SailtotheMoon Read online

  He kept his arm around Jimmy’s shoulders and faced the ravening hordes. Waited. Chick had taught him that trick, to stand and wait for them. If they wanted to hear anything, they’d eventually hush. Or he’d leave.

  Some shouted questions, but he ignored them all. It took them five minutes and that was only because he eventually yelled, “Five minutes and we’re out of here. Shut the fuck up.”

  They silenced.

  He’d make a statement, answer a few questions. After all, it wasn’t as if this was some kind of state secret. Just a quirk, and with any luck, it’d all be forgotten next week. What did they say around here? Oh yes, “It’ll be tomorrow’s ash papers”. Used to wrap rubbish.

  “This is James Asaro, otherwise known as Jimmy A. He’s been living in Manchester since his retirement, twenty years ago.” Jimmy gave a hoarse laugh as if about to say something, but Zazz ploughed on. “My name is also James Asaro. In the States, they’d call me James Asaro Junior. I arrived when Jimmy had given up on kids. I want him left alone. He’s frail and in retirement. That’s the only reason I haven’t announced our relationship before.”

  Here it came. Like a torrent, the questions poured forth. At least he could choose which ones to answer.

  “No, Jimmy is a recovering alcoholic and addict. I’ve taken care of him as much as I could. No, I don’t drink or take drugs.” They laughed at that. He might have known they wouldn’t believe him. He didn’t give a shit whether they believed him or not. “Jimmy has no plans to return to the jazz world.”

  “What does Jimmy think of your music?” someone asked. Before he could head them off—after all, even he didn’t know—Jimmy put his hand on his sleeve.

  “I’ll answer that one.” His voice, still tinged with the American accent, because he’d lived the most influential years of his life there, pierced the suddenly silent atmosphere.

  Zazz sat, knowing he couldn’t stop this. Whatever it was, he’d hear his father’s verdict in public. Not how he’d wanted to do this. He took Laura’s hand, not making a secret of their closeness. He didn’t know if she wanted that either, but if she didn’t, too bad. Apprehension rose in his throat, choking him.

  “My son made his own life. He came up the hard way, like I did. Jazz didn’t do it for him, and anyhow, the jazz market isn’t what it was.” Jimmy spoke slowly, but clearly. “He did what he had to do and I’m proud of him. I can’t say I liked everything tonight, but some of the music—” He turned to address Zazz directly, and pushed up the dark glasses so Zazz could see his gray eyes, full of sincerity. “You’ve made music to last, my son.”

  Now tears drowned out the apprehension. In Jimmy’s opinion, music that lasted was the only kind worth making, but it took effort, practice and a long apprenticeship to create.

  Jimmy smiled, that carefree happy smile Zazz remembered from his childhood, saved for when he’d achieved something, even something as small as making an edible meal for them both. When he was sober, that was. Zazz could still remember the terror of his father’s addiction and the way he turned into a different person when he was stoned, or high, or drunk. Or all three.

  “My son did good.” He slid the glasses up his nose and faced the press, the epitome of the elder statesman. “I play sometimes, but I screwed up my career. I got beat up, and they destroyed my mouth. It didn’t matter, because I’d already earned a name for unreliability. Nobody would have me anyhow.”

  “Are you still on drugs?” someone yelled. Typical of the media not to ask him about his music, but the scandalous side of his life.

  “Only the ones my doctor gives me.” True enough. No point telling them one of the drugs was methadone. Jimmy had never succeeded in kicking that one completely, claimed his system was so used to opiates, it had to have something. “But the life left me like this.” He lifted the glasses again, stared out, let them take pictures. “You know how old I am?”

  Silence.

  “I’m sixty-four.”

  Gasps echoed around the room.

  “Take all the pictures you like. This is what drugs do to you.” Jimmy looked eighty, his face wrinkled, sunken cheeks, heavy shadows under his eyes. His fingers, although unaffected by arthritis, were bony, brown-spotted with age. He had a cane by his side. “Not forgetting the drink,” he added with a twinkle, although nobody laughed. “I can’t play too good anymore.”

  “Do you think the drugs made you?” someone asked.

