. Sooo hot."

With that she leaned down and licked him right across the lips, swirling her tongue over them, gathering up the taste of Michelle that had been left behind.

"Mmmm, no wonder you liked her. She tastes yummy."

Jake's cock was now an iron bar in his pants. Thoughts of Michelle, while not exactly driven from his mind, had moved into the back seat. "You like that, huh?" he asked her.

"Did you fuck her?" Colette asked him next. "Oh God, did you stick your cock in that pussy? I'd love to lick her taste off your cock. Please let me."

Of course he hadn't, so she couldn't, but at this point that had ceased to matter. Whether she was making all of this up or not didn't matter. She had succeeded in breaking through the wall he had put up. He put his hand on her side, just above the waistband of her Calvin Kleins, feeling her hot skin, feeling the promise of what the rest of her would be like.

"So you want to go to the party, huh?" he asked.

"Yeah," she whispered in his ear, following it up with a lick at his earlobe.

"You got it."

It could technically be said that Matt-who at the age of twenty-two had been accorded the status of the best guitar player in Northern California by multiple independent sources including The Heritage Register and the Heritage Weekly Review-still lived with his parents. That was true in that he lived on the same piece of property as they did and that he paid no rent. Matt's father was a self-made millionaire who had built his fortune in the well-digging business in nearby Cypress County, in the Sierra Nevada foothills. Most of the new housing developments that had been built there in the past thirty years got their water from wells that Tisdale Drilling Inc. had sunk into the ground. Matt had come into the world late in his parents' lives-an accident of birth control when they were in their late thirties-just as their first two children were getting ready to graduate high school and start off on lives of their own, just as they themselves were starting to enjoy the fruits of their labors. Matt had been loved by them but had always been something of a guilty inconvenience in his formative years. He had been mostly raised by hired nannies and maids while his parents had been away on extended vacations in Europe or Palm Springs or Hawaii. To make up for this he had been provided with every indulgence his mind could come up. One of those indulgences had been the guitar he'd asked for as a twelfth birthday present-a guitar that had become his friend, his companion, his obsession. Another was the mother-in-law quarters tucked away in the very back cornier of the five-acre plot in the exclusive suburb of Gardenia. It was a fully equipped, self-contained house of nearly 1800 square feet, complete with a two-car garage where the band rehearsed. Since Matt's parents had no in-laws on either side that they cared to have visit them (they had pretty much broken all contact with their families about the time their net worth climbed over $250,000 and the begging started to get out of hand), Matt had basically been given the entire mother-in-law quarters as his bedroom when he turned fifteen. He had lived in it ever since, seeing his parents only when the two events of he needing money and they happening to be home coincided.

Now that the band Matt had founded-the fifth he had played in since junior high, the first to actually get a gig-was popular, his home in the corner of the property was being used to its absolute best advantage. It served as a party Mecca for the 18-25 crowd of the Heritage club scene. Without exception, after every gig Intemperance performed, a select group of their audience would come back to the house with them and spend most of the night cementing the band's moniker as a verb instead of simply a noun. The parties became legendary long before the band itself was ever heard of outside of Heritage and in later years-when Heritage was "on the map", as Matt liked to say-hordes would claim to have been present at them at one time or another for the mere storytelling status they would achieve if they could not be disproved.

In truth, only about a hundredth of those who would later claim to have "partied with Matt and Jake and the boys back in the day" would be telling the truth. The rules for anyone other than band members or their closest friends who wanted to attend the after-gig get-togethers were simple. You could come by invite of an Intemperance member only, no exceptions. Friends of those invited were not allowed unless he or she had been specifically invited himself or herself by said Intemperance member or members. Another rule was that any males invited had to supply booze, marijuana, or cocaine to the festivities. This was strictly enforced by Matt himself at the door. He would actually check to see that some sort of illicit material was being brought in and brought in in a decent amount. Women, of course, were not held to such a requirement since-in Matt's opinion-they had their own form of party favor built right in. The third rule was that everyone who was not a band member was responsible for his own or her own transportation to and from the scene of the party. No one was allowed to hitch rides with a band member and everyone had to get out and go somewhere else when Matt decided the party was over-which was usually around four or five in the morning. He didn't give a shit how drunk or stoned a person was, how incapable of driving they were, or even if they were unconscious, they and their cars had to go. Other than that, pretty much anything was cool with him.

