Snowblind

Chapter 2: On the Beach

Venice, California

July 15, 1994

The office of Hopple and Hopple, Certified Public Accountants LLC, was in a nondescript mid-rise office building on South Venice Boulevard near the canals. The window of the fifth-floor office looked out toward the beach five blocks to the west. A steady stream of colorful characters heading to or from that beach made their way past on the sidewalks below. Matt Tisdale did not notice any of them unless a particularly attractive and/or scantily clad female made an appearance. Right now, the majority of his attention was focused on the thirty-four-year-old CPA sitting on the other side of an oak desk.

Andrew Hopple II was that CPA. He looked like a CPA, dressed in a dark power suit with a red tie, his hair cut short and neatly trimmed, his face clean shaven. Matt did not like him much. Andy, as he insisted on being called, was a grinner, which reminded Matt of Greg Gahn, the hypocritical Mormon tour manager. Aside from the grinning, Andy was full of phony ingratiation while simultaneously coming across as insultingly condescending. He would talk down to Matt about his investments and his net-worth and where his income stream was being directed and stored one minute and then start showing him pictures of the strippers in the adult club he (Hopple) had an interest in the next, thinking, quite mistakenly, that Matt would be impressed by them.

Matt had been a client of Hopple and Hopple since 1987, when Pauline Kingsley, who had been his manager at the time, had insisted that he find an accounting firm to take care of his suddenly blooming income from the new Intemperance contract. He had picked the firm pretty much at random back then and had set up his account with Andrew Hopple the Original, Andy’s father, a boring-as-fuck suit-wearing motherfucker who was about as square as the day was long and had no detectible sense of humor. Still, Andrew (one did not call him ‘Andy’, not even his most lucrative client) had been honest, competent, and was able to explain things to Matt (like how he had arrived at the previous quarter’s tax payments) in way that Matt understood. Though Matt had never had the desire to sit down and have a beer with Andrew, he’d trusted the man and appreciated his dedication and loyalty. Alas, the square motherfucker had gone and had himself a major heart attack last year and had decided to retire to Florida or some fucked-up place like that. Though his name was still up on the wall, he had put control of the family firm in the hands of Andy, his first-born child and namesake.

Matt had always disliked Andy and had gone out of his way to avoid the grinning freak when Andrew had been the boss, but now Andy was the one in charge of the Matt Tisdale account. Matt had wanted to sever his relationship with the firm ever since hearing that Andrew the Original was retiring, but he had been out on the road at the time and unable to facilitate the severance of the relationship. And now, though he was home, having returned from the wildly successful solo tour and with an assload of fresh album royalties, tour profits, and endorsement income that needed to be accounted, he still didn’t have the energy to call it quits. It was undoubtedly a pain in the ass to change accounting firms. Files would have to be transferred; a new firm would have to be found. He decided he would at least listen to what this freak had to say before making a major decision like that. True, he was an untrustworthy scumbag, but he did know Matt’s situation better than a new accountant would.

“This one is Electra,” Andy said, showing Matt a couple of polaroid pictures of a skanky bleach-blonde stripper. In the first picture she was naked, standing next to the pole on the stage. The second picture was a close-up of her face. In this shot, her mouth was open and she had a large clump of semen on her tongue, more of it dripping down her face. “We just hired her last month and she packs the house whenever she’s on the bill.”

“Uh huh,” Matt grunted, hardly even looking at the shots.

“Tight fuckin’ body, I’m here to tell you,” the CPA told him. “And in the face shot ... well ... I took that one in my office, right after she got done giving me my weekly commission on her earnings, you know what I mean?”

“Yeah, I know what you mean,” Matt said, pushing the photos back across the desk. “Anyway, about my account with you motherfuckers...”

“You should come down to the club with me one of these nights, Matt,” Andy told him, giving him a particularly large, particularly phony grin. “You’ll be my special guest. You can have your pick of the girls for a private lap dance back in one of the rooms. And when you’re my guest at my club, it goes without saying that the lap dance will be very thorough, if you know what I mean.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean,” Matt said impatiently. “Afraid I’m gonna have to take a pass on that shit though. You see, if there’s one thing I do not have trouble doing, it’s scoring myself some fuckin’ pussy. I don’t need to be in no disgusting, germ-ridden back room with some slut who wasn’t hot enough to make it in legitimate porn.” He paused for a moment, as if considering. “I do appreciate the offer though.”

“Uh ... sure,” Andy said, seemingly hurt by Matt’s refusal. “Keep it in mind though. Our girls are very...”

“Keeping it in mind,” Matt interrupted. “Just don’t hold your fuckin’ breath until I get there. Now, can we talk some business here?”

“Of course,” Andy said. “I just finished up your second quarter report the other night and I double checked everything this morning before you got here.” He opened a desk drawer and pulled out a file folder that had Matt’s name on it. “You’ve done very well for yourself these past two quarters.”

“I know,” Matt said. “My album sold like a motherfucker, still is selling like a motherfucker.”

“You’re not talking out of your ass,” Andy said. “Nine hundred and eighteen thousand copies in the second quarter of 1994, one point four million in the first quarter. My guess is that you will reach triple Platinum before the end of the year.”

“That ain’t no shit,” Matt agreed. “So, what’s the bottom line for the first two quarters here? How much did I pull in and how much am I going to have to give to those fucks at the IRS and the franchise tax board?”

“You pulled in a little more than two point five million in sales royalties for Hard Time, the album, over the first half of the year. You also pulled in around six hundred and eighteen thousand in tour revenue. That includes all revenue contractually paid to you by National Records, which is primarily your share of the ticket sales and the merchandising receipts. That does not include the endorsement income you get from Fender for playing your Strat onstage, or the endorsement you get from Brogan for playing their guitars in the studio.”

“Yes,” Matt said, irritated at his condescending tone. “I understand the fuckin’ endorsement income is separate from royalty and tour income. How much we talking?”

“One point seven million dollars in endorsement income for the first half,” Andy said. “Not bad.”

“Fuck no,” Matt agreed. “They paid me that shit just for doing what I was going to do anyway.”

“The best way to do business,” Andy told him. “In any case, that wraps up revenue from the new album. Revenue from your first album of the contract period—Next Phase—was ... well ... negligible.”

“What do you mean by ‘negligible’?” Matt asked.

“Less than ten thousand in royalties,” Andy said. “Sales of Next Phase did pick up a bit in the first quarter when Hard Times was at the peak of popularity, otherwise you wouldn’t have even had that much.”

Matt shook his head sadly. “People just don’t get what I was doing with Next Phase,” he said.

“Hey,” Andy said, putting the grin back on his face, “I got what you were doing with it, Matt. I always thought it should have sold better.”

“Really?” Matt said, his eyes boring into the accountant’s. “What was I doing with it?”

“Uh ... well ... you know, you were trying to get your music out to the people ... trying to put it down like it is, like it should be. Shit like that.”

“Wow,” Matt said with an eye roll. “That’s fuckin’ profound, Andy. It’s like you were right inside my goddamn brain there. I guess you really do understand me after all.”

“Goddamn right I do, Matt,” Andy said, completely missing the sarcasm.

“Yeah,” Matt said. “Anyway, we were talking about my money?”

“Right,” Andy said. “In addition to the revenue you’ve pulled in for your solo efforts, you’re still pulling in a considerable chunk of change from Intemperance royalties. Between continuing album sales of all Intemperance releases, but particularly Greatest Hits, which sold more than three million copies over the first half, combined with licensing fees when National grants use of one of the tunes for a TV or radio commercial or use in a film, adds up to just a hair under two point eight million dollars.”

