14 comments/ 26297 views/ 3 favorites Diamonds and Rust By: jack_straw Author's note: The title and theme of this story come from a song by Joan Baez from around 1969 or 1970, about her relationship with Bob Dylan. ^ ^ ^ ^ It was late in the afternoon in late November, already getting dark on a cold, dreary day that promised snow later that night. I was at a particularly rough spot in the novel I was working on, and I had developed a headache from trying to work out the plot line at that point in the book. I knew I needed to push on, because time was growing short. It had been well over a year since my last book and my publisher was getting antsy. I had hoped to have this one finished before the holidays, but it didn't look like that would happen. Thanksgiving was a week or so away and after that the Christmas bustle would descend on the city and I'd have precious little time to devote to writing. I think I jumped when I heard the twitter of the telephone. I'm certainly not a recluse, but I guess I was concentrating so hard on my work that the sudden intrusion of the phone startled me. A lot of times when I'm zoned out like that, I'll simply let it ring and let the answering machine pick up, but I decided I needed a little break, so I got up and answered the call. And when I heard the voice on the other end of the line, my heart fell to the floor. "Uh, Janice, is that you?" said a voice from my past. "Janice? Are you there? "Well, I'll be damned," I said after a long pause. "God, Billy, you're about the last person I ever expected to hear from. Where are you calling from?" "The Midwest somewhere. Saginaw, maybe?" he said. "You know how it is when you're on tour. All these cities start to run together after awhile." "Yeah, I do," I said. "Although there a big difference between book-signing tours and what you do. I see your posters up at Tower and they've got a life-size cut-out of you at the entrance to the Hard Rock down in the Village. I'd say you've made it, Billy." "Aw, jeez, I don't know, " he said in a self-deprecating tone that I couldn't tell was sincere or mocking. "I owe it all to you, though. You were my muse, you were the one who inspired me and you were the one who pushed me back in the day." "Yeah, I guess," I said, trying hard to hold back the flood of emotion that was threatening to undo me right then and there. And in the awkward pause that followed it seemed like my mind took a trip down memory lane, and I found myself remembering things I'd tried to forget over the previous 10 years. ^ ^ ^ ^ The critics have long called Billy Crane, "the voice of his generation," and that much is true. Billy's politically-charged lyrics and emotion-evoking music had captured the hearts and minds of young people all over the Western world, and his charismatic stage presence and a relentless touring schedule did the rest. Now, after 10 years and half-a-dozen platinum albums, he's a star -- a superstar, really -- and the nice thing about it is that he's done it his way, without compromising an inch on his message or his music. Indeed, integrity is a large part of his appeal. His records are always well-crafted, but not slick-sounding, and they always have something important to say. Billy has a crackerjack backing band that's been with him almost from the first, and they play a unique kind of rock that defies categorizing. There's definitely a folk, even slightly country, bent to his music, but there's also a real hard edge there, with hints of reggae, jazz and even a little soul. And his concerts are legendary. By now, he has a wide repertoire of his own material that he performs, but he always seems to throw in some really spicy covers, and he never gives an audience anything less than his best. As far as his private life is concerned, he's kept his nose clean -- no drug busts, no boozy brawls -- with one glaring exception. He s been known to keep two or three girlfriends on a string at a time, and that has occasionally made him fodder for the tabloids. I know for a fact, however, that he didn't have that problem until he became famous. When he was just another struggling singer-songwriter down in the East Village, there was just little ol' me, Janice Bradley, the girl on the half-shell. ^ ^ ^ ^ Of course, when I first met him, he wasn't Billy Crane yet. He was Bill Cronovich from Davenport, Iowa, and he was literally just off the bus. He strolled into this little club I used to frequent not far from the apartment where I was living at the time. It was really just a hole in the wall, but they had good burgers, cold draft beer and good live music. Every Thursday they had open mike night, and anyone with the balls to do so could come on stage and sing, play an instrument, tell jokes, read poetry, whatever. I say it took balls, because the crowd there was pretty sophisticated and they could be awfully rough on the rank amateurs. I saw more than one aspiring folkie leave the stage in tears after getting the razz from the audience. You could tell Billy was different right from the start, though. Even though he was dressed in the standard uniform of the folk crowd -- dirty jeans, scruffy boots, a flannel shirt and well-worn jean jacket -- he walked in like he owned the place, paid the entry fee, and when his name was called, he strode onto the stage with a smile and kicked right in with his set. By the time he'd sung for about a minute, I'd sat up and started taking notice -- and he'd noticed me, too. I was sitting pretty close to the stage with a couple of girlfriends, and he turned his head toward me, looked me straight in the eye and everything else fell away. Billy was blessed with the bluest eyes of anyone I've ever known, bluer than robin's eggs, really, and when he cast his gaze on me I felt naked, like he was looking right