Wild Licks (4 page)

And he was a gentleman to her, too. I was still trying to reconcile the sexual animal who had dared me to use a beer bottle as a sex toy with this polished public persona. “Remind me how to spell your name?” he said to her as he picked up the pen to autograph it.

“Aurora,” the girl said. “Like the Disney princess.”

“I didn't grow up on Disney, I'm sorry,” Mal said.

“You know. Like the city in Colorado,” she tried instead.

“I don't think I've been to that part of Colorado.” Mal held up the pen. “Does it start with
O
?
A
?”

She finally spelled it and he handed the photo to her. “Now, where's my copy of it?” he joked. Or, no, he was serious.

“Really? You want a copy?”

“Yes. Would you e-mail it to my manager? Here, take down this e-mail address.”

While he was reciting the address to her, another photographer elbowed his way in with a big flash protruding from his camera and nearly blinded me with it. Mal glared at him and got a flash to the face, too. At that point, Mal hurried us away from the barrier, his arm across my shoulders in an unmistakably protective gesture. He was tall, six feet easily, and no one else tried to stop us.

“My apologies,” he said with a small bow once we were inside the theater. “I should know better than to let a feeding frenzy start.”

“Oh. Um. I'm fine. It's all right, really.”

“You haven't done many of these events before, have you?”

“Not really. Just starting to.” I hadn't been in the public eye much. Yet.

“Let me get you something to drink.” There was a reception set up in the lobby. We had lost Ricki and Axel completely in the delay. Mal steered me to one side and up onto a raised part of the floor, slightly out of the way, and then waded into the fray.

I stood there lost for a few moments, trying to compose myself. Be sweet, be nice: that was a role that came naturally to me. For a moment, though, I wondered if he had abandoned me now that we had passed the main gauntlet of photographers. No sooner did I start to wonder than he returned with two bottles of cold water.

I couldn't help grinning as he handed one to me. He couldn't have brought me a more perfect choice and the choice surprised me.

“Something wrong?” he asked.

“No, no. I just somehow thought you were going to come back with champagne. Or Jack Daniel's or something.”
Mal Kenneally,
I thought.
What's going on under the image you project?
I started to wonder if maybe the suave gentleman was any closer to the “real” Mal than the backstage bad boy was, or if they were both hiding the truth.

He raised an eyebrow. “Would you rather—”

“No! Water is awesome, actually. That's why I'm smiling.”

He removed the cap from his bottle and said, “Cheers.” We tapped our plastic bottles together and I caught him smiling a little before he smoothed the expression away as he caught the eye of someone in the mingling crowd. “Is that Roderick Grisham?”

I looked and saw an older gentleman with a distinguished streak of gray in his hair and deep laugh lines around his eyes stopping to greet another man. “Yes, that's definitely him.” He was British and had played some of my favorite film villains—well, everyone's favorite film villains, actually. If there were an Oscar for best villain, he would win it every year. In typical Hollywood fashion, that meant that in person he was known for being one of the most gracious, generous people in the business, tirelessly supporting charities and mentoring young actors, that sort of thing. “Do you know him?”

“We met very briefly once at a party in London. Barely exchanged two words,” Mal said, but even he sounded a bit awed.

The man was headed toward us again, and as he approached he held out his hand to shake Mal's. “Ah, Kenneally, wasn't it?”

Mal stood up very straight. “Yes, sir. I'm honored you remembered. May I present Ms. Gwen Hamilton.”

Roderick Grisham took my hand, kissed it with a bow, and made it all seem perfectly smooth and natural. “Charmed, Ms. Hamilton. Truthfully, Kenneally, the reason your name stuck with me is I thought, well, that's an odd name for a man I'm quite certain is English, not Irish.”

“It's a stage name, sir. Chosen to irritate my father.”

I tried not to stare in amazement that Mal was calling him “sir” like it was second nature to him.

“Ah, so you know the history of the name?” Grisham asked.

“An English bastard who was awarded the Victoria Cross after he joined the Irish Guard, yes. As the story goes, Kenneally's valor caused Winston Churchill to express love for the Irish, somewhat ironically.”