“Not bad,” Matt said appreciatively. Though he had been opposed to National releasing that Greatest Hits bullshit (not that his opposition meant a goddamn thing) he had to admit that it was bringing in some serious coin for him.

“Not bad at all,” Andy agreed. “We add in another ninety-six thousand or so for incidental income—things like capital gains on investments, interest income from the various accounts and certificates of deposit your easily liquidated wealth is stored in, and miscellaneous payments for things like compensated media appearances. The bottom line for the first half is about seven point eight million dollars in income.”

“Uh huh,” Matt said. “Sounds like a lot. But how much is going out in taxes?”

“Not as much as you might think,” Andy told him. “Your tax payments for the first quarter were four hundred and eighteen thousand dollars, which has already been paid. Tax payments for the second quarter, which I will be sending out at the end of the week, are four hundred and thirty-two thousand dollars, give or take a few hundred. That means, for the first half of 1994, you will be paying a combined total of eight hundred and fifty thousand dollars in federal and state taxes.”

Matt was not sure he was hearing correctly. “Eight hundred and fifty grand?” he asked. “On seven point eight million in income? Is that what you’re saying?”

“That’s what I’m saying,” Andy agreed, grinning happily.

“That’s not very much,” Matt said. “When I was making half that amount on Intemperance alone, your old man was paying out more than twice that in taxes for me. Are you sure you did your math right?”

“Of course I did my math right,” Andy said, insulted at this suggestion. “I stand by my figures. Remember, my name is on those tax documents as well as yours.”

“Not that I’m complaining,” Matt said. “I’m all for keeping as much of my money as I can, but that seems like an awfully low amount for taxes. I don’t want to be getting in trouble with the fuckin’ IRS, you dig?”

“There is nothing to get into trouble about,” Andy assured him.

“Then why did I pay so much more when your old man was figuring this shit out?”

“It’s very simple,” Andy said. “My father was very conservative, very by-the-book. He was too cautious about his accounting practices much of the time and, as such, he did not fully take advantage of the various tax shelters and exemptions that you are entitled to.”

“What the fuck does that mean?” Matt asked.

“It’s very simple,” Andy said. “You don’t live in the United States.”

“What? What the hell are you babbling about? Of course I live in the United States.”

Andy shook his head. “You don’t though,” he said. “Your primary residence is the domicile you own in Cabo San Lucas, Mexico. Though you are and will remain an American citizen, you currently reside outside the United States and therefore the bulk of your income is not subject to taxation by the IRS or the California franchise tax board.”

Matt stared at the grinning accountant for a moment. “Andy,” he said. “I only spend about two weeks out of the year at my pad down in Cabo. This year I ain’t been there but a few days.”

Andy simply shrugged. “The IRS and the franchise tax board don’t know that. They have no idea how much time you spend there and they have no way to determine that information. That foreign domicile is worth its weight in gold, Matt. It frees you up from the obligation of paying United States and California taxes on your primary income.”

Matt scowled. This sounded way too good to be true. “This shit don’t sound legal to me,” he said.

“It’s a perfectly legitimate loophole in the tax codes,” Andy assured him.

“Then why am I paying any taxes at all?” Matt asked.

“Because, unfortunately, you can’t have it all. All of your Intemperance-based income is still subject to US and California taxation because it stems from a legal agreement—your Intemperance contract with National Records—that was forged and approved before you purchased the home in Cabo San Lucas. Therefore, we cannot claim that living outside the United States relieves you of the taxation burden for that income.”

“Why not?” Matt asked. “The money I make for my solo albums is money that is earned in the United States, isn’t it?”

“Yes, of course,” Andy told him. “But the establishment of that income stream took place after you left the United States for Mexico, therefore it is tax exempt.”

Matt furrowed his brow a bit. “Are you sure about this?” he asked. “Something about this whole deal just doesn’t sound right.”

“I am absolutely sure,” Andy said confidently. “I have a Bachelor’s degree in Business and a Master’s degree in taxation. I know what I’m talking about. You can take that to the bank.”

“All right,” Matt said slowly. “I guess you’re the expert on this shit.”

“That’s right,” Andy told him. “Now, while we’re on the subject of your Intemperance revenue, I feel that I should point out to you that you are missing out on a significant portion of it.”

“What do you mean?” Matt asked. “I’m losing more than just the taxes from those album sales?”

“You are,” Andy said. “Pauline Kingsley is no longer your manager, correct?”

“That’s right,” Matt said. “I don’t have no fuckin’ manager anymore. I don’t need one.”

“I will be the first to agree that you do not need a manager,” he said. “But Ms. Kingsley is still collecting twenty percent of your Intemperance income right off the top. That hardly seems fair since she is no longer representing your interests.”

“Yeah, but she’s the one who negotiated that Intemperance contract for us back in the day. Without her, we never would’ve been able to get in a position where we were actually making money from National. I’d say she earned her twenty percent.”

“Well, of course, back in the day she did,” Andy said. “And it was both required and appropriate for you to compensate her at the rate of twenty percent back then. But what is she doing for you these days?”

“Nothing,” Matt said. “She’s not my manager anymore. But the money I get from Intemperance only exists because of her and, even if I didn’t feel fuckin’ honor-bound to keep giving it to her because she was a badass bitch who got up there and fuckin’ rammed it home to those suits and their lawyers, we signed a contract with her. She was our manager, and she gets to take twenty percent off the top of everything we earned from Balance of Power onward. That’s in writing and I couldn’t change it even if I wanted to.”

“Twenty percent is a lot of money, Matt,” Andy told him. “I appreciate your sense of honor—truly I do—but I think that if I got my legal team looking into this issue there is perhaps a fifty to sixty percent chance we can get a legal ruling that will separate Ms. Kingsley from your Intemperance revenue on the basis that she no longer represents you or your interests. You’ll get to keep everything if that happens. Everything.”

“No,” Matt said without even pausing to consider this suggestion. “I don’t work like that. Pauline may have sold out Darren and helped kill his stupid ass—something I’ll never forgive her for—but she earned that fuckin’ money and I’m not going to try to take it away from her. I’m not like she is, you dig?”

Andy sighed but he nodded. “I dig,” he said. “It was just a suggestion and I’ll drop it.”

“Good,” Matt said.

“Will you at least let me start working on ways to separate Pauline from your Intemperance revenue stream?”

“What do you mean?”

“All of the income you receive from Intemperance-related contracts still comes through her office first before it comes to me.”

“Well ... yeah,” Matt said. “That’s because the entire band as a whole is paid and then she breaks it up into individual royalties. That would be her keeping up with her part of the contract. What’s wrong with that?”

“It’s a potential weak point in the chain of your income,” he explained. “By having that money pass through Pauline first, you are vulnerable to fraud and deceit on her part. She could be skimming off more than her twenty percent.”

The glare returned to Matt’s face. “Do you have any evidence that she is doing something like that?” he asked.

“No, of course not. If I had such evidence, I would have informed you the moment it came to my attention. The problem is that she could be cleverly concealing such skimming and there is no evidence. By removing her from the equation I can guarantee that such a thing is not occurring.”

The glare increased in intensity. “Doesn’t she provide you with all the paperwork and wire transfer shit that itemizes each and every penny of that income?” he asked.

“Yes, she does,” Andy said. “And when I look at them, everything seems to be in order so far. I’m just saying that such documents could easily be forged or altered. I’m not saying she would do it, but it is possible. If we have National just wire your share of the profits directly into your account each quarter instead of sending them to Ms. Kingsley first, we can be absolutely sure that she is not pilfering more than her due.”