  Jimmy laughed in derision. “The drugs wrecked me. If I hadn’t been chasing after the next hit, I might have concentrated more on my music. As it was, I could have stayed in New York or Chicago or LA and made a good living, despite the downturn in the market. I could have got a lot more done. I’d have had more jobs if I hadn’t been hunting dealers and spending the money I didn’t have on junk to shoot into my arm, or my leg, or my dick. Anywhere I could find a vein I could use.”

  He chuckled and Zazz gave an inward groan. The old man was off again, spouting the stories. He’d never get him out of this place, and he badly wanted to get Laura out of here and into a warm bed. God, tonight he was tired, felt every part of that performance as if he’d done it twice. Singing onstage energized him, made him feel like superman. Offstage, he either collapsed or couldn’t relax, too hyped up to sleep.

  Shit, that was it. That was why his father couldn’t stop with the drugs. After gigs Jimmy had spent hour after hour talking to Zazz, usually in a slurred voice. The road to sobriety had been neither straight nor easy, and Zazz half suspected that his father’s failing health was the only reason it had stuck this time. Jimmy couldn’t get out of the house to score.

  “I get an incredible feeling onstage. If I ever lost that, I’d want it back. I imagine drugs might do that,” Zazz said. He’d had days when he’d despaired of coming up with a good lyric, when he thought he’d lost it completely, when “it”, his talent or his creativity or some shit, lay just out of reach, and if he found the key it would come back to him.

  All his life Zazz wondered why Jimmy had taken drugs when he had such a great talent. When performing was the only high Zazz needed.

  “You imagine?” somebody asked. “Are you serious about not drinking or taking drugs?”

  Zazz opened his mouth to reply, then at the last moment, he saw the trap. Confess to that and people would fall over themselves to prove him wrong, not least the hangers-on and the media. They loved seeing idols fall. Now, coming to the end of a successful tour, with a new album in the offing, would be a great time to sell more copies about him. So he narrowed his eyes, stared them out and smiled. “You guess,” Zazz said, going for the enigmatic. “I’ve never entered rehab, that’s for sure.”

  And he refused to say any more. But when he glanced at Laura, he caught her staring at him, and he cursed. The one person he’d have to be straight with, if he wanted more than this with her. Not that he was sure of that, but he respected her enough to tell her the truth. He turned his smile into a genuine one, for her, then turned back to the media with a straight face.

  “So this is your girlfriend?”

  “I’m Jimmy’s social worker,” Laura said, before he could stop her. Shit, fuck and derision. It got worse and worse. Now the press would come baying to her door. If they could find her, and Zazz had no intention of them doing that.

  “You’re holding hands with Zazz. Is that for courage?”

  Zazz ignored the question but lifted Laura’s hand to his mouth and kissed her knuckles, pausing to nibble. He smiled when she couldn’t suppress the heat that came to her eyes. “Maybe. It goes both ways.”

  He needed a distraction. He glanced at Riku, who immediately came up to join them. In his red-and-gold ensemble he’d worn onstage, he looked almost Samurai. Tall and commanding, almost inhuman with his heavy visual kei makeup and costume.

  “Jimmy A’s one of my idols,” Riku said. “He did amazing things with timescales, opened the door to us and other bands like us.” He stood behind Jimmy’s chair like a bodyguard. Za
zz’s gratitude went out to him, especially when Riku decided to elaborate on the way Jimmy A had helped modern musicians, whatever they did, stretch their creative muscles. He didn’t follow half of what Riku said, but it sounded good.

  “Many people love the music my father made,” Zazz said at the next pause.

  “You don’t look like him,” somebody yelled.

  He gave them a sideways look, sardonic, back to the cynical, angular Zazz. “Some people say Prince Harry doesn’t look anything like his father,” he said. “It’s not mandatory.” He flashed another grin at them. “Oh sure, I know that much. Do you? My aunt and uncle have brown eyes and they have two blue-eyed children. No cheating.” He made that up. He didn’t have an uncle or an aunt, to his knowledge, but it sounded good and it could happen.

