Ziggy was silent for almost the entire drive. I could feel he was holding back saying something, but I couldn’t guess what. Maybe what he was going to say was going to depend on what I said first.
But I didn’t want to be first. So instead, inside my head, I made guesses about what Ziggy might be feeling. That was an effective way to forget about what I was feeling. Was he afraid to say something because I seemed angry? I had flashes of my own child/teenage self pretending to be invisible in the passenger seat while Digger drove. Or was he sharpening his knives, waiting for the right moment to cut me up? The possibility that maybe he was simply tired also flickered by. Or maybe he was horny and waiting to find out whether he could maneuver me into bed.
You just kissed him breathless, I reminded myself. He’s probably not thinking it’s going to be difficult to get you to do more if he wants it.
As I drove up the canyon road toward Remo’s house, Ziggy finally spoke. Extra-casual. “So. What happens when we get inside?”
“I haven’t thought that far ahead.”
“If you want to just hang out, you know, that’s fine with me.”
I tried to look at him but I couldn’t get more than a glance without driving off the road. I gripped the wheel with both hands. “As opposed to doing what?”
“As opposed to me pressuring you into either sex or a job.”
“Jeez, you’ve gotten direct.”
“You seem to respond well to it.”
“True. Okay, then… what do you want to do, though?”
“Besides have sex and talk you into working for me?” He sounded like he was smirking.
“Yeah, okay, I rescind the question.”
“Why don’t I ask you instead, then. What do you want to do?”
I nearly missed the driveway while answering. “Regardless of whether I want to or not, I know we need to work out our shit.”
“You think we can?”
I jerked the SUV to a stop in the driveway. Trying to get it into the garage while talking about relationships was a recipe for damage. I pulled the handbrake. “I don’t know if we can or can’t but I know that the only thing to do is hammer at it until we’ve figured out if it’s ‘can’ or ‘can’t.'”
“Yeah. Are we going to be a thing? Or are we going to be exes? Or will you be the one that got away? The best thing or the worst thing that ever happened to me? Right now I don’t even know how I want it to turn out. I don’t know what’s best for me. I don’t know what’s best for my career.” I realized I was staring at the ignition key, which I had pulled out and was still holding in my hand.
Ziggy reached across my lap and took the keys. “Let’s go in.”
I reached up and hit the garage door opener that was clipped to the visor, and we got out and went through the garage into the house. Doing it that way you come directly into the hallway between the kitchen and the bedrooms.
Maybe that’s what made the decision for me. (Or maybe if we’d come in the front door we would’ve ended up on the couch. Or the pool table.)
We didn’t even make it all the way to the bedroom at first. I pressed him against the wall of the hallway, overcome with the desire to have as much of me touching as much of him as possible. Still trying to make up for all those miles and all those days/weeks/months apart. Clothing thwarted that desire somewhat, but I could feel the heat of his skin through my jeans, through my shirt, and it was what I wanted. I think maybe he felt the same because he surrendered to it so easily. Which wasn’t to say he was passive. He was trying to push my jacket off my shoulders. I was busy kissing him and barely noticed. He managed to get my shirt off over my head, too. Which, because I had put some gel into it, made my hair into something wild.
So did his fingers. I hitched his legs around my hips. He was wearing some kind of tights or leggings which felt like he wasn’t wearing much at all.
He stayed glued to me as I carried him into the bedroom. I guess I had kept a lot of the muscle I’d built up while moving flagstones around in Spain.
I don’t remember most of the rest of it. Once we made it to the bed, I stopped thinking, I stopped overthinking, I stopped worrying, I stopped guessing. The only thing in my mind was Ziggy and all the ways I could fit out bodies together. Or at least some of the ways.
Eventually all my physical itches were scratched. At that point I was spooning him, my hand goopy with his spunk, his ass goopy with mine. I licked the back of his neck where he’d shaved his hair short, under the longer locks from further up. Ziggy made a contented sigh.
“You’re the only one who ever does that.”
“Licks me like that.”
“None of them appreciate the way your sweat tastes the way I do,” I said seriously. After all, I’d had his sweaty hair in my mouth on stage long before we ever got in bed together. “I could do without whatever mousse you’re using, though.”
“Fortunately there’s not much of it down here.” I nibbled on the back of his neck weakly, not at all hungry anymore, simply enjoying him.
We lapsed into silence which after a while grew from being regular comfortable post-coital silence to being us not talking about what we needed to talk about.
“What do you want to do now?” I asked him, feeling like I should ask, like I should get something going, but not ready to dive in myself.
I wasn’t ready for his answer, which maybe only made it all the more delightful. “I want to write a song.”
“Mm-hm. A specific song?”
“A specific song.”
“How does it go?”
“That’s what I want you to help me figure out.”
“Hm. Makes sense. We better get cleaned up for that.”
“True. Come on,” he said, but he didn’t move.
“Mm-hm. Any second now.”
So we lay there for a while longer, because we wanted to. And then we got cleaned up and went into the studio.
(Couldn’t decide between this recent live version or the radio version…)