by Kay Maree
“Oh, so you really have done your research, haven’t you?” I smirked.
“Didn’t I say I had? I have free and easy access to the internet and enough braincells to get my way around Google unassisted. Why the hell wouldn’t I? Anyway, my point was that I may not have been playing professionally since before I could string a decent sentence together, but I’m no schlub. Like I said—it’s equals, and you stop patronizing me, or it’s nothing. What’s it to be?” She crossed her arms, which naturally drew my eyeline down to her tits. I dragged it back up again to meet her angry glare.
Everything about her stance and demeanor told me she meant business. Her greeny-gray eyes were hard, and her jaw was set in a stern line. Everything about her stance and demeanor also made me want to fuck her. Hard. As my dick sprang to life in my pants, I realized I was breaking all my own rules.
On the face of it, neither of us had more to lose than the other from the breakdown of this situation—though arguably, as we were the bigger of the two acts, King and I had slightly less to lose—both parties would end up in court if we couldn’t make it work. Yet, something nagged in the back of my mind…
If she walked away now, she’d never want to share the same air as me again, and I definitely didn’t want that. It was one of the few times in my life that I’d ever had more skin in the game than the other party, and I hated the feeling. It was screwed up.
“Whatever. This isn’t the fucking Treaty of Versailles. Can we just get on and write some music? K, what’s your vibe? You in, or do I need to start working on arrangements for Rihanna songs?”
King flipped me off, but a tight smile played at the corner of his lips. That was his version of yes, when he didn’t want to admit defeat to me yet again. Stupid really, because I pretty-much won every single one of our fights, so by now, he should have been resigned to waving the white flag from the get-go. But he never did—he always wanted to go down with a fight. I found the whole thing totally tedious, but mostly gave in to the pretense that he could possibly win at some stage, just to keep him sweet.
The funny thing was that in our dynamic he’d totally cast himself as the grown up and responsible one; the one who had to babysit my ass, or I wouldn’t survive the week without him. But while he’d been a kind of crutch and guide for me in the early days at the Con—when I had no fucking clue what I was doing and was like a fish out of water in that world—in general, the opposite was true. I’d been taking care of myself, literally keeping myself alive, since he was running around in short pants in prep school, still playing with Lego.
I’d seen and done shit that he couldn’t even imagine in his wildest dreams—and even though I trusted him implicitly as my best friend—some of which I’d probably never tell him. He knew enough of my crap to understand that before I met him I hadn’t had it easy, but I didn’t want to have him pity me even more by knowing the full extent of it. Nor did I want to foot the bill for the therapy he would probably require to get over it, if I ever did tell him.
It was precisely those experiences that made me so blasé about most shit now. The stuff that filled other people with worry and anxiety didn’t even pierce my consciousness most of the time.
If it wasn’t life or death, I let the majority of it slide over me like water off a duck’s back, while King went about worrying himself into an early grave. The thing I knew was, that none of that shit was going to kill me, and I’d faced plenty of things that could or would, so what did I have to worry about?
Still, I let King think he was my savior. It made him feel useful. And in truth, I was lazy, so if him believing he was protecting my ass meant that I had to take minimal responsibility for what went on around me, I was one hundred percent there for that.
That said, King had learned years ago not to underestimate me, and no matter how disinterested and out of it I seemed most of the time, I slept with one eye open, figuratively, and very little got past me. It was part of my in-built survival mechanism, the one that had been keeping me alive all these years.
He looked at me long and hard, shoving his hands in his pockets, no doubt to help him resist the urge to hit me. Then he closed his eyes, tipped his head back as far as it would go, and sighed, long and loud, before pulling it back up. He looked from Quincy to me and back again, then spoke directly to his shoes.
“I think you’re both out of your fucking minds, but it’s two against one and we don’t have the time, and I don’t have the energy, to carry on arguing in circles about it. I don’t know who’s crazier—you guys for thinking this is a good idea, or me for going along with a harebrained scheme I know is going to blow up in all of our faces, but for what it’s worth, let’s give it a go. I warn you though, if it looks like it’s going to shit, I’ll be the first one to pull the plug. I’m not about to give myself a fucking nervous breakdown over this crap.”