Alarm bells and flashing red lights were now going off all over the place in Matt’s brain. Red flags were popping up as well. “Look, dude,” he told the accountant, “I may not have a fucking Master’s degree in taxation. In fact, I only have a high school diploma to my name and I barely managed to score that. Still, I’m not a dumbshit. There’s this thing called ‘checks and balances’, you know what I’m saying? Pauline is part of that system. She makes sure that National Records is not playing games with my Intemperance money and your job is to make sure that Pauline is not playing games with my Intemperance money and, in turn, Pauline is there to make sure that you’re not playing games with my Intemperance money. It’s a system that’s worked pretty fuckin’ well for me over the years, you dig?”

“I dig,” Andy said, “but...”

“No fuckin’ buts,” Matt interrupted. “Pauline may be a sellout bitch that helped kill one of my best friends, but she’s honest. I trust her.”

“I’m not suggesting she’s not trustworthy,” Andy said, “I’m just saying...”

“I trust her a fuck of a lot more than I trust you,” Matt told him. “Even though I ain’t seen her or talked to her in almost five years, I kind of like having her look over my shit before it gets to you. We ain’t changing anything about that.”

“All right then,” Andy said, the grin returning to his face in an instant. “I’ll drop the subject then. We keep things the way they are with the Intemperance income.”

“Goddamn right,” Matt said.

Ten minutes later he was back in his limousine, snorting a few lines of cocaine off a CD case. He congratulated himself for not taking any shit from Andy the Second. You just had to know had to deal with assholes like that.

And the news that he wouldn’t be paying as much in taxes was good to ponder as well.

Shrine Auditorium

Los Angeles, California

July 16, 1994

The hosts of the 1994 Soul Train Music Awards were Patti Labelle, Gladys Knight, and Johnny Gill, all of whom Jake and Laura had had the pleasure of meeting prior to the start of the ceremony. Laura had been quite awed by them, almost to the point of being tongue-tied. Jake, who was more accustomed to meeting legendary musicians, had maintained his calm demeanor but had still felt a little intimidated himself. The greats had actually conversed with him, had actually spoken to him as if he were a peer. It was a very odd sensation.

As guests of Bigg G, who was nominated for the Best Rap Album category for his multi-platinum release Bring It, as well as Song of the Year, for Step Inside, on which Jake had played the acoustic guitar, they had really good seats. Fourth row back, on the center aisle. Gordon and Neesh sat on the aisle itself while Jake and Laura sat next to them. Janet Jackson was sitting on Jake’s right and Toni Braxton was sitting just in front of him. Toni and Laura had actually been chit-chatting with each other during the commercial break periods, their conversation beginning with Laura’s dress, which had been designed by Versace and was quite alluring on her, and then rolling into anecdotes of recording and touring after that.

Jake was not the only white man in the audience, but he was one of the few. If all of them got together, they wouldn’t have been able to field all the positions in a baseball game. Still, he was unintimidated by his minority status, at least in the audience. In a few minutes, however, he was going to step up on that stage with Gordon and the rest of Gordon’s band and they were going to perform Step Inside for the crowd and the national television audience watching the show. Jake would be the only white performer to appear on that stage tonight. That thought was a little nerve wracking.

Gladys Knight handed out the award for Gospel Album of the Year and the members of the group Mississippi Mass Choir made their speeches. The show went to commercial and the gospel singers left the stage, award in hand, to go back to their seats. This was the cue for Jake and Gordon.

“All right,” Gordon said, standing up from his chair and adjusting the bow tie of his tuxedo. “You ready for this shit, white boy?”

“Hell to the yeah,” Jake told him, standing as well and taking a deep breath.

“You’ll do fine, hon,” Laura told him, giving his hand an affectionate squeeze.

Jake laughed. “Since we’re only lip synching what we recorded earlier, it would be really hard to screw it up.”

“There are those who have found a way though,” Gordon said. “Come on. Let’s hit it.”

They hit it, making their way to the front of the auditorium floor and then walking up a set of steps onto the stage. A stagehand and a security guard met them up there and led them back behind the red curtain that was blocking the view of the primary stage where the various acts that were performing had their equipment set up. This part of the stage was divided into two halves so that one act’s gear could be removed and another’s set up while yet another group was performing on the other half of the stage. And since everyone’s performance for this ceremony had been prerecorded the day before so it could be played over the speakers and lip-synched to, there was no need for sound checks, power-ups, echo checks, or even wires to connect the equipment to the sound system.

The rest of the band was already backstage and in position when Gordon and Jake were led in. Rickie Mack, G’s DJ, stood behind a table with three turntables on it. The lead bass player, James Witlock, (who played the acoustic guitar parts for Step Inside when G was out on the road) stood just to the right of him. The two drummers, Evan Jackson and Lucky Powel, had their sets side by side in the rear, and the secondary bass player, Fro Allen was set up back between them. G’s microphone stand, with its dead microphone clipped into it, was at front and center of the stage. Jake had no microphone because he would not be singing, but he knew from rehearsal that his place would be just behind and to the right of G’s microphone stand.

“Here you go, Jake,” said Bobby Core, the lead production manager for entertainment at the ceremony. He held Jake’s Fender Grand Concert guitar in his hands. It had been highly polished with Pledge and smelled of it. There was no cord plugged into its receiver.

“Thanks, Bobby,” Jake told him, taking the instrument and slinging it over his shoulder. He walked over to his position and pulled a pick from the inlay. Instinctively, he strummed the strings a few times, listening to the tuning, before remembering that it didn’t matter if the thing was in tune or not. No one was going to hear it.

“All right,” Bobby told them. “I’ve got twenty-five seconds until we’re back from commercial break. After that, Johnny is going to do the intro for you and the curtain is going to come up. Remember the rule of sham performing. Play like you’re really doing it and keep in synch with the recording. Look into the cameras, particularly the ones in the rear of the venue. Pretend like you’re not pretending. Everyone dig?”

Everyone dug. All of them had been through variations of this before.

“All right,” Bobby said. “Kick some ass, homies!” He then trotted off into the backstage area.

The large clock on the wall in the stage left area clicked down to zero and then began to count back up again. The sound of Johnny Gill’s voice began to boom out of the sound system all around them.

“Notorious rapper Bigg G, known for his hard-hitting lyrics and relevant topics about growing up and living in the inner city as an African-American, decided to go a little experimental on his latest album, Bring It. He hooked up with Jake Kingsley, former lead singer for the heavy metal rock group Intemperance, a man who has more than a little notoriety of his own, if you can dig what I’m saying...” Johnny sniffed loudly a few times, causing the audience to break out into laughter and a little applause.

“Jesus Christ,” Jake said with a laugh of his own, shaking his head.

“Now, aside from having some questionable ideas about where he should be putting his nose,” Gill went on, “Jake is also one of the finest acoustic guitar players to ever put a pick to strings, and Bigg G knew that. So, he recruited him for this next song, a fusion of hip hop and progressive rock that is unlike anything that has ever been done before. This song spent nine weeks at the number one position on the popular music charts, sixteen weeks at number one on the R&B charts, and, incredibly enough, six weeks at number one on the progressive rock charts. It has helped propel Bigg G’s album, Bring It, to triple Platinum status and nomination for the category of Best Rap Album here tonight.

“That song is called Step Inside, and it has been nominated for Song of the Year. Bigg G is here to perform that song for you tonight and he brought along Jake Kingsley to play the acoustic guitar for him. Let’s give them a warm, Soul Train Music Awards welcome.”

Applause rippled across the venue and the curtain before them rose up and disappeared. The spotlights clicked on and Jake found himself staring out into the dimness of a live audience once again. He looked over at Bobby, who was just leaning out of the stage door, out of the view of the audience. Since the song opened with Jake’s guitar picking out the melody, it was Jake who needed to know when to start playing in order for everyone to synch properly.