When they arrived at the after-gig show on this night a stream of twelve cars that contained eighteen females and six males trailed behind them, inching along the access road that bypassed the main house and parking in the driveway. The band left all of their equipment in Matt's microbus and Coop's van-they would unload it sometime the next day, when they were all sober-and trooped inside. Matt did his normal check of the male guests, finding that each had brought a satisfactory sacrifice of intoxicating material as their admission ticket. Ten minutes later music was blaring from the stereo system, beer was flowing, and the pot smoke was so thick you could cut it with a knife.

Jake and Colette found a corner of the house over by the bar and sat next to each other on a love seat where Jake made some small talk with a few of the girls and one of the guys. The guy-a Ticket-King employee who claimed he could get Jake free front row tickets for any concert in the Northern California region-fired up a potent joint of some Panama Red and passed it around. Jake smoked deeply from it, taking hits as big as he could stand and holding them in until no smoke was exhaled. Soon he was as high as it was really possible to get and thoughts of Michelle, of the break-up, of her parting words, of the pain he was enduring, had been pushed far to the back of his head (although that phrase, The Point of Futility, kept popping back up).

Throughout the conversation and the smoking Colette remained snuggled up on his left side, her leg rubbing alluringly against his, her breasts pushing against his shoulder, her lips every once in a while going to his earlobe to lick at it and to whisper how horny she was into his ear. By the time the joint was a roach in the ashtray Jake's cock was as hard as a spike.

"Why don't we go check out the bedroom?" he asked her when he could stand it no more.

She nodded quickly, her bloodshot eyes shining brightly. "Yeah," she agreed most enthusiastically. "Why don't we?"

Jake excused them from the ongoing conversation and they stood up, walking hand in hand down the hall, towards the spare bedroom at the end of it, the room Matt had declared off limits to all until "my brother Jake has Christened the motherfucker for the night".

The spare room was a standard sized bedroom with standard furnishings. There was a small desk in one corner, a lamp on a nightstand in another. The bed was queen-sized, the linen fresh and clean, changed earlier in the day by Ruby, the maid who lived in the big house. No sooner had the door shut behind them then Colette was in his arms, rubbing herself against his body, her tongue in his mouth, her hands running up and down his back, down to his ass, up to his neck.

"Oh, God, I'm so fucking hot for you, Jake," she panted when the kiss finally broke. "I've dreamed about this since the first time I saw you up on stage."

It was obvious she was not lying about being hot for him. Her nipples were protruding sharply from beneath her halter-top, her face was flushed with excitement, and her neck had broken out in goosebumps. Her hand dropped down to the bulge in his jeans and began to rub it expertly, squeezing and palpating, caressing and rubbing in such a way that he suspected she could make him come without him even opening his pants if she so desired.

But she did not desire. Before he even had a chance to respond to her statement, she sank slowly to her knees before him, so her head was even with that bulge. She leaned forward and put her mouth directly on it, exhaling her hot breath against it with enough force for him to feel it even through the layer of denim and cotton that made up his jeans and underwear.

"Ohhhh," he groaned as the sensation coursed through him. By now, Michelle was not even in the back of his mind. Perhaps the fact that he was currently at the peak of his marijuana high was distorting things, but Colette's actions seemed the hottest, most erotic thing he'd ever experienced.

She undid his jeans, popping the buttons one by one, and then pushed them down, taking the underwear with them. His erection popped out, actually striking her in the face and leaving a wet smear of pre-come on her nose. She didn't mind. Before the pants were even on the floor her head came forward, her lips opened, and she sucked him into her hot mouth with a satisfied slurp.