“Whatever man. I didn’t hear anything after ‘let’s give it a go.’ Everything else is just blah, blah, blah that’s getting in the way of that happening. So, now that you’ve had your gripe like the born-again Boomer that you are, can we get the fuck on with doing what we do, please?”
CHAPTER TWELVE
QUINCY
Rome turned to me, regarding me with lazy half-lidded eyes, but saying nothing. I squirmed like a kid in the principal’s office. It was a long time since I’d felt so under scrutiny and in the spotlight, which was saying something, given that my job involved exactly that—literally standing under a spotlight before hundreds, sometimes thousands of people, with all eyes on me.
“Well, here’s an idea. Speaking of chemistry—” which nobody had been for a while. “—why don’t we treat this as a chemistry session today? You’re right, K, we’re virtual strangers right now, or at least some of us are—” He leered my way, leaving no room for doubt about what he was referring to. I played dumb, maintaining a neutral expression, but felt my cheeks heat regardless. “—so it makes sense to break bread, break the ice, and break boundaries to get to know each other a little more…intimately before we start trying to make sweet music together.”
He licked his lips lasciviously, as though I needed any more of a hint that he wasn’t strictly speaking about music. “It’ll be like a kind of musical speed dating thing. Although not so fast, y’know?”
I had to admit it was a solid idea. I was pretty sure we’d achieve precious little, if we attempted just to wade in cold, and start trying to create together. If nothing else, we didn’t even have a brief or references for the kind of thing we were aiming for, which would be the usual way with these type of collabs. We were literally starting with a blank canvas in an empty room, as three randoms.
Well, the guys knew each other, of course, very well, apparently. But apart from the near-anonymous encounter at the Sonata Awards, the three of us were new to each other, which was an “interesting” dynamic, especially because there were two of them to one of me.
And although the first big decision-making stage had gone in my favor, I didn’t anticipate that the winning streak would last. I was sure it wouldn’t be too long before I found myself ganged up on by them, in a stalemate about this issue or that. It was pretty much a given
Yes, over the weekend I’d done my research about the duo—Rome especially, as his personal and musical background was fascinating. It was the kind of thing people made movies about. On the other hand, I knew better than to believe everything I read in the press—or anywhere, for that matter—and relished getting to know the men behind the myths.
I was especially curious to see if the clichés written about Rome in particular, were true. From what I’d seen and experienced so far, I was inclined to believe that there were at least some grains of truth behind the rumors. There was no smoke without fire, after all, and if the way he’d behaved the first time we “met” at the awards night was anything to go by, he certainly seemed to embrace the main traits he was reported to display. Time would tell to what extent that was the
case.
“Well, look who’s not just a pretty face now, eh?” I smiled at my use of his words against him. “I think that’s a great idea.”
“Oh, so I take it from that statement that you find me pretty. Interesting. Not that I’m surprised.” Fuck.
That hadn’t been what I’d meant to imply at all. I mean, I obviously did find Rome attractive—stupidly so, in fact—which was probably obvious by the way I’d come like my life depended on it when we’d got it on at the Sonata Awards, but damned if I wanted him to know that I still felt that way. Besides, I hadn’t acknowledged that I remembered him from that night, or recognized him in any way, and I had no intention of doing so.
He didn’t seem like someone who lacked compliments, and given that I was going to have to work with him for the next year, I didn’t want there to be any more awkwardness between us than there already was. I planned on pretending that the whole mind-blowing sex among the coats debacle had never happened.
I was about to jump in and explain that calling him pretty had been accidental, but I figured that would probably only make the situation more awkward. Still my cheeks flamed red hot again. Shit. I looked away, embarrassed to be blushing like a coy little schoolgirl a second time.
“Don’t worry, Rome has two settings, flirty, and obscene. I’m pretty sure that when he’s lying dead and cold on the slab he’ll be flirting with the mortician, and making filthy remarks as she bundles him into his coffin. Don’t take it personally, he literally can’t not. It’s in his genes.”
I’d read about that too. His brother, Marko was legendary in ballet circles for all the same things Rome was known for on the classical music circuit—drinking, smoking, cursing, womanizing, and pretty-much making a damned nuisance of himself wherever he went. Oh, and for being one of the legendarily best dancers ever to have pirouetted the planet.
“Well that’s a cheery thought, and hopefully he won’t be hitting on any mortuary technicians any time soon, but in the meantime, thanks for the heads up. At least I’ll know not to take any notice if it happens again.”