Bobby counted down from five with his fingers. When the last finger disappeared, Jake began to play. At that same moment in time, the recording began to play the intro as well. The timing matched exactly.

Step Inside was four minutes, nineteen seconds in length on the CD. It was four-fifty-eight on the recording they had done yesterday for this performance, that extra time being taken up by an extension to Jake’s solo and to G and Ricky’s outro. Jake remained firmly rooted to his spot on the stage, his fingers playing the strings to match the recording. G sang into his microphone on the stand for the first verse and then pulled the microphone free and began to wander around the stage for the remainder of the song. Everyone acted as if they were really performing the tune and when it was done, the audience cheered loudly with what seemed genuine appreciation. The seven of them stepped to the front of the stage, linked arms, and took a few bows as the curtain came back down, blocking them once again from view.

Johnny Gill’s voice boomed out once again, telling them when they returned from the commercial break, they were going to announce the winner of the Best R&B/Soul Album Female.

“All right,” G said, nodding in satisfaction. “I guess that’s that then.”

“Yep,” agreed Rickie. He turned to Jake. “Not bad for a white boy,” he told him.

“Thanks,” Jake said. “Can we start drinking now?”

Gordon did not win either of the awards he was nominated for. Best Rap Album went to Onyx. And Song of the Year went, of course, to Whitney Houston for I Will Always Love You. G and his band were not terribly disappointed. They were mostly just glad that the endless ceremony was finally over and they could go home.

“What you two gonna do now?” G asked them as they waited in the limo queue after the show.

Jake shrugged. “I guess we’ll just go home,” he said.

“Home?” G said, appalled. “It’s only ten-thirty on a Saturday motherfuckin’ night. You can’t be going home this early.”

“We can’t?” Jake asked.

“Hell no, homey!” G said. “We need to drink some booze, smoke some shit, have a good time.”

“We do?”

“We do,” he confirmed, turning to Laura. “You up for some good time, Teach?”

“Always,” she said with a giggle. She had consumed more than a few glasses of complimentary champagne during the ceremony.

“And what about you, Neesh?” G asked his fiancé. “You down with some good time?”

“As long as I can get out of this dress first,” she said. “It’s making my tits sore.”

“Fair enough,” G said. “How about we party at our place? The bar is stocked and I got some premium fuckin’ weed from Humboldt County in my stash box. We’ll throw on some tunes, smoke some bud, maybe order a pizza to munch on.”

“What about our clothes?” Jake asked. “I don’t want to do all that in a tux.”

“And I really don’t want to get pizza sauce on this dress,” Laura added.

“Stop by your pad first,” G suggested. “It’s on the way to my pad ... kind of.”

And so that was what they did. Jake and Laura rode the limo home (both having a few drinks during the trip), went inside and quickly changed into shorts and pullover shirts, and then climbed back in the limo for the trip to Malibu where G’s mansion sat on the beach.

“Nice house,” Laura said approvingly as G and Neesh gave the quick tour of the eight thousand square foot domicile.

“It’s home for now,” G said. “A lot better than that two-bedroom pad I grew up in in East Palo Alto.” He chuckled a little. “I’m not sure the neighbors are too keen on me living here though. I got some tight-ass whitey real estate developer living on one side of me, some fuckin’ Jap executive with Toyota living on the other, and some beaner who’s in the import/export business across the street. They never seem to invite me to the neighborhood get-togethers.”

“I wonder why,” Jake said, as if pondering.

“Must be my political views,” G offered.

“That’s probably it,” Laura said with a giggle.

They retired to the entertainment room, which was the largest room in the house. There was a pool table, a pinball machine, a stereo system that had probably cost as much as Jake’s car, and a whole lot of gold and platinum records on the wall. Huge sliding glass doors opened up to the backyard and the beach. G opened the door to let in the night sea breeze and then turned on the stereo, putting The Very Best of Aretha Franklin in the CD player.

“Let’s do this thing,” G said. “I’ll make the drinks. Neesh, you order the pizza, Jake, you get in that stashbox there on the table and roll us a fatty.”

Everyone went about their appointed task. By the time the pizza guy arrived with two large thick crust combinations with extra cheese, everyone was feeling quite fine indeed.

The annihilated one pizza completely and then, after a few more hits on the joint, even broke into the second one. All the while they swilled down glasses of white wine (Neesh and Laura), run and cokes (Jake) and Jameson on the rocks (G).

“How’s things going up there in Oregon?” G asked after refreshing the ladies’ glasses for the fourth time.

“Rolling right along,” Jake told him. “We’re in a pretty good rhythm now. Most of the basic tracks for the tunes have been laid down now that we got the Nerdlys to stop being so anal about everything. We’re hoping to start working on the overdubs before the end of the month.”

“It is a fine moment when you finish with the basics,” G said. “I still can’t believe they’re all a bunch of fuckin’ teachers.”

“What’s wrong with teachers?” Laura asked. “I used to be one myself.”

“Yeah,” G said. “I know that. And my understanding is you were kind of a tighty-whitey square back in them days, right?”

“Well ... maybe a little,” she admitted.

“I can attest that she was pretty tight,” Jake put in, earning him a playful slap on the shoulder from his beloved.

“Was pretty tight?” Neesh asked.

“Was in the philosophical sense,” Jake qualified. “Is in the anatomical sense.”

“Could we maybe stop making allusions about the elastic qualities of my hoo-hoo?” Laura asked, feigning outrage.

“See!” G said, pointing his finger at her. “That’s what I’m talking about right there. You said ‘hoo-hoo’ instead of ‘pussy’ or ‘box’ or ‘cooter’. That’s tighty-whitey shit. Now don’t get me wrong, I love teachers, even banged a few here and there in my day, and I totally respect what teachers do, but there is a certain stereotype that goes along with the profession. Teachers tend to be square motherfuckers, wouldn’t you say? And when you have a group of square motherfuckers, it’s hard to believe they got the kind of soul that’s required to lay down music. That’s all I’m sayin’.”

“What teachers did you bang?” Neesh asked him, feigning a little outrage of her own.

“That was back in high school, baby,” G assured her.

“I think I need to hear that story,” Jake said.

“I have soul,” Laura protested. “You’ve heard me play the sax, haven’t you, G? Are you saying I don’t have soul?”

“I have heard you play,” G said, “And you got a whole lotta soul, baby. I wasn’t tryin’ to say you don’t. I’m saying you’re the exception to the teachers don’t have no soul rule. I’m saying it’s hard to believe you got five other exceptions to the rule all in one spot up there in Oregon. That was my point.”

“Brainwash has soul,” Jake said seriously. “They are five of the best musicians I’ve come across in my time. Wait ‘til you hear the album before judging, G. They got more soul than they can control.”

“Homey, that’s a bold statement right there,” G told him.

They talked a little more about soul, and about Brainwash, and about living in a house with a pack of children. They all drank a little more as well. And then suddenly G stood up.

“I almost forgot,” he declared. “I got something for you, homey.”

“Something for me?” Jake asked.

“Yeah,” G said. “I meant to give it to you the next time we got together. Hang tight for a minute.” He left the room, heading for the staircase.

“What’s he gonna bring me?” Jake asked Neesh.

“I don’t have the slightest idea,” she said.

“It’s such a nice night,” Laura said after draining the last of her latest glass of wine. “It’s much cooler here on the beach than at our place.”

“I do dig living right on the beach,” Neesh said. “You want another glass of wine, girlfriend?”

“I want to go walk on the beach,” Laura said. “Can I do that?”

“Of course you can,” Neesh said. “That’s our beach out there, at least to the high tide line.”

“Let’s do it!” Laura said, with all the zeal a drunken idea could cause. “Let’s go down to the water, Neesh!”