She sucked him up and down, her lips and tongue working madly against his flesh, her hand jacking him. Every sixth or seventh stroke she would pull her hand free and swallow him to the base in a delicious deep throat maneuver. He groaned each time she did this. Never before had a girl taken him all the way in her mouth. She began to move faster, to suck more firmly, to deep throat more often. He was so stoned that time really had no meaning. There was only sensation. The pleasure of her mouth upon him, the sight of her head bobbing forward and back, the sound of her slurping. She interrupted her rhythm only once, to pull her halter off over the top of her head, baring those gorgeous mounds on her chest. Jake's hands reached down, finding them, caressing them, squeezing them.

After what seemed an eternity he felt the orgasm beginning to stir within him. His hips began to move without his telling them to, his head fell back a little on his neck, his legs began to tremble, the knees bowing toward each other. Colette picked up on these signs like the expert that she was. Her brown eyes looked up at him, sexiness and adoration shining within them. She pulled her mouth free of his cock but her hand kept moving back and forth, squeezing and releasing with each stroke.

"You want to come on my face?" she asked.

"Huh?" Jake asked, arousingly surprised. Though a common male fantasy since the days of Adam and Eve, women who would consent to such a thing were fairly rare in the dim, dark days of 1981.

"Or how about my tits?" she countered, jacking a little faster now. "You can. I like it that way."

It turned out that he did both. Her words kicked the machinery of orgasm into high gear all by themselves and the spasms began working through his body. She continued to smile and jack him off with her hands, her face inches away from the head of his cock, her mouth open, her tongue sticking out suggestively. The first spurt shot directly into her mouth, trailing across her wet tongue. The second hit her in the right cheek, splattering and running downward. She leaned back and adjusted her body, allowing the remainder to shoot over the tops of her breasts, saturating them with his offering.

While his nerve endings were still tingling from orgasm, while his pot-enhanced mind was still trying to grapple with the total eroticism of what she'd just done, her face leaned forward again and began to suck on his half-deflated penis. She slurped him clean and began to bob her head back and forth, deep throating on each stroke this time. It didn't take long before the blood refilled his cylinder for whatever came next.

Satisfied that his fresh hard-on was there to stay, she stood up and kicked off her shoes. She unbuttoned her pants and, with considerable effort due to the tightness of them, pushed them down her legs. There were no panties beneath. Her pubic hair was pure black, a sharp disparity to Michelle's blonde bush. Her vaginal lips were swollen and glistening with moisture. She reached down and fingered herself a few times, smearing her juices around.

"What do you want to do to me?" she asked him softly.

"What do I want you to do?"

"I'll do anything for you, Jake. Anything. Do you want me to go get us another girl?"

"Another... another girl?" he squeaked, his mouth agape as he stared at her fingers playing with her wet lips. Was she serious?

"I'll do it," she said, her tone leaving little doubt that she was indeed serious. "I'll walk out there right now, naked, and I'll find another girl who wants to join us. There will be one. I guarantee it. I'll eat her pussy for you while you fuck me. Or I'll make her eat my pussy while you fuck her. Do you want me to?"

"Uh..." he stammered, his mouth refusing to form words. Was this really happening? Sure Matt and Coop and Darren and even Bill had told him that the groupies would do anything, but he hadn't considered that anything meant... well... anything.

"Or maybe you'd just like to fuck me like a dog," she suggested next. "How does that sound?"

Without waiting for him to answer she turned her back to him and walked over to the bed. She climbed up onto it and leaned forward, her butt sticking up in the air right at the level of his crotch, her upper body supported by her elbows, her face-still dripping with his semen-up against the bedspread.