into my soul. And I wasn't the only one he captivated that night. Most of the time, performers at these open mike shows performed maybe 15 minutes, 30 minutes if they were good. But Billy sat up there and played and sang for an hour and a half, and nobody seemed to mind. By the end of his set, the place was packed, as word had spread of the man's riveting performance. After it was over, and he'd shaken a couple of dozen hands, he came right to the table where I was sitting, pulled a chair around so he was leaning over the back and bought a round of beers. "So, whatcha think?" he said with a rakish grin. "Should we call you Bruce or Bob?" I said, smiling at him. "Nah, just call me Billy," he said. "You know you've got the prettiest eyes." "I was going to say the same thing about you," I said. "You know how to get into a girl's soul. I bet you left broken hearts wherever it was you came from." If only I'd known how prophetic that statement was. We talked for a couple of hours, there and at the all-night diner down the street where we went for some breakfast. I found myself telling him my life story, and he told me a little bit of his. I had always wanted to live and work in New York City, a desire that grew out of frequent trips to the city with my family from my home town of Rochester. My dad worked for Kodak and he made a lot of business trips to the city, so when he could, he brought along my mom and me, since it wasn't all that far. My father was an amateur photographer and my mother was an English teacher, and together they instilled in me a love of the arts. It more than made up for a vague loneliness I had growing up as an only child. I mean, I had friends in our neighborhood and friends in high school, and I wasn't a shrinking violet by any means. But from an early age, when I was home, I sat alone in my bedroom, with music playing, and writing. I filled dozens of spiral notebooks with all sorts of writing -- short stories, essays, memoirs, even some poetry, although it wasn't very good poetry. I got a lot of material out of my trips to the big city, so no one was surprised when I earned a scholarship to Fordham, then went on to graduate school at NYU, which is what I was doing when I met Billy. I had had some relationships before, including an odd liaison with another girl that lasted off and on for about six months, but I'd really never come close to being in love with anyone, but when Billy saw me to my door and kissed me that first night, I knew I was in trouble. He'd gotten my phone number from me, and he called me for a date the very next day. He didn't have a lot of money, so we just went for pizza and a couple of beers. This time, it was his turn to give me his life story -- or at least the part of it that he was willing to reveal. Billy has always been rather guarded about his background, but I did learn that his father worked in a factory and his mother was a teller for a bank. They had gone through a bitter divorce when he was in his early teens and that had left him estranged from his dad. Up until then he'd been a typical jock, but after that, he soured on sports and turned to music. He'd played in a succession of garage bands back in Davenport, and by his senior year of high school, his band of the moment had been good enough to play some clubs around the Quad Cities. He'd managed to save up enough money from those gigs and a part-time job bussing tables at Denny's to have a nice little nest egg built up for his move to the big city. Along the way, he'd been writing songs, most of which he'd played the night before at the club. By the end of the night, I think we could tell there was some mojo brewing between us, and we kissed hotly right there in the booth at the pizza place. "Get a room!" yelled the heavy-set Italian guy who owned the place, but he said it with a twinkle in his eye. I was one of the regulars there, and he'd always ask when I was going to bring a boyfriend in to see him. "Go on, get outta here!" he said finally, when we ignored him the first time. We were giggling as Billy paid the bill, then we laughed all the way back to my apartment, skipping and generally acting like 8-year-olds. But we got serious when we arrived at my door. He gently pushed me against the wall, and we stared into each other s eyes, seconds before he kissed me again, this time with an intensity we hadn't shared at the pizza joint. As we did, my mind was a jumble. Here I'd known this guy barely 24 hours, and already I was eagerly anticipating -- no, craving -- his touch on my naked body. I was aching for his cock to fill me. Mind you, I'm not easy. It's not that men don't desire me; many do. I'm not someone whose sex appeal is out front for the world to see, but it doesn't take much for a man to appreciate what I have to offer. And I'm not bragging when I say that. It's just the way it is. I'm a little taller than average, with a decent build -- not too skinny and not too fat -- with boobs that are just teacup-sized and an average butt. I've always kept my dark brown hair cut pretty short and I've got a bit of the Irish in my looks that some men find appealing. However, I had always insisted on a feeling-out process in my prior relationships, a go-slow pace to sex that was all about respecting myself and my body. That all flew out the window with Billy. I think I knew it the first moment I gazed into his robin's-eggs blue eyes the night before. I wanted him -- and it was pretty clear that he wanted me. I reached around and pulled his body to mine, and I could feel his hardness, burrowing into my abdomen. Without even thinking about it, I found myself humping his thigh as our tongues did an arpeggio together. "You're a dangerous man, Billy," I panted when we finally broke our liplock. "You make me want to do wicked