Her enthusiasm was definitely infectious. “All right,” Neesh said, standing up. “Let’s do it!”

Laura gave Jake a quick hug and quick kiss on the mouth, and a moment later, the two women grabbed a fresh bottle of white wine and disappeared out the sliding glass door. Jake heard their giggles fading away for a few moments and then the night swallowed them up.

G came back downstairs a few minutes later, carrying an odd-looking contraption in his hands. It was a rectangular box, about nine inches wide by six inches deep and perhaps three inches high. Wires protruded from it in several places—Jake could see they were power cords and amplifier cords—and a plastic tube was wrapped around on the top. It looked like an effects pedal except for the tubing.

“Where’d the ladies go?” G asked, carrying the device over and setting it down on the coffee table in front of Jake.

“They decided to go down to the beach and play,” Jake said. “What’s this thing?”

“It’s a talk box, homey,” G told him.

“A talk box?” Jake asked. “You mean like Peter Frampton plays?”

“Fuckin’ A,” G said, sitting back down. “You ever fuck around with one of these?”

“No,” Jake said. “I’ve never even seen one before. Why do you have it?”

“It was a part of my experimentation that didn’t work out,” he said. “I thought that having Rickie run his turntables through this thing and then me having the tube in my mouth might be a new sound I could use on a few of the tracks for Bring It.” He shook his head sadly. “It was a new sound all right, just not a good one. Not only that, but it’s hard to make this thing sound the way you want, twice as hard as just putting out notes with a normal instrument. Anyway, it’s just been sitting up in my composing room ever since. It really is best to use a guitar with the thing and I started thinking about who I knew that played a badass guitar and your name came to mind. It’s top shelf audio tech, homey, and it’s yours if you want it.”

“Hmmm,” Jake said, starting to get intrigued now. “How does it work?”

“It’s simple really,” G told him. “You put it on the floor and plug your output cord into it like any other effects pedal. When the switch is off, the music just passes through it without alteration to your amp or to the next pedal in your string. When it’s on, however, the output goes into the box where there’s an isolated speaker installed in the middle of a bunch of foam sound insulation. The only way for the sound of your output to get out is through that plastic tube. You take that tube and tape it to your microphone stand with about eight or nine inches of slack up by the mic itself. When you’re playing it, you suck that fuckin’ tube into your mouth like it’s a cock. The sound of your instrument comes out of the tube, into your mouth, and you use your lips and tongue to shape the sound from there.”

“Interesting,” Jake said.

“Frampton’s a fuckin’ magician with one of these,” G said. “Joe Walsh is pretty good too. After playing around with it I got some new respect for those motherfuckers.”

Jake picked up the end of the tubing and examined it. It was about half an inch in diameter, soft, and very pliable. “I’ll see what I can do with it,” said. “Thanks, G.”

“I’m the one who should be thanking you, homey,” G told him. “Bring It is my fastest selling album of all time. A big part of the reason for that is because you laid down those acoustic tracks for me on Step Inside. I feel guilty as hell that you ain’t pulling in no coin from the album’s success.”

“Don’t feel guilty about that,” Jake said dismissively. “It was fun putting that tune together with you. In fact, I was hoping maybe we could do another one.”

“Yeah?” G said, immediately interested. “Like what?”

“We should expand upon this collaboration,” Jake said. “Go to the next level with it.”

“What’s the next level?”

“I’ve been kind of thinking about this a little,” Jake said. “Maybe we write a tune together, both contribute the lyrics, and then sing it as a duet. We can have your boys doing the backbeat with the bass and the turntables but throw in some grinding electric guitar in parts too.”

“Switch back and forth between hip hop and rock?” G asked, pondering that.

“Maybe,” Jake said. “Or maybe we try a fusion of the two sounds.”

“That would be hard to pull off.”

“Hard, but not impossible,” Jake said.

“Maybe,” G said, obviously warming to the idea by the second. “What would we write about though? You a white suburbanite who grew up in a tract house on the right side of the tracks and I’m a nigger from East Palo Alto who grew up getting my head busted by the po-lice.”

“My head’s been busted by the po-lice a time or two as well,” Jake pointed out.

“Not while you was in your formative years though,” G said. “We would need to come up with a hard-hitting song with lyrics that reflect our mutual experiences in life. What kind of experiences in our formative years do you and I have in common?”

Jake thought about that for a moment and then said, “Well, we both got fucked up the ass by the record company suits with our first contracts. There’s that.”

Gordon nodded thoughtfully. “There is that,” he said.

“I bet, between the two of us, we can come up with a decent melody and some hard-hitting lyrics to that theme.”

“Yeah,” G said, smiling. “I bet we could. Let’s start it right now.”

“Right now?” Jake asked.

“Right here and right fuckin’ now,” G said. “Let’s see what we can come up with.”

“I’m pretty fuckin’ drunk right now, G,” Jake pointed out.

“So am I,” G said. “That’s why this is such a good idea. Come on, homey. Let’s play.”

“Well ... do you have a guitar for me?”

“Goddamn right I do,” G said. “I have an old Yamaha hanging on the wall in the composition room right over my piano. It might need to be tuned a bit, but it don’t have much mileage on it.”

“All right then,” Jake said. “Let’s see what we can come up with.”

“Fuckin’ A,” G said. “But first, we better roll another joint. If we’re gonna be composing, I need to be baked.”

Jake nodded. “A good plan,” he said.

Sixty yards away, Neesh and Laura were sitting on a large piece of driftwood just above the high tide mark. The night was clear and pleasant, with a nearly full moon hanging high in the sky to the south. The waves were crashing ashore about fifty feet below the high tide mark currently. Neither had the slightest idea whether it was an incoming or an outgoing tide as neither had bothered to check the tide table for the day. The bottle of Napa Valley chardonnay they had brought out with them was now about three quarters empty. Since they had neglected to bring glasses or cups out with them, the two ladies were passing the seventy-eight-dollar bottle of smashed and fermented grapes back and forth and swigging directly out of the neck.

“I am really fucking drunk right now, Neesh,” Laura said, her words slurred, her teeth numb.

Neesh found this hilarious for some reason and broke into laughter.

“What?” Laura asked, laughing as well.

“You said ‘fucking’,” Neesh said. “You never say that word!”

“I say it all the time,” Laura protested. “But usually when I say it, I’m talking about ... you know... fucking, so it doesn’t come up in conversation much.”

“Yeah, you don’t really talk about sex very much, do you?”

“Not as a casual conversation topic,” she allowed.

“You know, when I first met you, I thought you were such a prude,” Neesh told her.

“I can see how I could give that impression,” Laura said. “What do you think about me now?”

“You’re a lot looser when you’re drunk, that’s for sure, but ... well, you do still come across a little prudish at times.”

“I can assure you, I’m not a prude,” Laura told her. “Maybe I was before Jake and I started ... you know ... fucking, but not these days.”

“No?”

“No,” she said. “It would be almost impossible to be in a sexual relationship with Jake Kingsley and remain a prude. I’ve done it on the wing of his airplane, in various hot tubs, in the back of limos, and I’ve sucked his dick in some very unconventional places.”

“On the wing of his airplane?” Neesh asked, visibly impressed. “How’d you pull that off?”

“Uh ... the plane was on the ground at the time,” she said, wondering if Neesh really thought they had done that in flight.

This caused another peal of laughter to erupt. “I would certainly hope the plane was on the ground,” she said between giggles. “I mean where was it? Were you just parked out on the tarmac when you did it? If so, that’s pretty goddamn wild.”

“It was in the hangar at the time,” she said. “But the door was partly open.”

“Oh yeah? Do tell the story.”