The sight of her offering herself to him in this manner, of her swollen, aroused vagina open for his pleasure, got the better of him. He stepped quickly out of his pants, kicking off his own shoes in the process (and nearly falling down two times) and stepped forward. His hands came down on the firm cheeks of her ass. His hips went forward until the head of his cock was touching the center of her wetness. He thrust forward, burying himself within her body in one brutal stroke. Both of them cried out at the intrusion.

He thrust himself in and out of her, not bothering with anything like a build-up, just lustfully fucking her with sharp, slapping strokes. She grunted and moaned continuously, pushing her bottom backwards to meet each of his strokes. After three or four minutes, she came, her hands ripping the bedspread free, her moans almost painful in intensity.

The moment her spasms died down she looked back at him with her sweaty face. "Do you want my ass?" she asked him.

"Your... your ass?" he asked slowly. That was something else that guys were always fantasizing about, dreaming about, wanting to try, claiming they had done, but that real girls rarely consented to in 1981.

"My ass," she confirmed, reaching back with her hands and grabbing her lower cheeks. She spread them widely, revealing the entrance to said ass to his overwhelmed brain. "It's yours if you want it. I like it up the ass."

Jake had never performed this act before. He didn't hesitate for more than a second or two. He pulled himself free from her pussy and put himself against her smaller hole. Soon, he was buried within her back passage, experiencing the tightest fit he had ever imagined.

As he pounded in and out of her, listening to her grunts of pleasure, feeling the soft skin of her hips as he leveraged himself, seeing the amazing sight of his cock disappearing and reappearing from her ass instead of her pussy, he could not help but compare and contrast the sex he had received from Michelle with the sex he was receiving from Colette. Granted, he had loved Michelle, had enjoyed her company apart from the sex, and therefore their couplings had been satisfying just because of the fact that they were together. And while their sex life had not been boring by any means, Michelle had never taken his cock into her mouth, had never let him spray his come all over her face and tits, had never spread her ass cheeks and told him to fuck her in the forbidden zone. Colette had done all of this unhesitantly and seemingly with real desire. She had even offered to get another woman and bring her into the room, to eat the woman out while Jake fucked her, to do things that, quite frankly, he'd thought were never really done in real life.

Jake didn't love Colette. He had no desire to converse with her outside of this bedroom. But the allure of what she had to offer, what the girls like her had to offer, was something that he could not deny. This woman was beautiful, sexy, light years out of what he considered to be his league, and she had given herself to him unconditionally and with un-faked enthusiasm simply because he was something of a celebrity, a musician in a band she happened to like. He could have a woman like Colette, maybe even two, after every gig if he wanted.

For the first time Jake suddenly realized the true magnitude of the gift his talent and efforts had bestowed upon him. For a twenty-one year old kid who had spent the bulk of his life being ignored and called Bonerack, it was a powerful thought indeed.

Los Angeles, California

October 1, 1981

Ronald Shaver's office was on the twenty-second floor of the Hedgerow Building in Hollywood. It was an office that was designed to intimidate and impress. The view out the large window was of the Hollywood Hills and the famous sign atop them. The desk that sat before this view was of genuine oak and contained nearly eighteen square feet of workspace. Next to the desk was a fully stocked wet bar, complete with polished mirror hanging behind it. There was a leather couch where he frequently balled his twenty-two-year-old female secretary. On the desk itself was a typewriter, two telephones, a large Rolodex, and a custom made blotter, atop which sat a jeweled frame mirror about six inches square. Sitting on this mirror were two lines of pure Bolivian flake cocaine that sold for $150 per gram. The coke had been lovingly chopped into a fine powder with a razor blade. Descending towards the line on the left was a rolled up $100 bill, the other end of which was attached to Ronald Shaver's right nostril.

Shaver was a talent agent specializing in musical acts. At the age of forty-two, his name was known and moderately well respected by most of the major recording labels based in southern California. He had cut his teeth in the business during the disco craze of the mid-seventies, signing six major groups and/or artists, including one who had managed to make the transition to more palatable music once that particular craze came to a swift and merciful end. These days his two major clients were Earthstone, a hard rock band from San Diego that had cut three gold records; and The Two Lips, a punk rock band from Indianapolis that had gone mainstream enough to make their fourth album actually shoot past gold and go platinum.