  “He’s my son, all right. Jesus, I could have children all over America, but this is the one I managed to keep.” Or who managed to keep him. The issue was moot.

  “We did okay,” Zazz said now. “But you can see my father isn’t in the best of health. I want him left alone. There is no more story here. Jimmy Asaro bore me, brought me home to England, got cleaned up for my sake. I went to school, loved music, learned it. Went to London to find work, worked in pubs and clubs, joined a few moderately successful bands, joined Murder City Ravens. There you go.”

  But he knew it was useless. Even with the bait he’d thrown them, that Jimmy had cleaned up for him, which was totally untrue, they’d hunt Jimmy down and pester him to death. Could be literally. Jimmy loved attention, as long as he thought it was on his own terms. If the press hounds came around, he’d humor them, and some, tell them all his secrets. And he did have secrets.

  Somehow, he got Jimmy out of there and in a quiet room with Laura to look after him while he grabbed Chick and dragged him into the nearest dressing room. “Is there a way to keep my father out of the headlines?”

  Chick met his stare. “There are ways. He can go into hiding, but I wouldn’t recommend that. He could go about his life and let things die down. They will. That’s what I’d go with.”

  Zazz sighed. “You’re right, I guess.”

  Chick frowned and pursed his lips. His beard virtually bristled as he considered the situation. “Your dad is gonna be in the news, and I can’t do much about it. People will find out where he is. What if I arrange a few structured interviews for you and your father? With reasonable magazines and publications, nothing too sleazy. They can come up here, or we can bring your father to London, give him all the attention he needs.”

  “He’s frail, but yeah, that could work.” Zazz hated the media circus, but for his father, he’d do it. “Then they can discuss the issue up their own arses.”

  “Appropriate for some of them. I have to deal with these guys all the time, because you’re so picky about who you’ll talk to.” Chick held up a hand when Zazz opened his mouth to protest. “Your privilege. But trust me to make sure you get the best I can find.”

  “Not for a week or two, hey? I want to check out a few homes for him. He’s refused up ’til now, but I want to be ready when he does agree. I thought I’d do a few tours.”

  Chick nodded. “It makes sense.”

  About to leave, Zazz remembered something else. “I’m staying with Laura here, so I don’t need a hotel room.”

  “Yeah, Riku wants to stay. Beverley’s booked him at the Midland, in case they track you guys to the Buckingham. He’s promised to dress like every other sap if he goes out.”

  “His opinion of what every sap looks like and mine are a bit different,” Zazz said. “But I have to stay, to sort out this shit with my dad.”

  “Be in London on Friday for the sound check,” Chick warned him. “I’ll cover for you until then. There’s a few TV appearances, but Jace and the others can cover those. They’ll want you, so be ready for some shit like that when you arrive. Are you arriving alone?”

  Zazz met his gaze. “I don’t want to be, but I haven’t persuaded her yet.”

  Chapter Seven

  “Will you come with me to London?” Zazz asked almost as soon as the hotel room door had closed behind them. “I’ve asked you before, but I need an answer.”

  Laura stood stock still in the middle of the thickly carpeted floor, aware both of the luxury and the fact that she didn’t belong there. “I didn’t think you were serious. Why would you want that?”

  He shook his head. “Don’t be obtuse, Laura. You know we have more than sex going for us. I want you as long as I can have you.”

  If she did this, she wanted a few things straight between them. “When do you have to leave the country?”

  “Not for at least a couple of weeks after the London dates,” he said. “I can probably stretch it to three. Chick wants to set up some interviews with me and my dad. Thinks they’ll leave him alone after that. I don’t want to do them alone.”

  Still prickly from this evening’s attention, Laura folded her arms, clasping her forearms tight until she realized her body language was giving her away. “It’s not something I really considered.” They’d gotten together, he’d asked her, then he’d been a shit, then he’d apologized—ah shit, she didn’t know if she was coming or going. But she did have holiday time due. The job gave her six weeks a year, and she’d only taken two weeks so far. She’d saved the rest for family time and for a two-week break somewhere hot. Greece or Spain, maybe. That still sounded good, but who was she kidding, she’d give it up for Zazz. “I have to go into work next week to arrange it. It’s short notice, but my boss might let me go.”

