The Boy from the Band

Three Weeks to the Day

Three weeks to the day and he's going to come over tonight. He didn't tell me, he didn't have to. We've been waiting, only playing at sex and now it's time for the real thing.

"Why are you with him?" Gina asked me again today and I tell her the truth.

"Besides the fact that I'm so in love with him it drives me crazy? It's because he's the best lover I've ever had. I never knew that sex could feel like this. Before I enjoyed it but never knew what an orgasm felt like or that it was normal to have them. He knows every inch of my body, knows what drives me crazy, sends me out of myself. I lost my virginity when I was sixteen but never, ever knew that something was missing from all the lovers I had. Now I know."

I've cleaned my apartment to calm my nerves. Yes, I am nervous. We've only been able to have half sex since my surgery, leaving us a little satisfied but longing for what we want. Tonight that is going to change.

I've splurged on an expensive body lotion that smells heavenly. I've douched, taken a shower, and washed my hair. I'm been tearing through my closet and my drawers trying to decide what to wear: regular clothes? Lingerie? Nothing?

I settle for a pink dress I know he likes. I decide not to wear underwear, I want him to be able to feel only me underneath.

I turn around and look at my apartment. I've left only one electric lamp on, a pink glass affair with a low watt pink bulb.  I've lit a dozen candles, some scented, and it looks and smells warm and inviting.

It's ten o'clock. He told me he'll be here as soon as he can get away from rehearsal. He's not staying through the whole thing and the guys are no doubt giving him a hard time. Levon, especially, will be joshing him. Levon likes me and the band will understand.

At eleven I hear knocking at my door and wonder who it is. I open it and Rick is standing there, a bottle of Cristall in one hand, his guitar in another and between his teeth he holds a bouquet.

I take the bouquet from his mouth and kiss him. "You could have set your guitar down, silly," I say and he shrugs and grins. I love his little silly ways, how he tries to make me laugh. How can I not love this man?

He comes inside and takes off his coat, hanging it carefully in the closet. "Go put those in water," he says, "And bring the champagne flutes. I know how much you love this stuff.

I go into the kitchen and out of the corner of my eyes, I see him go into the bathroom and bring out my mirror. Sigh. I won't deny him anything tonight, but I wish the strongest drug he liked was weed or that Afghani hash that's been around. I start to wonder again just what else he is using. I don't know if I'm ready to ask.

I leave the kitchen and put the vase with the bouquet on the coffee table. There are peonies, hydrangeas, carnations, and some ferns. He knows I love flowers so every so often he surprises me, like tonight.

Before he starts chopping the coke, he reaches into his pocket. "I got this for you, I thought you'd like it."

Inside a little silk pouch is a pair of pearl earrings. "They're pink pearls, you told me you've always wanted a pair." He puts them in my ears, "There, they look nice on you, and they even go with your dress."

He turns back to the coke and starts chopping it on my mirror, two thin lines for me and two fat ones for him. I sit down and he hands me the mirror and a rolled-up dollar bill. Since this is his idea of celebrating I inhale the two small lines then hand it back to him.

I cringe as I see how much he's doing, but I won't say anything. I have promised myself that when the time is right, I am going to confront him. Funny thing, though, I don't know anyone who doesn't do drugs, even Gina indulges now and then. For me, they're more of a way to play than an everyday thing. I think for him coke is a regular part of his life. And maybe his girlfriend, too?

"You've got white powder under your nose," I tell him and he wipes it off. He loads the hash pipe and that sweet aroma hits my nose. If there's one thing I Iove more than weed it's hash. You don't need to smoke as much of it and the high is more intense. One of these days I will grow up and stop enjoying illegal drugs but I'm not even twenty-four and I intend to enjoy myself while I can get away with being irresponsible.

He slides his hand up my dress, then pauses, "You're not wearing any underwear there, girl."

"No, I'm not—you got a problem with that?"

He sets the pipe down and slides his hand up my dress, putting his fingers inside me and smiling when I begin to moan.

"No, not at all," he answers, then removes his hand and scoops me up and carries me into the bedroom. Soon my dress is on the floor, followed by his clothes and now we can make up for the time that we've missed.

He's gentle at first, then seeing that he's not hurting me his lovemaking becomes more insistent. I cry out the first time he makes me climax, but that's not the only time that happens. We greedily devour each other—our lovemaking has never been like this, not even the first time.

Finally, he gets up to go to the bathroom. I go into the living room to get the champagne and when he comes back to the bedroom he has his guitar with him. He settles back on the pillows and begins to serenade me, insisting that I harmonize with him on the songs that I know.

He can play like this for hours. I lay back on my pillow and listen. It's starting to get late and the coke is starting to wear off. I fetch the hash from the living room and fill the pipe, light it, then try my hardest not to cough.

He puts down his guitar and takes the pipe from me. We share back and forth, sometimes blowing the smoke into the other's mouth like you would with opium. I'm hoping I've had enough to be able to sleep in spite of the coke. He'll be on his way soon, either to the studio or back home, probably home.

He puts his guitar away, snapping the clips that fasten the case. "I think I should leave, sweetheart, do you mind?" He kisses me tenderly, sometimes I forget I'm the other woman.

"No, it's all right," I say but what I want to ask him is, "Tell me, are you all right? I feel like something's wrong, Rick, I wish you'd tell me," but I don't say it even though I want to.

There are rumors around the music community that the band is going to break up. I've heard rumors from guys at the studio who come around to chit-chat. They know it's no good to try to hit on me because it's well-known that I'm Rick's girl.

It's Robbie who wants to leave, they say, and that's a big problem. He's their principal songwriter, and any hits they've had has his signature. They can find another guitar player, there's lots of talent waiting for their chance in this town, but a songwriter is another matter.

I know Robbie doesn't like touring, but that's part of the music business. He gets royalties from song writing, but touring is how the others make their money. The Grateful Dead don't release many albums, but touring four months out of the year had proven highly lucrative for them and they have a good time on the road. I know, I've been to more than a few Dead concerts.

I know Rick would like to do his own album and if he does, I wish him luck. He's a talented bass player and guitarist, and you couldn't ask for a better vocalist, but he's not much of a songwriter. They've depended on Robbie and his song writing for so long I don't see how they could find someone to take his place.

I suspect Rick's drug problem is worse than I've guessed. I don't know who else in the band has developed a habit, but I suspect Rick is not the only one. Robbie has taken over running the band and maybe he's just tired of dealing with it. He's no angel, but maybe if I were him I'd be feeling the same way.

I smile at Rick and put my arms around him and kiss him. I tell him how much I love my earrings. I'm going to pretend everything is fine for the moment, but one of these days he's going to have to tell me the truth—if I don't find out anyway.