Shaver was successful enough at his trade to be more than a little pompous but privately he knew he was not as successful as he could be if he only had the right material to work with. Earthstone was a solid band that made good music and would probably continue to for some time, but there was nothing that particularly stood out about them, that made them appeal to more than a sub-section of the music market. And The Two Lips, while wildly popular at this particular moment in time, would undoubtedly flounder into nothingness as soon as the punk fad currently sweeping the nation died out and was replaced by something a little less abrasive (an event that couldn't come too soon as far as the part of Shaver that actually appreciated good music was concerned).

What he needed was to get his hands on an act that had some talent, some originality, and, most important, some long-term mass appeal. He longed to discover the next Van Halen, or Led Zepplin, or even the next Hall and fucking Oats. He wasn't particular.

He made a point to keep his ear close to the ground, to keep his nose sniffing about for such an act, but so far he'd encountered nothing but a bunch of second-rate one-hit pop types at best, out and out hackers at worst. Was he losing his touch or was the talent pool just shrinking? Either way he feared the consequences and so, with no idea that exactly what he was looking for was about to be carried into his office by his secretary, he snorted up the first line of cocaine and sniffed loudly as he felt it settle into his nasal passage.

"Hey, Trina," he said as she came through the door. He made no effort whatsoever to move his cocaine mirror or hide what he was doing.

"Hi, Ronnie," she replied, flashing her best smile at him. She was a beautiful, willowy blonde dressed in a tight, short business dress, her smooth, sexy legs clad in dark nylons. She set two envelopes down on his desk. "Mail's here."

"Thanks," he said, sniffing a few more times. He picked up the mirror and offered it to her. "Care for a little toot?"

"Sure," she said casually, taking the mirror from his hands. He handed her the $100 bill and she made the line disappear. She sniffed loudly a few times and then set both back on the desk. "Thanks, hon," she told him. "We still on for tonight?"

"Dinner and dancing at Aces and Spades," he assured her. "I'll pick you up at eight."

"Bitchin'," she said with a smile. "Should I call your wife and tell her you'll be working late?"

"No need," he assured her. "She's down in Palm Springs for a week with Loretta."

"She's still doing the LPGA girl, huh? Does she know you know that they're more than friends?"

He shook his head. "She's dumber than dirt. That's why I married her. She didn't even have her lawyer look over the pre-nup before she signed it."

They both had a laugh at the expense of Gina Shaver, the beautiful, sensuous, and dim-witted woman he had walked down the aisle with three years before.

"Ahh well, she is good breeding stock though," Shaver said. He turned his attention to the mail. "So, what came in today? Anything important?"

"That new copy of the preliminary contract for Earthstone's next album. It's pretty much the same as the last prelim except the label cut the limo clause from the tour package and reduced the advance offer by another ten percent."

He sighed. That fuckstick Tim Johnson over at National Records' Business Affairs department was jerking him around again. It was obvious he understood the terminal mediocrity that Earthstone was condemned to and was trying to cut as much out of the artist's budget as he could in order to preserve more profit for the label. Well, what did you expect from a fucking accountant anyway? It was a wonder to him that the world held bean counters on some sort of higher plain than ambulance chasers when they were easily just as sleazy. "I'll call that asshole up and deal with him after I get a little more blow in my system," he told her. "What else we got?"

"Just this," she said, indicating a large brown envelope with multiple stamps on it. "Came from a return address in Heritage."

"Heritage?" he said with distaste. "I don't know anyone in Heritage. And if I did, I surely wouldn't admit it. What is it?"

"I don't know," she said. "It's addressed to you by name and labeled Personal and Confidential."