“Just so,” Grisham said with a laugh. “The troublemakers are the most interesting people in history. And which irritates your father more, your stage name or what you do upon that stage?”

Mal chuckled. “It is all of a piece to him. I am the black sheep of the family.”

“Black sheep make the best art,” Grisham said, and then turned his charming smile to me. “And you, Ms. Hamilton. Are you a budding impresario like your elder sister?”

“Oh, not really,” I said, feeling every bit charmed by his attention. “I'm trying to break into acting, actually. Any…any advice?”

“Let's see. The best advice I can give in a short amount of time is this.” He paused for dramatic effect and we both leaned toward him in anticipation.
“Always get it in writing.”

All three of us laughed and then he was nabbed by a member of the press with a microphone. Mal and I edged to the side to let them pass.

“I am not normally one to be starstruck,” he said as he watched Grisham recede across the crowded lobby. “But something about that man is quite striking.”

“I agree,” I said. “And I grew up with Harrison Ford and Denzel Washington hanging around my backyard pool.”

Mal's glare returned suddenly as he caught sight of something.

The annoying photographer from outside was making a beeline for us. Because of the crowd and the ridiculous amount of equipment the guy had hanging off his shoulders and neck—three different cameras and a bag—he had to weave and pause, trying to get to us. The man himself was not small, either.

“Let's go in,” Mal suggested. He shepherded me up the stairs and I felt the warmth of his hand at the small of my back through my dress. I wanted to lean toward that touch like a flower toward the sun, but I kept myself poised and proper while we were in full view.

“Do you know that guy?” I asked as ushers opened a set of velvet ropes for us.

“Not him in particular, but I know his type. Like a bulldog. It's best not to engage.” We made our way down the aisle. In the theater, it was relatively hushed compared to the high-energy schmoozefest going on in the lobby. “He'll move on to easier targets.”

“Okay, but isn't the whole point to get lots of photos taken?” I asked as we took seats in the second row.

Mal looked at me with an even more serious glare than his usual look. “Have you been talking to Christina?”

“No, I haven't even seen her yet tonight,” I said, confused.

“Hmm.” He took my hand and placed it on top of his forearm on the armrest, then put his other hand on top of mine. I felt a little thrill run through me. He certainly didn't seem to mind touching me. “If she asks, tell her they took
thousands
of photos of us. Which they did. I just don't like to reward assholes for assholish behavior.”

“I can certainly agree with that.” I was starting to like this righteous gentleman. So different from the raunchy sex god of last night, and yet so controlled. So firm. I wanted to hear those gentle yet unyielding commands again. Knowing it was the same man only made the thought even more appealing.

I reminded myself he had no idea it was me. And this was not the place to be bringing up such subjects anyway. “There are too many boors and trolls out there.”

“Manners have their place,” he said.

“They certainly do.” I found myself blushing, though, as a little voice asked me,
Where were your manners when you practically tore your stockings to show him your “cockhole” last night?
“Speaking of which, here come Ricki and Axel.”

Mal stood, and they took the seats directly in front of ours.

“So what is this film about?” Ricki asked. “From the posters it's hard to tell.”

“It's a modern fantasy, I think?” Axel said. “The film is titled
Midnight
, but the actual book was called something else.”

“I've read it,” Mal said. “
On a Midnight Far
, by Ariadne Wood.”

I felt my blush deepen as surprise hit. Ariadne Wood was the author of
Pain of the Sword
. I managed to sound pretty cool about it, I thought: “I read a lot of her books as a teenager but I don't remember that one. Is it new?”

“It's one of her vampire books,” Mal said, looking up at the frescoed ceiling of the restored theater. “The other one was
The Need
.”

“Aren't vampires kind of done now?” Ricki asked.

“I believe you Americans have been saying that vampires are ‘done' since before we were born,” Mal said. “Which is why
On a Midnight Far
was never published in the States. Ariadne Wood was my favorite author when I was growing up.”