The alcohol had destroyed her inhibitions enough to do just that. “It was after he flew back to Santa Monica after he finished up the mixing and mastering of the first solo albums he and Celia did. We hadn’t seen each other in more than two months. I went to pick him up at the airport and ... well ... after he put his plane away in the hangar, we just couldn’t keep our hands off of each other. I was wearing this summer dress and he brought me inside the hangar, closed the door most of the way, and then he lifted me up and set me on the wing of the plane. He pulled my panties to the side and fucked me right there—hard and fast.”

“Wow,” Neesh said, taking another swig from the bottle. “That’s fucking hot.”

“It was pretty fucking hot,” she admitted.

“Jake’s good at fucking?” she asked, handing over the bottle.

“Yeah,” she said with a smile. “He’s really good at everything that has to do with sex. Especially ... you know ... going downtown.”

“That is a good trait in a man,” Neesh said. “Gordy’s pretty good at munching my pussy too, which is remarkable.”

“Why is it remarkable?”

“Most black men won’t put their face within two feet of a pussy,” she said.

“Really?”

“Really,” she said. “It’s a cultural thing. Good thing Gordy never got the memo on that one.”

“I can’t imagine an existence where my pussy doesn’t get eaten out on a regular basis,” Laura said. “I wouldn’t want to live in that world.”

“Neither would I,” Neesh said.

They passed the bottle back and forth a few more times, emptying it. Neesh tossed it behind them.

“Wine’s all gone,” she said. “Let’s go play in the water.”

“Okay,” Laura said.

They kicked off their shoes and socks and trotted across the sand to where the waves were breaking on the shore. Soon they were laughing and giggling as they ran in and out of the edge of the advancing and retreating breakers.

“The water is so much warmer here than it is up in Oregon,” Laura told Neesh as a wave splashed over her bare knees. “You can actually swim in it here.”

“You can’t swim in the water in Oregon?” she asked. “Not even in July?”

“No way,” she said. “The ocean up there is always icy cold even on the hottest days. You can go in up to your knees like we’re doing now, but that’s about it. And even with that, you’ll start to freeze your ass off after a little bit.”

“That’s weird,” Neesh said. “It’s the same ocean as this one. Why is it so much colder up there?”

“Nerdly explained it to me once. It’s something to do with equatorial currents and prevailing winds and the way the Earth rotates.”

“Oh,” Neesh said with a giggle. “Thank you for clearing that up for me.”

“Anytime,” Laura laughed as another wave washed over her feet and calves.

“Hey, all this talk about swimming makes me want to get all the way in. You up for it?”

Laura looked at her. “Swimming? Right now? We’d get all wet!”

“Uh, yeah,” Neesh said. “That’s usually what happens when one jumps into the ocean.”

“I mean I don’t have a bathing suit with me,” Laura said. “And I don’t want to have to wear wet clothes the rest of the night.”

“I understand your concern,” Neesh said. “Fortunately, there is a simple solution to the problem.”

“You mean I borrow one of your swimsuits?” Laura said, eyeing Neesh doubtfully. She was beautiful and voluptuous, but considerably larger in height, weight, hips, and boobs. “I’m not sure it would fit me ... especially not, you know ... up top.”

“That’s not the solution I was talking about,” Neesh said.

“Then what is?”

Neesh giggled again. “Teach, you’re so adorably naïve. It’s cute. Kind of sexy too.”

“What do you mean?” Laura asked, feeling a little surge of sexual excitement ripple through her at being called sexy.

“I’m talking about skinny dipping, girlfriend,” Neesh said. “Ain’t you ever done it before?”

“Well ... of course,” she said, feeling herself blush. “Jake and I swim naked in his pool all the time, but this is a public beach.”

“Ain’t nobody out here but us girls,” Neesh told her. “And it’s not exactly a public beach in the strict sense of the word. Gordy owns the property above the high tide mark on this stretch. And while the beach between the high tide mark and the water belongs to the people of California under the law, the only way they can get here is by walking from the easement path half a mile in that direction. I don’t think any of those people will be strolling by at this time of night.”

“But what about the neighbors?” Laura asked.

“A bunch of tighty-whities, as Gordy would say. I never see them out on the beach at night. Come on, girl, let’s do this thing. Don’t be a prude!”

“Well...” Laura said, her inhibitions trying to creep back in despite the alcohol surging through her bloodstream.

“Last one in’s a rotten egg!” Neesh told her, trotting out of the waves and onto dry sand just beyond the breakers. She then whipped off her shirt. Her bra followed right behind it, revealing an impressive set of mammaries for Laura to look at in the moonlight. The shorts and panties came down next. Laura saw that Neesh kept herself clean-shaven down there.

“Looks like you’re a rotten egg,” Neesh told her, running into the surf and plunging head first into one of the breaking waves.

“All right,” Laura called after her. “You talked me into it!”

She pulled off her clothes and piled them next to Neesh’s on the sand. She then streaked across the sand and into the surf. The water was warmer than Oregon’s coast, that was for sure, but it wasn’t as warm as Hawaii’s or Florida’s. There was a distinct bite as she plunged into it, jumping over the top of an incoming wave and submerging.

She got used to the cold fairly quickly as she and Neesh paddled around just beyond the breakers. And she had to admit that skinny dipping was fun. There was a smooth sensuousness to the feel of ocean water on naked flesh, a liberating freedom to not having a stitch of clothing to soak up the water. And the occasional contact between her and Neesh, their legs or feet touching, their butts coming into contact for a brief second, and one accidental grope of one of Neesh’s large boobs while backstroking, were kind of turning her on. Not that she was into girls or anything, it was just the illicitness and risqué nature of the game.

That’s what she told herself anyway.

Back in the house, Gordon and Jake were in the mode and it did not occur to either one of them to wonder why the ladies had not returned from their foray onto the beach. They were upstairs in the large secondary bedroom that had been converted into a composing room. A baby grand piano was the centerpiece of the room, but there was also a five-piece drum set and a synthesizer. On the walls were an acoustic bass guitar, an alto sax, a trombone, and the Yamaha acoustic six-string that Jake was currently playing (it had indeed been quite out of tune but was better now).

Gordon sat at the piano, an array of blank musical scores and plain pieces of paper and a pencil sitting on a stand next to him. Jake sat in a comfortable chair next to him.

“I think the chorus should be the rock part, sung by me in classic rock style,” he suggested to his co-writer.

“I can dig that,” Gordon said. “And I sing the verses in hip hop style?”

“That’s probably the best way to go about it,” Jake said. “We switch the tempo back and forth between verses and chorus; hell, we can even change key if we want, and then do some kind of a fusion of the two styles for a bridge.”

“Sounds good in concept,” Gordon told him. “How do you usually compose your tunes? Do you go melody then chorus then verses then bridge?”

“Most of the time,” Jake said. “The chorus is the main theme of the song and is usually supported by the primary melody, so it helps to do that first.”

“Well ... how about you pull a little melody out of your ass then?”

Jake smiled. “I’ll see what I can do.”

He began to strum the guitar, playing around with the G-chord, trying to come up with something simple, yet something different than anything that had been done before. Eventually, after maybe ten minutes, he stumbled across a little three-chord progression that he liked the sound of. He played it out a few more times, his fingers pushing the strings with more force, with more confidence.

“I kind of like that,” Gordon said. “It’s catchy.”

“I like it too,” Jake said. “Play it on the piano, see what it sounds like there.”

“Run it by me.”

Jake named off the notes in order. Gordon nodded, whispered the progression to himself a few times, and then slowly picked out the melody on the piano, note by note.

“That it?” he asked.

“That’s it,” Jake confirmed.

