He twists the knob on the bathroom door right in front of me and quickly puts a finger up to his mouth, the universal signal for quiet. His hand encircles my left wrist as he tugs me into the bathroom behind him. Almost methodically, he takes off his headset and sets it aside on the bathroom counter and then, still in total silence, reaches around me. His cool fingers run over my bare back, finding my mic pack. Catching on, I help him pull it the rest of the way off, handing it over to him, my heart racing. He tosses the whole mic pack out of the bathroom and into the hallway then slams the door, going through the motions surgically, swift and easy, natural, like he’s done it a million times before, and then he pushes me back against the bathroom wall, his mouth going to mine. Instinctively, I grab onto the front of his shirt, some shitty T-shirt of the millions he wears, and pull him close into me. My hands first find the taut skin on his stomach, then snake around to his back as the space between us disappears. His mouth devours me, on my mouth, on my collarbone, my neck, all the places I want it to be. Our teeth tearing at each other as we kiss, one of his hands resting on the wall next to my face, the other tangled up in my hair. I am hot and his mouth is hot, and it is so fucking hot, all I want right then is everything.
It’s two minutes, maybe three. He pulls away from me panting hard, and looks down into my eyes. I stare back at him, only the sound of our heavy breathing filling the room.
He turns away from me and walks out of the bathroom, putting his headset back on.
Bingham Reviews: End of the Line by Jacqueline Matthis
There’s a certain elegance in Jacqueline Matthis’s debut, End of the Line. The romance, centered around the lead singer of a country music trio as she finds love on the road, features characters that leap off the page and chemistry that sizzles.
Unfortunately, what it is not, is a romance.
Matthis plays around with the idea of love and art and the pain both can bring, but ultimately, despite a good showing, the whole thing comes down too far on the side of nihilism, something sure to drive readers away. This novel will leave readers longing for a happy ending that never comes. It’s hard to wonder why not.
Chicago
11
Complicated
Flying to Chicago is, in short, hell.
We lose two hours on a night when we didn’t sleep. The producers advise us strongly to try and get some sleep on the four-hour flight, but it’s impossible for me. Everyone else is knocked out asleep, but they don’t have the memory of Henry kissing them playing over and over every time they close their eyes.
I’d sat on the floor of the bathroom for at least two full minutes before someone had come looking for me.
“Jac!” Charlotte at the door.
I stood, straightened myself, and opened the door.
“What the hell are you doing?” she demanded, holding my mic pack out to me. Reluctantly, I took it out of her hand and stuffed it into the back of my dress.
“Using the bathroom,” I said.
“Why did you take your mic pack off?”
I frowned at her, throwing my hands up. “Can a girl not take a shit in peace around here?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Jac.” She turned away from me. “No one shits on this show unless they’ve taken a laxative or contracted dysentery. The code word is ‘salami’ if you need private time in the bathroom.” She turned away and tossed one last thing behind her: “Don’t take your mic off. Those things are fucking expensive!”
When we get to Chicago, we are driven directly to the Chicago Athletic Association, a swanky sixteen-story high-rise on Michigan Ave, with a rooftop bar cherry-on-top. Upon arrival, we are given only two hours to get checked into our rooms, film our amazement at our rooms (part of the agreement the show has made with the hotel), change and do our makeup, and be stuffed into the hotel elevators up to the top floor to share drinks and stare out over the city.
I vaguely remember what it was like to enjoy things before I joined this show.
At Cindy’s, the rooftop bar, we are—God bless it all—allowed to order a drink. I grab a Goose Island beer, a favorite of mine from a summer visit a couple of years ago for a book conference (“Jesus, the calories,” Kendall says when she sees my drink), and take it back to our designated table with me.
I keep looking for Henry and not finding him, until it drives me so crazy, I think I will combust. Instead, we are made to drink our drinks and chat like we’re having a good time, me wearing a structured oversized red blazer Rikki had loaned me with a pair of black shorts, Rikki in leather leggings and a very cropped hot pink body-hugging tank top.
“Is this what it feels like to die?” Rikki asks, smiling at me all the while.
“I wish I was on drugs,” I say.
She takes a long drink from her wine. “Don’t say that,” she finally says, and then gives me a reassuring smile to break the tension.
Taken aback, I simply answer, “Sorry,” and clink my glass into hers.
And then the producers make the entire group toast. We do it time after time—first when we get our drinks, then again after we’ve had a sip or two, and then again before our drinks are gone. By the time they ask for a last toast, I just turn my pint glass over and sit it upright on the table.
“Very cheeky,” Charlotte comments, and I give her a goofy grin. The beer and lack of sleep has me feeling looser than I have in a couple of days, and I tilt back my chair, balancing on its hind legs.
“Where’s Henry?” I ask her.
She narrows her eyes at me.
“He had some scouting work to take care of today.” She crosses her arms. “He gets cranky once the travel starts.”
“Versus normally?”
“He’s having a good season,” Charlotte tells me. “He really fucked things up for us last year, and I wasn’t sure he could turn it around, but he’s earned his spot back.”
“Were you going to fire him?” I ask Charlotte, turning fully to face her.
“Would you?” she asks, and goose bumps prickle down my back.
“I would,” I say, “because I know when you mention the ‘great season’ he’s having, you’re talking about him getting to me.”
“Oh, gold star, Jac,” Charlotte says with a laugh. “You’ve known Henry was on you since he told you on the third day of filming. You asked if he was flirting you into wearing a dress.”
“He was,” I say. I’d known then and of course I know now, but I can’t help but wonder how far would they go to get what they want. Would they let him kiss me?