things. Wicked things." "And I don't think you have any idea what you do to me," he whispered back. "Is that a clue?" I said as I squeezed his cock through his jeans. "You betcha," he said and gave me that megawatt smile that would soon enthrall the world. We tumbled into my cozy little apartment and fumbled with our clothes. He pulled my sweater off, followed quickly by the T-shirt I had on under it and clamped his hands on my naked breasts. He bent down and suckled one of my nipples between his lips and casually caressed the hard little nub with his tongue, sending bolts of lust crackling through my body. I could feel the squishiness in my panties as my arousal soared from the way his lips and fingers touched my tits. Almost frantic, I pulled him away from my chest by his hair and started working on getting to what I wanted, his naked body. His ubiquitous flannel shirt went first, then his T-shirt and I quickly got his belt open. I kind of fumbled with the buttons of his jeans -- leave it to Billy to wear button-fly Levis -- largely because right about the time I got to the buttons, he was successful in getting my pants open and his fingers found my gushing sex. I gasped and groaned as he sluiced two fingers between my swollen labia then swirled them around my throbbing clit. God, was I on fire! In short order, we had our pants off and we were tumbling naked onto my bed. We didn't even take time to pull our socks off. "Jesus, Billy, fuck me, please!" I wailed. "I want it, now-w-w!" And he gave it to me. There was no pretense of foreplay; we were far too gone for that. We'd play later. All we wanted at that moment was to consummate what we already instinctively knew was a great all-consuming passion As we kissed with a fierceness that shocked me, I opened my legs while he guided a nice-sized cock into my pussy. He sank into me in one smooth thrust and by the time he was balls deep, I was already coming. My whole body shuddered as one of the most earth-shattering climaxes of my life exploded through my body. I just clutched at Billy's body and humped up blindly to meet his inward thrusts. We were like two animals rutting away in the wild, groaning and cooing at each other in that special language that only lovers understand. Beads of sweat popped out on my forehead as my climax leveled off into a numbing state of exquisite pleasure. Our bodies were slick with the sweat of our exertion and I knew we were getting closer to meltdown. I could feel Billy picking up the pace, fucking me harder, if that was possible, and I surrendered to his will, letting him pound me hard, just the way I wanted at that moment. "J-J-Janice?" he panted. "I'm gonna cum. Where ..." "Oh God, come in me," I squealed. "I'm on the pill. Please, God, fuck me like a cheap whore and ... fill ... me ... up. That was all he needed to hear. He blistered my pussy with a half-dozen rapid-fire thrusts, then he groaned long and loud as he emptied himself deep in my womb. We were gasping and I was panting as another orgasm roared through me at the feeling of his cum basting my steaming pussy. We were wrapped up in each other's arms as we kissed again, deeply and full of wonder at what we'd just experienced. It was by far the most profound sexual experience of my life, and I've used those moments -- they couldn't have been more than five minutes at the most -- as the basis for two best-selling romance novels. As we finally came down off our incredible high, we both exclaimed, "wow!" And we saw it as one more manifestation of how in-tune we were spiritually and emotionally. In the figurative light of day, however, over a cup of hot tea, I had to explain to Billy that I wasn't a slut, that it wasn't normal for me to jump into bed with someone I'd only known for 24 hours, but that he was special and that I thought I was falling for him. He looked far away right then, and I saw something that vaguely disturbed me, almost a sadness in his eyes, like he knew what was to come. Maybe I should have listened to that still small voice that warned me not to let him have my heart, but it was already too late. And if I had, I'd have missed out on an experience that not many people get to have, and that's the chance to shape the birth of a legend. For that alone, it was worth the heartache that was to come. But that was all in the future. At that moment, all we wanted was to enjoy our lust, to explore our budding love. We spent that whole night and most of the next day in bed, and not much of that time was spent in sleep. I was still oozing cum from my well-fucked pussy as we finished our tea and returned to bed -- without our socks this time. We kissed again, our tongues languidly exploring each other's mouths as our lust began to mount. Slowly, I kissed my way down his chest, stopping to linger at his pebble-like nipples, then working my way lower. My hand was softly caressing his cock and it was already starting to grow. As I got closer, I could smell the sweet scent of our commingled cum, the tangy juice of orgasm. There was something deliciously nasty about getting my mouth on his throbbing meat without cleaning up from our previous bout of sex, and I could feel myself starting to cream at the thought. I slid my lips around the crown of his cock and enveloped his slimy flesh. I softly caressed his scrotum as I took about half his length into my mouth, then started slowly working my way up and down. I was concentrating so on what I was doing that I only vaguely sensed him pulling my legs around, so he could get to my equally-nasty sex. We were quickly in a classic 69, feasting on each other ... not quite like starving sailors, but certainly with gusto, sucking and slurping as were worked our mouths vigorously on each other's dripping sex. When I felt a subtle little twitter in Billy's