He picked up the envelope, hefting its weight, and knew immediately what it was. To confirm, he felt the outside of it, finding the shape of a cased cassette tape inside. "It's a fucking demo tape," he said in disgust. "An unsolicited demo tape by some talent-less hackers who found my name in the library. You know I don't accept unsolicited demos, Trina. Why are you bringing this crap to me?"

"And you know that I don't open envelopes labeled Personal and Confidential," she said huffily. "Jeez, just bitch me out for doing my job, why don't you?"

She did have a point. "Sorry," he said, more to preserve his copulation later that night than out of any real regret. "I guess you're right. But now that you've brought it to me, I guess I should give it my full and complete attention, shouldn't I?"

"I guess you should," she agreed.

And with that, the envelope ended up in the same place as the other twelve Matt Tisdale had sent to talent agents from Nashville to New York to Chicago to Los Angeles. Unopened in the round file next to someone's desk. And in fact, though he didn't know it, Matt should have been proud. This was only the second one that had actually made it into the office of the man it had been addressed to.

"So, anyway," Shaver said, "do you think you can dig me up some copies of those video rights agreements we signed with Earthstone? When Galahad gets here at ten I want to be well versed on what I'm talking about so he doesn't screw us on The Two Lips gig the same way." Steve Galahad was the head of the New Media department at Pacifica Records, the label that had signed The Two Lips. The New Media department was a relatively new subdivision of the recording industry hierarchy that had been formed by most of the larger labels in response to the popularity of music videos over the past year, a popularity that was becoming more of a force every week since the debut of MTV a few months before. The Galahads of the world all thought that videos were the wave of the future and that music was about to undergo a fundamental change as drastic as that caused by the invention of the electric guitar. The Shavers of the world, on the other hand, still thought of videos as just another pain in the ass thing they and their artists had to deal with.

"I'll have them and the notes you made on them on your desk by 9:30," Trina replied. "Anything else?"

"A blowjob?" he suggested.

She giggled. "How about in the car on the way to Aces and Spades?"

"Deal."

She left the office, closing the door and leaving him alone. The moment she was gone he opened the drawer on the front of his desk and removed the sterling silver container he kept his cocaine in. He dumped out a small amount and then went about the task of chopping it up into a fine dust and forming a line. Once this was done he snorted up and stashed his paraphernalia back where it belonged.

Before the latest dose even had a chance to work its way fully into his bloodstream, his office door opened again and Trina poked her head through. "Galahad just called," she said. "He cancelled his ten o'clock with you."

"Christ," Shaver said, shaking his head. "What the hell for?"

"His secretary said that one of his artists showed up drunk at a video shoot and tried to rape a dancer in the bathroom. He has to go deal with the fallout."

Shaver didn't disbelieve the excuse. On the contrary, to a man with as many years in the music business as he, it sounded all too plausible. "Okay," he said. "Is he going to reschedule?"

"She said she would call and set something up for early next week as soon as she can shuffle around his calendar. Anyway, it looks like you're free for the next two hours."

"Bitchin," he grumbled, wondering what he was going to do now. Before it occurred to him that a little rendezvous with Trina on his couch might be in order, she had already shut the door and disappeared. He could have called her back, of course, but he really wasn't that much in the mood himself. At least not at the moment, anyway.

As the cocaine finally hit his brain, filling him with cheerfulness and washing away his fatigue, he decided that maybe a drink was in order. True, it was only 9:15 in the morning, but it was lunchtime in New York, wasn't it? And didn't all the really important things in America happen in New York? He concluded that this was sound logic and walked over to the bar. He took down a water tumbler and filled it with ice from the machine in the freezer. On top of the ice he poured a quadruple shot of Chivas Regal. He then grabbed a Cuban cigar from the humidor next to the freezer and carried these acquisitions back to his desk.

