Hotel
And she stepped out of the limo just like that, in red heels, white stockings, and sheer black chiffon. Tracy realized that the heavier lace at the hem actually hid her bush, but nothing could hide her ass. Hastily, he dumped his trenchcoat over her shoulders; he got a smile for it, but Stella didn’t even think about pulling it closed in front of her. Tracy noted with grim pleasure how the crowd of onlookers stepped back for them. This girl was a shield for him, protecting him from the starfuckers — if he could only pilot her to safety before some male lost his mind.
The elevator was filled with his own folk. Tracy smirked, cataloging the conversation that would break out as soon as she got out of range. No one was gonna say a word to her face. Chris Visage, leader of the the opening band, and John-John, with their usual blond dames. Toffer and Marco sported matching Orientals, trading leers over the black heads — planning something nasty. Gina alone. She’d never been freaky. She wouldn’t do it if it weren’t right. He wondered what she would have to say about his girl, you never could tell with her. Jerry trying to keep his face straight and his pecker down. Tony was solo, too, and he favored Stella with a long soulful stare that was probably melting her into a puddle. Tracy grinned from behind her, brandishing her dress; he was carrying it over his arm. Stella stood quietly, comfortable amid the buzz of conversation. The guys from Visage were pushing at their women, who protested shrilly, and the elevator came to a stop.
“Meeting in my room, fifteen minutes,” Jerry said as the doors opened. “And, gentlemen, the late fine has just gone up to fifty dollars. Please take note.”
Tracy grinned sheepishly. “Oh lord,” he muttered, and gave Stella a squeeze. “Well, it gives us time to shower, anyway.” He unlocked the door, and went straight to the phone while Stella looked around in surprise. The rooms of this hotel, she knew quite well, were mostly harvest brown or lime green, a legacy of the seventies. Not for nothing had Tracy called it ‘That ugly hotel’, but this room had become blue and violet. Tracy had thrown satin sheets over the chairs and sofas, and he’d tacked a blue sheet on the wall above the bed, which glowed with a blue bedspread covered with an enormous butterfly, appliqued in shades of peach and purple.
“Come on, the water’s perfect!” he called from the bathroom. Stella found that his idea of perfection in hot water matched her own. They washed each other like kids, laughing and sputtering, and getting soap in their mouths. His deft fingers found their way into all her cracks and crannies, cleaning her ears to toes. Her vagina, too, he washed, quickly and gently. Stella wrapped a towel around herself; Tracy merely walked out of the room, indifferent to the puddles following him. She pursued him, towelling his hair and back. When he turned his head to look back at her, her heart melted .
A waiter knocked, announcing room service. Tracy propelled her into the bathroom, and closed the door on her; she heard him say a few words in a low tone, the waiter’s “Thank you, sir,” before he let her out. A small tray awaited, with its burden of wine, pastries, and, yes, strawberries.
“Why should he see your body?” Tracy explained. “He got his tip… He don’t deserve the happiness.”
Stella laughed. “He saw your body,” she suggested, “Maybe that made him happy.” It surely made her happy, to watch him striding around the room. Slim and muscular, not as tall as she. Stella stands five foot eight, call him five foot six. Dancer’s muscles, still pumped from the show, rippled under that silken, tawny skin, the color of aged oak, the color of toasted sugar. Spectacular, beautiful legs. The back of his thighs could break her heart. A high, round ass, and, as he turned towards her, his scrotum and wellsized uncut cock, nestled in glossy black curls, the skin there darker, like mahogany. Eying his cock pointedly, Stella said; “Oh, yeah… You might have made him very happy.”
Tracy seemed taken aback, eyeing her sidelong while he thought about it; “Well, I got to go to that road meeting.” He crammed a pastry into his mouth. “You want anything?” he said around it, and swallowed. “Will you wait for me?”
“Of course I will!”
“Promise? Cause I don’t know what I would do if I came back and you were gone…”
“I promise,” She was laughing again, but he shook his head.
“No, I gotta lock you down and make sure. You’re too good to lose, Stella.” He went to where she had left her clothes; “Lord, girl, don’t you ever fold anything up?”
“No,” she said; “I’m a slob.”
He shook his head. “Here, put this on.” He handed her the silk camisole; “I don’t want you to get cold while you’re waiting for me.”
“Oh, this will surely keep me warm…” she slipped the flimsy thing over her head.
“Yes,” he said seriously. He led her to the bed. “Why don’t you lay down and get comfortable.” He ran to his trunk. “Here’s a jay, if you wanna smoke some. It’s sinsemilla, Oahu. Good shit.” Something in his other hand clinked, as he laid the paraphernalia out.
Stella yelped. “Tracy! I said I’d stay here!” Grinning, he sat on top of her before she could move, closing a handcuff around one wrist.