cock, at the same moment that I felt a strong pre-orgasmic tremor ripple from my hard core, I knew what I wanted. I pulled my pussy reluctantly from Billy's talented mouth, swiveled back around and got up on my knees. I kept one hand firmly planted on his chest and the other wrapped around the base of his cock as I lifted my hips over the head of his dick. I fit that head at the dripping opening to my pussy and slowly slid his cock into me. I think we both groaned long and low from the feeling of flesh on flesh. I quickly got into a slow, sensual rhythm as I worked myself up and down on his cock. I had my hands on the sides of his chest while I felt his hands encircling my butt, helping me guide my pace. I closed my eyes and threw my head back as I wallowed in the sensations that were flowing through my body. This was sex like I'd never experienced it before. Our first coupling had been frenetic, two lovers eager to get at each other and it was the best I'd ever had. But that was a feeling I'd had before, with other lovers, just not nearly as good. This was different. As I fucked Billy at a leisurely pace, I felt such an intensity of feeling, a feeling of well-being, like everything in my life had fallen into place and all I had to do was relax and let go. I honestly don't know how long I rode Billy's cock like that, totally and utterly content, but it was certainly long enough for a strong climax to slowly build up momentum in my body and certainly long enough for Billy to start thrusting up with a little more urgency. Steadily, we increased the pace, letting the moment wash over us. I opened my eyes in that moment and stared into Billy's eyes -- we were locked together almost in a stare-down -- as we began hurtling for the finish. My hands clenched in fists as my orgasm began to peak, like a slow volcano that wasn't going to blow, but just vented, and that was all it took for Billy to push up hard with his hips and surrender another hard load of cum. As he did, I bent over and we locked lips again, kissing deeply as we wordlessly gave ourselves to each other in a pact of lovers that we thought was going to last forever. ^ ^ ^ ^ Over the course of the weekend -- in between bouts of love-making -- Billy shared his dream with me, his vision of where he wanted to go in life, and I have to say, he's pretty much followed the plan. Diamonds and Rust He already had a job at a music store, one that allowed him some flexibility, and a little cold-water flat where he was staying. He would start with small club gigs on his own while he put a band together, starting with a best buddy back in Davenport, a bass player who was waiting for word that Billy was on his way up before he committed to move to New York. Once he had a band, he'd graduate from the folk clubs to larger rock clubs in the city, then around to some of the college towns, which he hoped would lead to a record deal, regional, then national exposure, and on up the chain. It was ambitious, but I quickly learned that Billy had an iron will where his life was concerned. It is telling that he has never had a manager. To this day, he does his own bookings, and handles most of his own affairs, although he does now have an office and a lawyer who sorts out his business and financials. The first thing he did was change his name. Billy Crane does sound a lot catchier than Bill Cronovich, plus I think there were some issues with his family that were driving that decision. It didn't take long for him to start getting gigs. The club where he'd first showed up gave him his first break, and before long he was performing five or six nights a week at various clubs. He also moved in with me after the first of the year, and it was a magical time. There was no doubt we were in love and I think it inspired both of us. I know my writing blossomed during that period, although Billy always poked fun at my fumbling attempts at poetry. But Billy inspired me; he was my muse every bit as much as I was his. He had such a way with words that I could run a passage in a story past him and he'd invariably find just the right way to phrase something. Before long, Billy had enough saved up money to rent some warehouse space and began auditioning for a band. His friend from Iowa came over and I think that was the first sign of trouble. Mike Sparks appeared to be a player, if you know what I mean, and he liked to take Billy out clubbing while he trolled for women. At the time, I didn't think Billy would join him in that pursuit, but I couldn't know for sure. What I do know is that ever-so-slowly, Mike started driving a wedge between Billy and me. We never got along, and I think he made it his business to pull Billy away from me. Billy thought I was just paranoid, but based on what subsequently happened, I'd say I was correct. At any rate, I finished my master's degree that spring, and had some short stories published in a literary anthology at the university. I always joke that maybe 10 people read them, but it was a start. I started contributing to several magazines around the city, getting my name out there, while I started working on my first novel, a romance based loosely on my relationship with Billy. Soon, Billy had settled on a band and they started performing together. They quickly developed a following, largely on the college campuses in the New York City area and then to New England. God, it was such a magical time! I had become a regular contributor for -- and was drawing paychecks from -- several magazines and periodicals, honing my craft and making contacts. And Billy was writing new songs that he would play for me in the privacy of our apartment. He would bounce ideas off of me, and I would push him on those rare occasions when he was hit with bouts of self-doubt. I encouraged him to not be afraid