Gordon played it a few more times, upping the tempo some. Once he seemed to have it down, Jake accompanied him, strumming out the melody in harmony with Gordon. It continued to sound good to their ears. Whether it would still sound good when they were sober was a question for another day.

“All right,” Jake said. “Now let’s see if we can put some lyrics to this.”

“Something that reflects how the suits fucked us over,” Gordon said.

“Eight syllables per rep of the melody,” Jake said.

“Eight syllables max,” Gordon corrected, continuing to play out the melody. “You can always draw one out to cover more than one note.”

“True,” Jake conceded.

They continued to churn out the melody, both of them trying to think up an appropriate first line, a summary of the theme they wanted to cover.

“It’s got to be something hard-hitting, profound,” Jake said.

“Right,” G said. “Something with some fuckin’ teeth.”

They tried a few things out, but nothing seemed to fit. And then Jake, playing off a variation of something G had tried a few minutes before, hit upon something they liked. “How about this one, G.” He waited until the melody came around to the beginning again and then sang out: “I signed that line, turned in my soul.”

G nodded appreciatively. “I like it,” he said. “Do it again.”

“I signed that line, turned in my soul,” Jake sang. He then filled in the next line, which would have to be an extension of the concept, with vocal exercises. “La da da da hmm hmm yeah yeah.”

“It’s tight, homey,” Gordon told him. “I think we’re onto something.”

“It’s only the first line,” Jake reminded him, still strumming the melody on the guitar.

“Every journey begins with a single step. Pull another line out your ass, something to go with that first one.”

“Putting my fingers up there now,” Jake told him.

Back on the beach, Laura and Neesh, both still as naked as the day they were born, were no longer swimming but had not come out of the water. They had found a perfect place to rest themselves, out beyond where the waves were starting to break, but in water that was shallow enough for them to stand up. They faced each other in the moonlight, their hands clasped together to help them stay balanced in the swells. The water came up to just over the tops of Laura’s breasts, up to her shoulders when a swell would roll over her. Neesh was six inches taller than Laura. Her breasts were well above the water even during a swell. Laura found herself looking at them an awful lot. They were a delectable set of boobies, of that there could be no argument.

“Have you and Jake settled on a wedding date yet?” Neesh asked.

“Not an exact date,” she replied, shifting her feet back and forth a little as a particularly strong swell pushed against her. She felt Neesh’s hands pull on her a little to help keep her settled. “We’re thinking about November though, over in Hawaii.”

“Destination wedding, huh?” Neesh said. “Small affair or going for broke?”

“Just close friends and family,” she said. “Well ... Jake’s family anyway. I’m pretty sure none of mine will care to be there.”

Neesh had been told about Laura’s family of devout Mormons before. She shook her head sadly. “Fuck ‘em if they don’t want to see you get married,” she proclaimed. “Shit, are you even going to invite them?”

“I’m still thinking that one over,” Laura said.

“Don’t let them spoil your day, that’s my advice.”

“I’m kind of leaning in that direction. I haven’t even talked to any of them in more than a year now, not since my mother talked to that sleazy reporter.”

“Can’t say I blame you.” She looked meaningfully at the redhead. “Has Jake brought up the prenup yet?”

“He didn’t bring it up,” Laura said. “I did. I asked him if he wanted me to sign one.”

“You brought it up?” Neesh asked incredulously. “Girlfriend, didn’t you go to girl school before you got hooked up with a rich man? You never bring that shit up first.”

“Well, I did,” Laura said. “I wanted to get the conversation out of the way and done so there wouldn’t be tension about it.”

“And what did he say?” she asked.

Laura smiled. “He said that he didn’t think a prenuptial agreement would be necessary.”

Neesh looked at her as if she were a space alien. “No prenup? Are you fucking serious, girlfriend?”

“Dead serious,” she said. “He said he doesn’t plan for our marriage to be a failure, and even if it was, I didn’t seem like the kind of girl who was going to try to take more than she was due.”

“Well fuck my ass,” Neesh said, shaking her head. “Gordy started talking prenup the day after he proposed to me. The one I eventually signed is six fucking pages long.”

“But you signed it?” Laura asked.

“Of course I signed it,” she said. “It’s fair. If the marriage goes bad, I’ll be taken care of for life. Besides, I have my own career on top of that. Being married to Gordy, I won’t have to work while I’m finishing up my degree and studying for the bar and all that. It’s a good deal.”

“I suppose,” Laura said.

They danced around in the waves a little more, moving from place to place, their hands still clasped together, their feet trying to stay in a level spot that kept them above the swells. Laura continued to steal quick glances at Neesh’s breasts, telling herself that she was just admiring their form from an artistic standpoint. True, she was feeling extremely horny right now, but that was just the wine and the pot they’d smoked. Those substances always had that kind of effect on her.

And then a fairly large swell swept into them with considerable power, threatening to knock them off their feet. Neesh reacted quickly, pulling Laura toward her to help her stay upright. In the course of doing this, their bodies came together and Laura felt those wonderful boobs pressing into her chest. They were very soft, very sexy. She felt that surge of sexual excitement kick up a notch or two.

“Sorry about that,” Neesh said once the swell was past them and breaking on the beach. She let Laura reel herself backward again.

“That’s okay,” Laura said, and then, before she could stop herself, added: “I rather enjoyed it.”

Neesh smiled at her. “Did you now?”

Laura knew she was blushing. “I can’t believe I just said that,” she said.

“Neither can I,” Neesh told her. “Are my boobies turning you on, girlfriend?”

“Well ... maybe a little,” Laura admitted.

“I see,” Neesh said, stepping a little closer. “You into chicks, Teach?”

“Uh ... well ... not really,” she said.

“Not really? What the hell does that mean? Have you ever done anything sexual with another girl? Be honest now.”

Laura thought about lying but could not quite bring herself to do it. “Yeah,” she said. “I have.”

Neesh smiled a naughty smile. “This sounds like an interesting story,” she told her. “Tell me about it.”

“It was while I was out on tour,” she said. She then told her about the bartender in La Paz, and the lesbian groupies that followed. Neesh listened with rapt attention.

“That’s a hot story, Teach,” she said when the tale was told. “Does Jake know about that?”

“He does,” she said.

“And he’s cool with it?”

“He says he is,” she said.

“Wow,” Neesh said. “Even hotter.” She looked at her meaningfully. “I’m bisexual you know.”

Laura nodded. “I was starting to pick up on that,” she told her.

“And your little petite body is turning me on something fierce,” she added.

Laura shuddered a little, starting to feel like things were getting out of hand. “I’m really flattered, Neesh,” she told her, “but I think...”

“Can I kiss you?”

“Uh...” Laura started to answer, but the question was apparently rhetorical, because Neesh tugged on her again, until they were chest to chest again. Laura once more felt those soft breasts pushing into her. She felt Neesh let go of her hands and reach up to her face. She then felt her face being pulled upward, while Neesh’s face moved downward.

She made no attempt to pull away and a moment later, a soft, full set of girly lips was pressed against her lips. The tip of Neesh’s tongue slid out and licked at her lips for a moment. Instinctively she pushed her tongue out to meet it. The two organs began to slip and slide together, swirling back and forth on a film of saliva. Neesh tasted of chardonnay and salt water.

Oh my God! Laura’s mind screamed at her. What the hell are you doing? You’re making out with Neesh!

And it felt far too good for her to try to stop it. She put her arms around Neesh’s body, pulling her tighter against her, relishing the feel of feminine flesh pressing into her. They continued to kiss deeply, their tongues dancing. Neesh let go of Laura’s face and returned the embrace, letting her hands slide down to touch Laura’s butt, where she began stroking it.

The kiss went on for an eternity, but finally they broke apart. Neesh looked at her, smiling. “That was fun,” she said.