“I couldn’t concentrate unless I was sure you was safe,” he said gleefully. “Reach up, now…” At the end of a short, breathless struggle he had her manacled, left hand and right foot, to the bed. “There!” he said in satisfaction, and leapt to the middle of the room, prancing in a little victory dance. “Now I can be easy… Are you comfortable? Need any little thing?” He pulled on a faded pair of jeans as he spoke. “Now I got to go to that damn meeting, but I won’t be long, I swear –” And he was out the door, with a shout of laughter.
Stella was perfectly comfortable. The manacles had some eighteen inches of chain, solid, but allowing considerable freedom of movement. There was a stack of magazines by the bed, grass, and a glass of wine. Stella lay flat on her back, staring at nothing. He hadn’t lied to her. His music was his truth. She shuddered at the thought of such daring, to bare your soul to anyone with a record player, a car radio. Her flesh was still thrilling, from that fuck in the limo… She thought about the story she’d unreeled for him. –What was I doing, Like Sheherazad, telling the king a story to set herself apart from the rest of the harem? Did it work?– Oddly enough, Stella didn’t even think to question the handcuffs. As far as she knew, they were just part of his ordinary fun, his freaky reputation… Did she worry, fearing some Jekyll-and-Hyde transformation? Fearlessly, she dozed off.
**
“Sold out, no shit?” Tracy said, and expelled smoke into the already hazy air.
“Almost every venue is sold out, that’s correct,” Jerry said. “This means we’ll see profits, from the second of the Fillmore shows in San Francisco, on. The album is about to go triple platinum, Tracy. Warner’s loves you.”
“Warner’s loves you,” Tony said, mimicking Jerry’s clipped English accent. “Ah love you, Cuz! Mule-head, yellow-color cocksucker, you making us all rich!” He laughed loudly and aimed a kick in Tracy’s direction. Tracy was grinning unstoppably. Karl beat out a tattoo on the table, Gina shook her fist over her head triumphantly. Chris Visage, and his coterie, shouted and whooped.
“Oh, man,” Tony said at last. “Okay, Mister Wizard, what else you got for us?”
“Well, now. The reporters from the Times aren’t coming to San Francisco with us. So, you’ll all be spared that ordeal,” Jerry said.
“Then we got extra seats on the bus?” Tracy spoke up.
“Yes, three empties.” Jerry sighed; “I personally am going to stretch out across all of them, and sleep, sleep, sleep.”
“Maybe I could have one of them?” Tracy suggested. “This dame I just met, she might like to come along.”
The problem with tour life, he reflected, was no privacy, nothing was secret. Jerry looked amused, and wary. All he could see was another potential headache. Tony leaned back, grinning expectantly. There was a split second of silence before recess started again. Karl, beating out ‘Jungle Drums’.
“That’s some bitch, Trace,” Chris Visage crowed. He turned to Jeffrey. “I don’t remember what color her underwear was?”
“Cause she ain’t had none!” Jeffrey yelped in delight.
Marco blushed. “Oh, shit… Tell her, she’s gotta put on some clothes.”
“Uh-uh, white boy,” Toffer Woolcutt shook his dreadlocks. “Don’t you go and cramp her style!”
“That bitch come with us, I gonna teach her a whole new dance step.” John-John was second in command, right after Chris, in the Visage hierarchy.
“That bitch is private property,” Tony rumbled. “Y’all keeping your hands off, no lie.”
“Oh, shit,” Jeffrey mourned. “That ain’t equitable, man… Can’t I at least stick it in her once?” Tracy winced.
Tony sat upright; “Nigger, I tell you what. She walk in a room, you walk out, understand? She ain’t even gonna know your name, you gonna be a bug in the corner to her and that’s all –”
“Uh-oh” someone said softly. The room was tense, while the two men eyed each other.
“Come on, Jeffrey” Tony smiled broadly. “Get in my face, motherfucker. I’ll rip your head off, I’d dig to do it.”
“Shut up, Tone,” Tracy said easily. “What do you want with her for?” he turned to Jeffrey. “She ain’t even blond.”
“Blond, I don’t care,” Jeffrey spread his arms. “She naked, man, that’s all!” The room relaxed a little. Tracy passed his spliff to Gina, and caught her eye, apologetically.
“Ignorant fool,” she snorted. “She’s a good girl, and you better treat her right, Dawg. How long you think before you get bad?” Only Gina would think to ask that question. Tracy shrugged.
“I’m okay so far,” he muttered, feeling his face growing hot.
“Order, please, gentlemen,” Jerry said, dryly. “I assume the young lady is appraised of the dangers of such company as she may be keeping? We don’t want any lawsuits, do we.”