“Well, I bet they published a movie tie-in edition of the book now,” Ricki said. “Don't tell me about it. I want to watch the movie without spoilers.”

“She wrote all kinds of fantasy.” Mal stopped looking at the ceiling and examined his hands instead. “Some medieval orientalist mélange, some Arthurian, some modern.”

“One of our early bands was named for a character of hers,” Axel said. “When we were, what, eleven, twelve years old?”

“Indeed. Starting a long series of failed band names.” Mal did not smile, but something about the way he looked at Axel made me think he was amused.

“Really? Like what?” I asked more to keep myself in the conversation than because I wanted to know.

Mal began to name them. “Jackhammer, Twister, Cuffboys…”

“That one only lasted about a week,” Axel said.

“…Florentine, The Highwaymen, Flashbang, Trembler…”

“Some of which were already used by other bands,” Axel added.

“I can't even remember all the ones we tried and abandoned.” Mal shrugged. “Trying to capture the right spirit in a name was difficult.”

“You're the one who insisted it have a sexual innuendo in it,” Axel said.

“All the best band names do,” Mal said sagely.

“You mean like the Sex Pistols?” Ricki asked.

Mal made a dismissive noise. “Far too obvious. I'm referring to bands such as Cream or Pearl Jam.”

“Oh my God, I never realized those were references to—” I put my hand over my mouth as I laughed.

Axel grinned. “There are even more that are, er, anatomical. Nine Inch Nails, anyone? Tool? Whitesnake? Third Eye Blind?”

“Third Eye Blind is about the…?” Ricki stage-whispered and looked around at the seats filling up all around us. No one seemed to be eavesdropping, thankfully. “I never would have thought of that.”

“Ideally it shouldn't be too obvious. Something like Steely Dan,” Mal said. “It's a literary reference. To a William S. Burroughs book.”

“Who was Steely Dan?” I asked. Burroughs had not been in my reading curriculum.

“Not who, what. It's the name of a dildo in the book
Naked Lunch
.”

Now I was blushing so hard I wanted to fan my face. The last thing I needed to be thinking about—while sitting next to the man who had given me a knee-trembling orgasm last night with a beer bottle—was a steel dildo. But I could imagine what Mal would do with one so vividly, right down to the wicked glint in his eye.

He sounded thoughtful, satisfied. “I'm glad we settled on ‘The Rough.'”

“Yes,” Ricki said, “I like The Rough.”

Axel put an arm around her. “I know you like it rough, darling.”

“You are terrible,” Ricki said with a mock slap on his hand.

“He corrupted me,” Axel said, pointing at Mal.

“You're each a bad influence on the other,” Ricki concluded. “Now
shhh,
they're about to introduce the film.”

The lights went down and I settled into my seat, trying to tamp down the feelings raging through me. There was a tall, dark, and handsome gentleman sitting beside me, the same man who had seen my hidden tattoo. The same man I had begged to hurt me.

It suddenly occurred to me that almost no one saw both sides of Mal.

Except me. My stomach dropped like I was on a roller coaster as the realization took hold in my mind. We were alike in that way. Except Mal had separated his “bad boy” side from his gentleman side and somehow still managed them both. I'd been fighting that battle for a long time, good girl versus bad, and good girl had pretty much been in charge ever since the disaster of secretly dating a much older tattoo artist when I'd turned eighteen.

His name had been Chuck; he had been pushing thirty at the time, and thinking back on him now I knew he was nothing more than a sleaze. But at the time I had been giddy with having moved to the East Coast, with the freedom of college life, with the temptation to explore who I could be where no one knew me.

The night we'd met, I had gone to a club. One of the guys in my dorm had a band and they were playing at a bar downtown and I'd promised him I'd go to see him play. They were great, and he was cute, but after their set, I didn't find him.

What I did find was Chuck, sitting on a motorcycle outside. He had a tattoo of a bullwhip on one arm; I had a lifetime of fantasies built on pirate movies and Westerns and books like Ariadne Wood's, full of dragons and heroines who sacrifice themselves to save the day. Somehow those two things added together to him taking me back to his place and spanking me until I came.