to make bold statements with his songs, to be willing to be controversial if necessary. He was -- is -- a very smart man, but he never went to college and was never exposed to that intellectual environment, and that's a direction I helped guide him into, shaping and sharpening his political views, and pushing him to express those views in his songs. There were times, though, when he would be off for out-of-town gigs, leaving me alone to wonder if he was staying as faithful to me as I was to him. See, the history of my love life had always been one of disappointment, and I couldn't shake the vague feeling of dread that slowly grew as Billy's fame began to spread. It was almost two years to the day of our first meeting when we enjoyed the most magical day of them all. It was snowing in the late afternoon, when Billy called me and he couldn't disguise the excitement in his voice. "Meet me at Washington Square," he said. "I have something to tell you." When I met him in the square, there was a fire in his eyes that I'd never seen before and he swept me up in his arms and kissed me deeply. "What's this something you have to tell me?" I asked breathlessly when we finally broke apart. He simply reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded piece of paper and showed it to me. At first, I couldn't make heads or tails off it, because it was written in legalese. But then the words, "three records," jumped out at me, and I realized what it was. Billy had signed an agreement in principle with a record company, and not just any record company, either, but a well-known national company based right there in New York. "You did it!" I squealed. Billy just beamed, and we did this giddy little dance in the square, with snowflakes in our hair and the wind on our faces. People looked at us like we were insane, but we didn't care; I think I could have died right then and been happy to do so. "This calls for a celebration," he said, pulling me out of the square. He led me to a fairly-upscale restaurant and we ordered the most expensive items on the menu, just because we could. We drank just enough wine to feel frisky, and we were eager to enjoy a more private celebration. We were about halfway home, the snow still falling harder than ever, when Billy pulled me toward some storefront -- a grocery or something, pressed me against the wall and kissed me, and I mean he kissed me with a passion that was reminiscent of our first night together. I could feel the heat of his body as he pressed in on me and we lost ourselves in the kiss. He was already hard and I could actually feel him dry-humping me. I finally had to push him away slightly, just to get some air. "It's too cold to fuck out here, Billy," I laughed. "Janice, never doubt one thing," he said with the most serious look on his face. "I love you, and I always will. No matter what happens." Later, I would wonder what he meant, but then he kissed me again, not quite as insistently, but still with a great deal of passion, and everything else in my mind melted away. Afterward, we walked -- no, floated -- the rest of the way to our apartment, and we started fumbling to get out of our bulky winter clothes. By the time I'd gotten down to my panties and the wife-beater T-shirt I was using for a bra at the time, Billy was naked and sporting a rock-hard erection. "I want you so badly right now I can't stand it," he growled. "Then, take me," I said, and he swept me up in his arms and carried me to the bed. He laid me own, peeled my shirt off and squeezed my tits with some force. My breasts aren't real big, but what I have is choice, with sensitive nipples that poke out like pencil erasers at the least provocation. And they were throbbing hard as Billy rolled them between his fingers. I moaned softly as the lust mounted in me. Abruptly, he got up on his knees on the bed, his cock proud and hard in front of him. No words were necessary; I knew just what he wanted -- what I wanted. I rolled over onto my stomach, lifted myself up slightly and slithered over until I was at eye level with his cock. At first, I just rubbed the leaking head softly over my cheeks, sort of nuzzling the fount of my desire. After a few seconds of that, I softly licked the shaft, up and down and all around, before opening my mouth and drawing him in. As I did, I looked up from what was, in all honesty, a subservient position, and our eyes locked. We knew in that moment that this was all about him, about his success, and I was just the facilitator. Again, I would wonder about the dynamics of what was happening in our relationship, but at the time I was eager to go with the flow. After staring at each other for several long seconds, while I gave him my finest hum job, Billy closed his eyes in reverie andd threw his head back in sheer satisfaction. I still had on my panties, and as I worked Billy's wonderful cock back and forth in my mouth, getting it a little deeper with every suck and slurp, I reached underneath my body and rubbed my throbbing sex. I reached inside my panties and felt my wetness, the flood of my arousal. I wanted the cock I was sucking on and I wanted it right there in my hot pussy. Billy must have had the same thought, because he pulled away from me, almost wrenching his cock from my mouth. "Turn around," he commanded, and I obeyed. I rubbed my hard nips on the linen sheet, letting the friction spur my arousal ever higher, while I swiveled around and raised my butt into the air. "God, you are horny, aren't you," he chuckled as he reached into my panties and ran his fingers through my labia and on up to my tingling clit. "Oh, baby, fuck me," I panted. "Fuck me, puleeeeeze!" That must have been what he was waiting for, me to beg him to fuck me. Billy simply pulled my panties off my hips, just down to my thighs, slid