“Y’all talking a load of shit,” Gina said resonantly. “If this dame sticks around, you all keep your hands off, dig? And your hound mouths shut, too. You don’t mess with her none, y’all. She ain’t no slut, no matter what y’all wish she was doing. I been with Tracy in his bad times and if he thinks she could help it could save this gig –” She turned to the Visage contingent. “You got no idea, nigger. You want that money? Take care, then, ‘cause the man could end up in a hospital somewhere, and y’all out of a job.”
“Okay, okay!” Tracy protested. “Damn, Gina… I always make it to the gigs, you know… Let’s have the meeting, okay? If she comes along I’ll pay her expenses,” he told Jerry. “And I’ll keep her clothes on her,” he added to the room in general, and got a chuckle in response. But he could see speculative looks passing between the members of the other band. Damn, it was hard to deal with males. He could be upfront about the debilitating nature of his illness, but while he was healthy it seemed a little… dramatic. And he hadn’t thought of Stella in that light, as a minister to his needs, at all.
“What was that about?” he said privately to Gina. “Why is she okay?” Gina held up her hand to shush him.
“Tomorrow, you are free until the show. Meet here, in my room, eight ‘o clock. The Riddem Generators have reservations at Spago afterwards, and Chris and John-John. The rest of you –” Jerry indicated the group — “are respectfully un-invited. In fact, any one of the Generators that wish to bow out may do so, as long as Tracy and Tony show. The Gods of Money have no desire to see you baboons in your natural state.”
“I’m coming!” Toffer exclaimed. “I ain’t gonna miss Spago, man. Maybe see me some movie stars?”
“You gave her your coat, didn’t you?” Gina said to Tracy. “So she rates. Or did she just take it? Cause she’d rate that way, too.”
“I’m good to the dames” he said defensively. Gina gave him an ironic smile, and strolled away.
“You cocksucker, Trace, you better not be keeping her for yourself.” Tony loomed into the seat she’d just vacated. “When do I get my share?”
Tracy knew better than to dissemble. “Not yet, I ain’t told her. I gotta warm her up to it, first.”
“You gonna bone her together?” Chris Visage wanted to know, and skipped away as they turned towards him, glaring.
“You’ll get yours, bro, she’ll do it,” Tracy dropped his voice. Tony eyed him suspiciously.
“But what… You’re saying ‘but’ something. What was Gina saying?”
“Tone, you can’t handle her.”
“I can’t handle her?” Tony laughed. “Ain’t a dame in the world. With everything I got, she’ll be begging for mercy.”
“Mmm, ” Tracy said. “Tony Pony, she gonna saddle up and ride you home to the stable. Give you a lump of sugar.”
“No shit?” Tony leaned back in his chair. “She’s that freaky, huh.”
“Bro, she’s just that little bit too freaky for you.”
“Ah, fuck you, Trace, that’s what you wish.”
“I believe it’s me she wants…”
“Fuck you, cuz!” Tony’s voice rose considerably. “Lying like a dog. I saw her first, dig? Don’t fucking try that shit, cocksucker.”
Tracy felt something rip a little, inside. Visage was listening greedily. They weren’t family. What were they doing, hearing this? He laughed, high-pitched. “Cocksuckah, cocksucka-ah. What’s up with that? You been wishing me to suck your dick, Tone? huh?”
“Shut up!”
Tracy slid off his chair to kneel before Tony. “Ooh, I’d go down on my knees for you, you big strong stud, you!” The audience laughed familiarly.
“Oh get out of my face,” Tony snorted. He swung his boot gently into Tracy’s bare chest, who somersaulted agilely away, to land grovelling on the rug.
“Oh, he hurt me, the brute!” Tracy scrambled towards Gina. “Momma, he hurt me.” He pulled her down into his lap while he dropped into a chair. Gina chuckled, slapping at his hands.
“Let go me, fool,” she said, “Or I’m gonna hurt you, too.”
“Hey!” John-John called out. “Can we talk about I need a new keyboard? Jerry?… Is anybody listening?” he added, plaintively.
Jerry came up, at the meeting’s end; “I really hope this girl doesn’t make any trouble, Tracy,” he said privately. Tracy hid a smile; Jerry’s blond, English face was turning red.
“Well, you wanna get into her too?” he said maliciously. “Listen, if the bitch has to go, I’ll kick her out. Them niggers don’t really care anyways, they just doggin’ on women all the time.”
Jerry winced; “Well, I hope the gentlemen can restrain themselves in her presence. I should think a young lady of the white race — or any race — would be just a little offended by such talk.”
“Like I said,” Tracy offered, indifferently. A vision rose before his eyes, the way she had looked at him as he left the room. “See y’all.” He sauntered towards the door. “Time for me to do the do.”
“Man, give her a sweet one,” Toffer said. “What’s her name?”
“Stella.”
“Oh, one of your names, huh.”
“No, man,” Tracy lied. “She was born with it.”