He took a few sips of his drink and then sparked up the cigar. He leaned back in his chair and puffed thoughtfully for a few minutes, not thinking of anything in particular, just enjoying the effects of the coke and the sensation of the nicotine tingling his mouth. When the ash on the cigar grew to the point where it needed to be flicked off, he leaned forward again and opened the side drawer, reaching in to get the ashtray he kept in there for just such occasions. It wasn't there.

"Goddammit," he muttered, though in a good-natured manner. It was hard to be unpleasant when you had a couple lines of Bolivian flake coursing through your veins. He flicked on the intercom and buzzed Trina. She didn't answer until the third buzz.

"Yes?" she almost hissed, her voice impatient.

"I think you forgot to put my ashtray back in my desk last time you cleaned in here," he said. "Can you hunt one up for me?"

"Can it wait a few?" she asked. "I've got Galahad's secretary on the line and we're trying to come up with a time for the meeting."

"Oh, sure," he said. "Take your time."

"Thank you," she said, more than a hint of condescension in her tone.

With no ashtray to use, he leaned over the garbage can next to the desk and flicked his ash in there instead. It landed on the brown envelope that had been sent to him without his solicitation. He looked at this for a moment and had a momentary worry that he might accidentally start a fire. To avoid this he dug the envelope out, brushed the ash off it, and set it on his desk. He would throw it back in there when Trina finally brought him the ashtray. Until then, he would enjoy his illegal smoke.

He puffed away for a few more minutes, not thinking of anything in particular, occasionally dipping his ashes in the garbage can or sipping from his Chivas. Eventually his eyes found their way back to the envelope on his desk. He could read the return address in the upper left corner. Instead of a name there was only a word: Intemperance, presumably the name of the band.

"Fucking Intemperance," he mumbled. "What a stupid name." His eyes took in the city and zip code portion of the return address. "Fucking Heritage. What a dump." He had in fact never actually been to Heritage before, or anywhere in California that was north of Santa Barbara for that matter, but he assumed that any place that had a population of less than two million had to be a dump.

Impulsively, he decided to open the envelope. Unsolicited demos were usually accompanied by a cover letter of some sort-assuming the moron who had sent it knew that that was the custom-and they were often quite amusing to read. Maybe it would be one of those ones that was so full of misspellings and incorrect grammar that he could use it as an anecdote the next time he had lunch with a few of his colleagues. Hell, if it were lame enough to be amusing he would actually photocopy it and pass it around. After all, you took humor where you could get it in this life.

He picked up the envelope and used the switchblade letter opener in his pen jar to open it. He discovered that there was not just a cover letter inside, but an entire sheaf of papers, most of them copies. He glanced at the cover letter first, expecting the salutation to say: Dear Sir or Madam, or To Whom it May Concern, or something equally generic. Instead, he was surprised to see that it was properly headed with his full name and title, his address, and the first line was, Dear Mr. Shaver.

The text of the letter was professionally formatted and neatly typed. The gist of it was that the writer, a man named Matthew Tisdale, was the lead guitar player for a band called Intemperance and that the band had become very popular in the Heritage metropolitan region over the past year. The letter spoke of sold out shows and of receiving $500 per set plus fringe benefits.

"Five hundred per set?" Shaver mumbled. If that was true than it was marginally impressive. Most club owners wouldn't pay more than $250 per set, no matter how good the band was. And that was here in Los Angeles. In a cow town like Heritage that was some serious dough. A club owner wouldn't pay that much unless a band was bringing in significant business.

Shaver read on, learning that the band was playing three times a week minimum, introducing new songs once a month on average. Tisdale described them as a hard rock band that utilized a classically trained piano player to introduce a unique sound to their music.

"A fucking classical piano player?" Shaver said. "That's insane." While it was true that many rock bands utilized pianos in their music-REO Speedwagon, Journey, and The Doobie Brothers all came immediately to mind-they weren't hard rock bands like these Intemperance jokers were claiming to be. Hard rock and piano just didn't go together. It was like oil and water. But then, wasn't that what a British colleague of his had once said when a group had come before him explaining how their flute-a fucking flute for God's sake-mixed in nicely with the hard rock? That colleague had ended up representing the band Jethro Tull and had been on easy street ever since.