his cock between my legs a couple of times and thrust into me with as much force as he could muster. "Oh, oh, my God," I fairly bellowed as the white-hot intensity of my long-overdue orgasm exploded through my body from the power and feeling of Billy's cock. I'm sure I looked like some whore out of a skin magazine, with my face buried in the bed, my ass in the air and my panties stretched tight between my thighs. But I didn't care. The man I loved was fucking me like a king and I was enjoying every bit of it. I thrust my hips back, trying to keep as much of Billy's cock in me as I could, but he wanted to play. He pulled almost all the way out, then plunged back in. Over and over he did that, even pulling all the way out a couple of times, driving me crazy with lust. I'm honestly not sure how many times I climaxed; they all seemed to just run together in one hazy blur of pleasure, but I know that eventually Billy simply tore my panties off, tossed the remnants aside, grabbed my butt cheeks and began to fuck me with a ferocity that took my breath away. Just about the time I didn't think I couuld take any more, I felt him swirl one of his thumbs around the point where we were joined, getting it nice and wet. Suddenly, he pressed that thumb to my sphincter, just rimming it. I think I squealed loudly as he toyed with my asshole. I'd let him fuck my ass a few times by then. Strangely, I got more out of it than Billy did. For some reason, I have some nerves that respond to a bit of anal penetration, but he always said I was too tight for him to fuck me there comfortably. He kept working his cock hard and fast in my quivering hole, painting my sugary walls with his potent juice. His cock was twitching like he was ready to come, but he somehow managed to maintain his control. Without warning, his thumb penetrated my ass and he started working it back and forth, finger-fucking my with his thumb while he fucked my convulsing cunt with his powerful dick. That was all it took for me to completely lose it. I thrashed on the bed in orgasmic convulsions and as he clutched my butt cheek -- his thumb securely wedged in my ass -- Billy growled deep in his throat and fired a spectacular barrage of cumshots as deep as I could ever recall him getting in me. I mean, it felt like someone had stuck a fire hose in my pussy as he gave me his hot sauce, until he squeezed out a couple of smaller bursts, then collapsed onto my back, and I, in turn, fell to the bed with Billy on top of me. At that moment, I thought there was nothing on earth that could tear us apart. We were like one, and I thought we'd cemented that unity that night. Little did I know that it was really the beginning of the end of our relationship ^ ^ ^ ^ Christmas was approaching, and we had planned on spending it together at my parents' place. Instead, Billy's label put him on a hastily-arranged tour as the second bill to one of their top-sellers and he was on the road, somewhere in the South, on Christmas Day. That was depressing enough, but I was starting to anticipate some kind of deeper commitment from Billy, like a ring, but nothing was forthcoming. And the sense of dread that I was losing him grew deeper and more pervasive as he devoted himself more and more to his career. At first, he called every night, no matter where he was. But after the first of the year, he started missing a night here and there, then a few more until it got to where I was only hearing from him about once a week or so. I thought things would improve when he got back off tour, but instead, he almost immediately disappeared into the studio to work on his first record. As I said, his records don't sound slick, but that doesn't mean there isn't a lot of work put into them. Billy is meticulous about his work, and I knew that once I got to know him. Still, it felt like his single-minded pursuit of his work was resulting in cutting me out of his life. Mind you, I was always welcome with Billy in the studio, but if you've ever spent time watching someone work in a recording studio, you know it's pretty boring stuff. And, besides, I was at the point in my work where I was finishing up my novel and starting to pitch it to publishers. My agent was getting me in the door with some big-time houses, and I didn't have time to just sit on my butt and listen to Billy and his band fiddle with their songs. Things started coming to a head, though, when Billy and his band mates, usually Mike Sparks, began to hit some clubs after a show or after nights in the studio. He'd come in a little tipsy, but he'd always come home. It might be at the crack of dawn, but he always made it home. Or at least he did at first. Sometimes I'd go with him, and those could be fun times. But if I started going too much, I'd get the evil eye from Mike, plus I did have my own life and my own career that I was trying to launch. Unlike the music business, publishing houses work during the daytime, and I couldn't afford to spend a lot of late nights clubbing around town. As spring segued into summer and Billy's first album neared completion, there were so many things pulling us apart. Promotions for the label, parties with all the, "right people," another tour, more studio work; it seemed like we were spending more nights apart than together. And I soon started hearing that maybe Billy wasn't sleeping alone when we were apart. I'm not without my own network of friends, and they'd tell me they'd seen him at such-and-such club with some blonde or brunette or redhead -- it really didn't matter what type they were. When we were together, it seemed like we were fighting more than we ever did. I thought Billy had become self-absorbed; he thought I didn't understand what was involved in creating a popular-music career and wasn't being supportive. As it