“Yeah...,” Laura agreed. “It was. I’ve never kissed a girl before.”

“It’s just like kissing a guy, only softer,” Neesh said. “Sexier.”

“Yeah,” Laura breathed, and then a semblance of sanity tried to reassert itself. “Maybe we’d better head back in.”

“Maybe,” Neesh said. “Or maybe you’d like to put one of my titties in your mouth and suck my nipple for me.”

Another shudder of desire rippled through Laura at these words. The truth was, she really did want to put one of those titties in her mouth. And those nipples, they were hard and swollen and she could feel them pushing into her chest. But still ... there was Jake to think about. “I ... can’t,” she said. “Jake is...”

“Don’t worry about Jake,” Neesh told her dismissively. “This is girl time. It ain’t like you’re cheating on him or anything. We’re just having a little fun between the ladies.”

“But...”

“Shhh,” Neesh said, shutting her up with another kiss, a brief one this time. She then leaned back a bit and put her hands to the back of Laura’s head. She began to pull her toward her breast. “Come on, girlfriend. You’ve been staring at these titties ever since I broke ‘em out. Have a little suck.”

Giving in, Laura allowed herself to be pulled forward. She took the left nipple in her mouth and had a little suck. And the little suck turned almost immediately into a big suck.

“That’s it, girlfriend,” Neesh panted from above her. “That feels really good. Use the tongue a little bit too.”

“Mmm,” Laura grunted from around a mouthful of tit.

“Here, give me your hand,” Neesh whispered, taking Laura’s right hand in hers.

Laura felt her hand being pulled downward and then placed on Neesh’s smooth belly. It was then slid down even further, across the silky softness of her mons, until her digits were touching the soft lips between her legs.

“That’s it,” Neesh told her. “Slide your fingers inside of me.”

Laura obeyed, fascinated with the feel of another woman’s vagina. Despite the salt water they were immersed in, it was still slippery enough for penetration. She felt Neesh gripping at her fingers with her muscles. She was very tight.

“Finger fuck me,” Neesh barked at her. “Use two fingers.”

Continuing to slurp and suck on her nipple, Laura did as requested and inserted a second finger. She began to pump in and out. Neesh began to moan into her ear.

“You a natural, honey,” Neesh told her. “You sure you ain’t done this before?”

“Quite sure,” Laura told her, breaking contact with the nipple in her mouth. Her intention was to go after the other one, but Neesh had other plans.

“Let’s go back to the log,” she suggested.

“To the log?” Laura asked, thinking that Neesh was bringing this sexy encounter to an end. She was simultaneously happy and sad about this.

But ending the encounter was not what Neesh had in mind. “I’m gonna sit you down on that log and eat your pussy out,” she told her. “And I’m not going to stop until you come all over my face.”

No, we can’t do that, Laura wanted to say. That’s going a little too far. That is truly what she meant to say. But what came out of her mouth was: “Okay, let’s go.”

They trotted out of the waves, hand in hand, and rushed back to the driftwood log where they had drank the wine earlier.

“Sit on the log there,” Neesh told her. “And keep your ears open for the boys coming out to check on us. My ears are going to have your thighs covering them.”

“Okay,” Laura panted, sitting on the log and spreading her thighs. She could feel how wet she was, how swollen her lips were. Her doubts about what she was doing were buried in a wave of lust. Neesh was going to eat her pussy out!

Neesh dropped down on her knees between Laura’s thighs and leaned forward. She suckled on Laura’s breasts for a few moments, alternating between them, increasing Laura’s lust exponentially.

“No teasing!” Laura ordered.

“Just a little teasing,” Neesh said. “It’s my nature.”

Laura groaned in frustration.

Neesh began to work her way southward, kissing and nipping her way across Laura’s belly and then down to her upper thigh, carefully avoiding the actual wetness between her legs. Laura groaned with every touch of that wet, girly mouth on her body.

She was just about to reach down and grab Neesh’s hair so she could force her face to go where it was needed, but a particularly large crash of a wave suddenly boomed through the night. Laura looked up for just a second, more out of instinct than alarm. She saw that the tide was apparently incoming, as the waves were now crashing considerably closer to their spot then when they had sat here with their clothes on.

Clothes? Oh my God!

“Neesh!” she yelled, reaching down and grabbing her face. Only she didn’t pull it to her center, she pulled it up so she was looking at her.

“What?” Neesh asked. “I told you, this is girl time, Teach. There’s nothing wrong with...”

“Our clothes!” Laura told her. “We took them off down by the water.”

“So?”

“The tide is coming in!” Laura said.

Understanding washed over Neesh’s face. “Shit!” she said, springing to her feet. “Let’s go!”

Naked, they ran down to the spot where they had shucked their clothing nearly an hour ago. The spot was well underwater now. Of their shorts, bras, and panties, there was not a trace.

“Fuck me!” Neesh said, looking everywhere and seeing nothing.

“What do we do now?” Laura asked.

“Let’s check around the area,” Neesh suggested. “You go that way; I’ll go this way.”

“Right,” Laura said.

They headed off in different directions. Laura ran right along the water’s edge, her naked buttocks pumping, her eyes searching the surf for any sign of clothing. She didn’t get very far. As she trotted along, she had the briefest impression of something dark in front of her. Before her brain even had time to process this information, her legs thumped into something massive and she went sprawling forward. She crashed to the ground, landing on her forearms, feeling flesh being scraped away in several places.

What the hell was that? her mind screamed as she thumped and rolled. It had felt like ... well ... an animal of some kind.

It was an animal. She turned and found herself looking at a California sea lion that had been sleeping in the sand, it’s black body almost invisible in the darkness. And it was very upset at having its slumber disturbed.

“Ark ark ark ark ark!” it screamed at her, rearing up on all four of its fins and getting ready to do battle.

Laura screamed in terror, jumping to her feet and running down the beach. The sea lion immediately began to chase after her, ark arking all the way.

“Neesh, help!” Laura screamed, terrified.

“Oh my god!” she heard Neesh yell back. “Inland, Laura! Get out of the water!”

Out of the water? Yes, that was probably a good idea. She didn’t know how fast an angry sea lion could run on land, but it probably wasn’t as fast as it could move in the water. She hooked left, leaving the surf behind and the creature remained in pursuit of her. Adrenaline flooded through her body as full panic took over and she ran right into a piece of driftwood, tripping her again, sending her tumbling to the beach again. Her face struck the sand this time and she felt grit on her tongue.

“Fuck!” she barked, scrambling to her feet again and resuming her sprint. This time, the sea lion broke off the pursuit, perhaps because it was tired, or perhaps because it felt it had made its point.

Laura was finally able to slow down and catch her breath. The adrenaline started to fade away. She stood in the sand, her hands on her knees, bent over, panting.

Neesh came up to her. “Are you okay?” she asked.

“Yeah, I think so,” she said with a nod.

“I think you’re bleeding,” Neesh said.

“Yeah? Where at?”

“Your arms and your wrists.”

Laura looked and could see just enough by the moonlight that her forearms were all scraped up and abraded. Also, her toes, the ones that had struck the driftwood, were all throbbing with pain. “I don’t suppose that you found our clothes?”

Neesh shook her head. “Not a stitch,” she said.

“Lovely. Where’d the sea lion go?”

“I think it went back into the water,” Neesh said. “You’re lucky you got away. That thing was pissed off.”

“Yeah,” she said. “It really was.”

“Come on,” Neesh said. “Let’s go back to the house and get you cleaned up.”

“How are we going to explain this?” Laura asked her.

“It’s easy,” she said. “We tell as much of the truth as feasible. That’s the way you keep girl time between girls.”

“I see.”