He read some more. The letter told him that he would find, enclosed, a collection of media reviews from popular Heritage County publications and letters of recommendation from various club owners, attesting to the popularity and skill of Intemperance. Tisdale closed by saying that he and the band were seeking an established agent so that they might expand their popularity beyond the Heritage area and possibly secure a recording contract at some point in the future. It gave a contact number, an address, and, lastly, a list of venues where the band could be seen if he should happen to be in the Heritage area any time soon. He thanked Shaver for his time and consideration in this matter and closed by wishing him a nice day.

Shaver had to admit to himself that he was impressed by the cover letter. Whoever this Tisdale joker was, he had at least done his research on how to correspond with a potential agent. He set it down and picked up the sheaf of papers that had been beneath it. The first was a music review from The Heritage Register, which was apparently what passed for a newspaper in that town. It was an articulate and gushing endorsement of the band Intemperance, who could be seen playing at D Street West and Willie's Roadhouse on a weekly basis.

"The soulful singing of lead singer Jake Kingsley mixed with the grueling riffs and grinding solos of lead guitarist Matt Tisdale would be more than enough to catch the attention of any rock music fan. But when you throw in the glorious melody of pianist Bill Archer you have a sound that's unique and refreshing on the rock music scene. You could do much worse than to sacrifice the five-dollar cover charge to see this band play. It's an experience that makes me proud to say I'm from Heritage."

The next article was from a publication called the Heritage Weekly Review. It also contained a glowing approval of Intemperance and their music, this time going on about the depth of the lyrical experience.

"The lyrics are written by either Kingsley or Tisdale and it is not hard to figure out which is which. Kingsley's songs are about hope, about the agony of love, about politics, while Tisdale's are hard driving, angry tunes about the futility of love, about living life to excess."

There were several other articles, all from one or the other of these papers. All of them expounded upon how good the band was, telling the readers about the mix of acoustic and electric guitar with piano, about Kingsley's voice, about Tisdale's solos and riffs. All of them mentioned sold-out shows.

"Hmm," Shaver said, licking his lips thoughtfully. He turned to the letters of recommendation, reading them over one by one. There were five of them in all, each one from a club owner in Heritage, each one telling of dedicated and talented musicians who regularly packed their establishment with paying customers, each one stating the price he was willing to pay to have Intemperance perform in his venue.

Finally he reached into the envelope and pulled out the cassette case. It was an expensive name brand tape with the words: Intemperance Demo stenciled on the front. A song sheet named the songs that could be found on the tape. Shaver looked over the titles.

Descent Into Nothing

Who Needs Love?

Almost Too Easy

Living By The Law

He took the tape out of its case and stood up. Across the room, near the bar, was a stereo system. He popped out the Beatles tape that had been in there and put the Intemperance tape in. He shut the door and powered up the stereo. He pushed play and listened.

The tape was in mono and poorly mixed, probably done on the cheapest equipment available, possibly even rigged up entirely. Ordinarily he would have turned it off as soon as he'd heard the hiss prior to the first song starting. This time he didn't. It wasn't thirty seconds into Descent Into Nothing before he mumbled, "Holy shit," out loud.

He listened to the entire tape and then he listened to it again. After the second playing he walked to the door of his office and opened it. Trina was sitting at her desk, typing something on her IBM Selectric. She looked up at him guiltily.

"Sorry," she said. "I was supposed to bring you an ashtray, wasn't I?"

He hardly heard her. "What are you doing this weekend?" he asked.

"This weekend? I don't have any plans." She smiled in a naughty manner. "At least not yet."

"How would you like to go up to Heritage with me?"

Her look turned to confusion. "Heritage?" she asked. "What for?"

"There's something I need to look at."