happened, what should have been the best day of my life turned into one of the worst. It was a brutally-hot morning in August when I got a call from my agent. My novel had been accepted by a major publishing company and he had an advance check in an amount that was in the high five-figures. I was ecstatic, but Billy wasn't there to share it with me, and that brought me down. He had flown to California the previous week to oversee the final release of his record and when I called his hotel number, I got a recorded message (this was a couple of years before cell phones became ubiquitous). I spent all day with my agent at the publisher's office, looking at contracts and talking about promotions. It was heady stuff, but it was pretty complex and I had a headache when I left their office. I got back to my apartment to find two messages on my answering machine. One was from Billy, the other was from a girlfriend who said she had something to show me and could we meet some place for dinner. When I tried to call Billy, I got nowhere, so I left another message telling him about my day. Then I called my friend and made arrangements for dinner. As soon as I saw her face, I knew she didn't have anything good for me. It was a mixture of sadness and pity, and she encouraged me to have a drink before she showed me what she had. "I saw this in my dentist's office yesterday," she said finally, handing me a copy of a local celebrity tabloid that I normally avoided like the plague. As I looked at it, my heart sank to my feet. There was a picture of Billy Crane kissing some well-known singer at a party in Midtown a couple of weeks earlier. I remembered the night in question; he'd had to go to this party his label was putting on, and it was essential he should go. It was one of those schmooze events where he was being introduced around to company executives, the kind of do I absolutely hated. I stared at the picture, then at the caption. It was apparent that this was not a quick little buss between two celebrities, but a full-blown lip lock, the kind I was used to getting. And the caption called the woman, "his girlfriend," and said they'd been dating for, "several weeks." I think I started hyperventilating and I know I rushed blindly out of the restaurant. My friend followed after me, concerned, I think, that I'd blindly rush out into traffic. She held me while I cried my eyes out, telling me over and over, "he's not worth it." "That's (gasp) easy for (sob) you to say," I croaked. "It's not (sniffle) your heart ... being b-b-broken." And that set off another round of weeping. Finally, she got me calmed down enough and we proceeded to get shit-faced drunk, and that's when I went from shattered victim to pissed-off jilted lover. For the first and only time in my life, I let myself be picked up by a complete stranger, let him take me back to his place and let him fuck me. I don't know why I did it. Being drunk had a lot to do with it, but I'd been drunk before and not come close to doing something that reckless. Maybe it was just because I could, maybe it was for revenge, maybe for the reinforcement that I was attractive ... I don't know, but it wasn't worth it. It was lousy sex, and I spent the next two months worrying about whether the fucker had given me an STD. Fortunately, he'd worn a condom and he turned out to be clean. Nevertheless, it was a risk I never should have taken, and I felt like a turd -- a still-drunk turd -- when I left his apartment with him sound asleep at 4:30 in the morning. It was a little after 5 o'clock in the morning when I got back to what I now had to think of as my apartment. I looked at the telephone for several minutes, contemplating whether I should call, then picked it up and dialed the number and wished I hadn't. A woman answered the phone, an obviously-drunk woman with the sounds of a party going on in the background. "Who is this?" I asked softly. "Who the fuck are you to ask, bitch?" she said belligerently. "Just tell Billy his girlfriend called and that I know everything," I said. "Bullshit," was all I heard before I hung up the phone and dissolved in more tears. Immediately the phone began to ring, but I didn't have the energy or the will to answer it. I knew it was probably Billy, but I just wasn't in the mood to talk to him any longer. All I wanted to do was cry myself to sleep and that's what I did. I woke up a few hours later to someone pounding on my door. It sounded like the Anvil Chorus and it just made my mood that much worse. It turned out to be my friend from the previous night, checking on me. It seems that Billy had gotten worried when I didn't answer any of the dozen calls he'd made after I hung up the phone at 5 a.m. He'd finally called her, and she'd come right over to see if I done bodily harm to myself. Diamonds and Rust At that point, I had to laugh. Billy thought I might be so distraught over his running around that I'd hurt myself? It showed me just how selfish and self-centered he'd become. He wasn't the man I'd fallen in love with, that's for certain. It was over; the only thing left was to bury the remains. I'll give him credit. He manned up and confessed when I finally got around to calling him back. I made him sweat most of the day, though. Just a small victory in an otherwise sorry state of affairs. We parted on reasonably amiable terms. I boxed up his things and they were waiting for him when he returned. There were so many things I wanted to say to him, but I couldn't find the words. Billy simply said, "I'm sorry," and walked out of my life. I'm not sure why, but in the time since the day he took his things and left me, our paths have never crossed. I've seen a few of his shows, but I've never had the urge to venture backstage, which I probably could have done if I'd wanted to. I know he