  “If not, you can get a deadly disease.” He meant fake being sick. She didn’t know if she wanted to do that. Her boss would most certainly suspect. If she went in next week, she could probably swing the time off. Except that would mean— “We’d take Jimmy? I don’t think he’s well enough to travel.”

  Zazz sighed. “I think he can. Chick says he’ll lay it all on. First-class flight, luxury cars, five-star hotels.” He grinned. “The old reprobate will love it.”

  Laura shrugged at the fait accompli. “You’ve thought of everything.”

  “Not quite.” His voice heated, and he stepped close to take her in his arms. “I never thought you’d have this effect on me.” He gazed down into her face, no barriers that she could recognize shielding his desire for her. “I’ve known you for two years. I knew we had similar tastes in music, that we shared a few issues. Truthfully, there are women for the taking, and I’ve taken them. I’m no saint, Laura. But you—you’re something different.” He touched her chin, easing her into a sweet kiss. Almost loving. Tenderly, he stroked her mouth with his tongue, caressing rather than overpowering, sweetly sexy.

  This time they took their clothes off slowly, as they got in the way of each other’s bodies. They took the time to lay them over chairs, instead of dumping them on the floor. Almost domesticated, until she saw his expression, and the barely banked passion in his eyes. Getting naked with Zazz, while always exciting, came easier and she felt less embarrassed at displaying her distinctly ordinary body to him. He liked it, so that was enough.

  “Come to bed.” He led her to the large bed that dominated the luxury room, and swept back the covers, the crisp, white sheets yawning invitingly. He helped her in before joining her, then held out his arms so she could snuggle into him. They shared a kiss, long and luscious. “No shower for us tonight, sweetheart. We’ll use that tub.” The bathroom boasted a large, white tub with central taps, an overhead shower and bubbles.

  “I’ll look forward to it.”

  He rose over her, smiling. “This is good. I’m beginning to see why the guys have found someone permanent to share their lives. There’s a challenge, isn’t there?”

  She reminded herself he was only speaking hypothetically. Not about her in particular. She couldn’t afford to let that go, because if she did, she might not recover when he left. “What’s that?”

  “To make this deeper, harder, better. To play.” He bent to kiss her nec
k and nibble down her throat to her breasts. “We’ve hardly started.” He kissed one nipple, then the other, leaning up to critically examine his handiwork. When he blew on them, her nipples crinkled into hard points and she gasped. “Food sex? Maybe I’ll dress you in one of my stage outfits, take you kinky. Backward?” He laughed darkly. “And you’re a virgin in one place. Trust me?”

  Swallowing, she realized what he meant. No, not entirely, she had to admit. But she forced a smile. “Is it good?”

  “If we do it, yes, it will be, because everything’s good. But I prefer to play, rather than go all the way. You up for that?”

  “Tonight?”

  “No. We’re both too tired. For tonight, let’s just do it.”

  She wanted to say “make love” but she couldn’t. However, as he nipped and suckled, rousing her slowly but with a certainty that compared to the sun rising in the morning, she decided that before he went back to the States, she’d tell him she loved him.

  She wouldn’t be the first woman to tell him, she’d bet. Not the fans, who screamed at him, but women who’d slept with him. He was too good in bed for them not to. He circled her navel with his tongue and she moaned her encouragement, together with his name, in case he’d forgotten it.

  He made sounds of satisfaction, as if he were tasting something particularly delicious before he took her clit between his teeth, nipped, and then drew it into his mouth. Laura fought not to pull away, an instinctive reaction until her nerves grew. Making a sound like a growl in her throat, she dug her fingers into his hair, palming his skull, easily discernible under the short strands. If he didn’t have such a beautifully shaped head, he’d never get away with such a severe style.

  Moving between her legs, he urged her to lift her knees, opening her to anything he wanted to do. And he wanted to do plenty. He kissed, suckled and nipped her clit into hypersensitivity, working her into a state of needy wanting until he pushed his fingers into her—two, she thought—working them deep. Yes, two. No, three.