still keeps an apartment in New York, but he also spends a lot of time in California and he's gone back to Davenport and built a house there for his mom. Over the ensuing 10 years after we broke up, Billy was rocketing up the charts and my career was taking off. My first book was a modest success, but it was my second one -- the one I wrote in the aftermath of my breakup with Billy -- that really got me going. It made the New York Times best-seller list -- into the top 10, no less -- and critics called me a "vibrant new talent," and praised my sensitivity, whatever that means. I've had one other novel that made it into the top 10 and all of the others -- I've written eight, so far -- have charted. I have a decent following and I've moved on from the small apartment I shared with Billy into a house out on Long Island. As for my love life, I've had a few steady relationships, but nothing like what I had with Billy, and I'm starting to think I may stay single. At this point, I'm 37 and no prospects of romance anywhere in sight. I'm convinced Billy Crane spoiled me, gave me this ideal of perfect love, and I've never found anyone else who measured up. ^ ^ ^ ^ All of that flashed through my mind in that briefest of pauses, although it must not have been very brief, because I snapped out of my reverie with the voice on the other end of the line asking if I was still there. "Yeah, I'm still here," I said sadly. "I was just taking a trip down memory lane, and it wasn't an especially pleasant journey. So, how have you been, Billy?" "I'm all right," he said guardedly. "How about you? You seem to have done pretty well. You write beautifully, although your poetry is still lousy." I laughed, and we chatted about our lives, about the pratfalls of celebrity, talked about some old friends, a couple of whom had passed away at much too young of an age. And, finally, we came to another awkward silence. "So, how are you really, Billy?" I said. "You didn't just call me after 10 years, from Saginaw or wherever, just to chitchat about old times. Is the legendary Billy Crane feeling nostalgic?" "I'm not nostalgic," he said. "Janice, I'll be honest. I'm lonely. I've never quite gotten over you. I'm really sorry about the way I treated you. It's bothered me all these years, but I don't know what to do about it. The thing is, I have a lot of acquaintances, but no real friends. Sparks and I have drifted apart. He's still my bass player, but we're not running buddies any more." "Finally figured out I was right about him?" I said with just a trace of bitterness. "He wasn't so bad, Janice," Billy said. "The thing about you was that you intimidated him with your intellect and he was jealous of what we had. But he's still a little too much of the party animal." "So what about all the girlfriends you keep?" I pressed on. "Don't they keep you occupied?" "Most of those girls have brains the size of peas," he said forcefully. "None of them are half the woman you are. It's taken me awhile to understand that. I just look back on my time with you as the best time of my life and I fucked it all up. I'd really like to see you when I get back to the city." "Not nostalgic, are you?" I said, with a little more sarcasm than I intended. "Then give me another word for it, you who are so good with words. What do you call looking for something from the past that's dead, something you killed?" "I'll bet if you searched your heart, you'd find there's still a little of that spark left," he said in that tone that always sent goose bumps down my arms when we were together. "Damn it, Billy, that's the problem," I said, and now I had tears running down my cheeks, although I wasn't in full-blown sob mode yet. "I still love you even though you took my heart out 10 years ago and threw it around like a football. I knew I was making a mistake when I fell for you, but I did it anyway. And, yes, it was the best time of my life, but we've both moved on, or at least I have. That's the way it is with you. You're offering me diamonds in one hand and rust in the other, and I've already played that game with you. I think I'll pass." "I really am sorry, Janice," Billy whispered into the phone. "And I'll always love you, just like I said that night when I signed my first record deal. I loved you then and I love you now." "Why did you call me, Billy?" I said, and now I was sobbing. "What purpose do you have for crashing back into my life after all this time?" "I just wanted to hear your voice and hear you tell me you love me," he said. "I'm sorry I hurt you. Please forgive me?" "I ... forgive you, Bllly," I said after a long pause, my weeping a little more under control. "That's my girl," Billy said. "Now dry your eyes. Crying doesn't suit you. You're stronger than that. Look, I gotta go. I'll call you when I get back to New York. Promise." "We'll see," I said. "See you around. And, Billy? I do love you. Still." We rang off then, exchanging goodbyes, and I sat back down to marshal my tumultuous thoughts. Then I turned my chair back to my computer, back to the passage I was having so much trouble with, and all of a sudden it just flowed out of me. The knotty plot problem seemed to work itself out, and I ended up writing long into the night, getting very close to the finish. When I finally crashed, it looked like I might just get it to my editor and then to the publisher before the end of the year, just like I had hoped. As I fell asleep thinking of diamonds and rust, I wasn't sure what the future would bring, whether I'd invite Billy Crane back into my life or not. There was so much baggage there, so much heartache from the past that had to be resolved. But we were both older and wiser, so maybe there was a chance for us after all. One thing was certain, though. As always, he did wonders for my muse.