“Hey. He said it’s not personal, not me. I can assure you that it’s very much personal as far as I’m concerned. I can’t and don’t fake this shit. He just doesn’t understand how I’m wired, that’s all. You can thank those frigid Anglo genes for that. He’s all lights-off vanilla sex, and holding hands on picnics. I’m not.”
“Jesus, Rome, really? You’re going to play the ‘King’s a cold fish’ card again? Not that it’s relevant in the professional situation we’re in right now, but none of what he just said is true. I’m not even close to being vanilla. What he means is that I’m mostly polite and generally follow social protocols. To him this translates as being a limp dick.”
“Hey, I didn’t say anything about your dick, but judging by the strain in your pants, I’d say that right now it’s anything but limp.”
I tried so hard not to immediately look at King’s crotch, and failed miserably. My eyes were drawn in that direction, despite my brain screaming at me to look away.
Sure enough, either he needed bigger pants, or he was sporting wood. My money was on the latter.
“Well, as fun and funny as this little double act you have going on is, I sense that it’s going to get old soon, so can we just agree to keep things strictly business from here on in? We’re not here to flirt or carry on like teenagers. We’re here to do a job, so can we please just do it?”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
ROME
Watching her blush like that meant that King wasn’t the only one at attention below the waist. In the short time I’d known her—including our first encounter—it had been a rollercoaster of feeling toward her: anger, irritation, confusion. But somehow, they all seemed to lead to the same place—my dick. And above everything, if she was around, I was always aroused as hell. From what I could tell, K seemed to be in the same position.
Interesting. The whole thing. The fact that no matter what Quincy did it turned me on, was a definite source of curiosity for me. Pissing me off was normally a surefire way to kill a boner in seconds, but not with her. Then, there was the fact that the Boy Wonder and I were clearly hard for the same girl. I could feel something brewing in the air, for sure.
Often we might both find the same woman attractive, in the purely aesthetic sense of the word, but it would be unlikely that we’d both have the same depth of attraction. We tended to favor different things in pretty much every avenue of our lives, except music. Women were no exception.
Fact was, the shy and retiring, blushing-virgin type was normally more his speed than mine, but it was also true that Quincy didn’t actually fit that profile. Yeah, she’d just blushed like a thirteen-year-old, but I knew from personal experience that she liked to get her freak on, no matter how conservative she appeared to be.
On top of that, since the moment we’d almost literally run into each other in the parking lot at the record label, she’d been nothing but sharp-witted, and even sharper tongued. That was way more my type than his, yet he seemed to still be in the game.
Add in the fact that unlike that night at the awards, in the cold light of day, and stone cold sober, she was pretty much immune to my brand of “charm;” and it seemed like I had an challenge on my hands. I really wasn’t sure what to make of her, which was one of the reasons I’d suggested the getting-to-know-you thing.
Of course I had a selfish endgame in mind—getting to know her better meant figuring out what buttons to press to bring her over to the dark side again, and the fact was, she intrigued the fuck out of me. A plus point of the whole plan was that hanging out and shooting the breeze together would genuinely help us work together better—at least, that was the hope —so it was a win-win.
“Now at the risk of playing into the worst clichés of my bad boy reputation—” I looked pointedly at Quincy, repeating what she’d been saying about me when we’d walked into the rehearsal space before. “—how about we do this over drinks? I mean, there’s no surer way to get to know one another than to break the seal on a bottle of the good stuff together, right? In vodka veritas, and all that, right?”
“That’s not the saying though, it’s ‘in vino veritas’.” I shot King a “shut up and die” look.
“I know that. Jesus. Must you always be so uptight? It still works, right? Get drunk, loosen your lips… Yes?”
Sometimes I wondered how we ever worked together at all. I’d struggle to find two more different people if I tried.
“Yeah.”
“Then stop correcting shit, take the stick out of your ass, and fucking go with the flow for once.”
“Not to sound like I have a stick up my ass—” Why the fuck is she talking about her ass? I’m about to lose it in my pants. “—but it’s not even 10 a.m. It’s too early to be getting trashed.”
“Nonsense! Where I’m from, most people would be halfway through their first bottle of vodka of the day by now. The others would be splashing it on their cornflakes.”
“What the fuck are you talking about, dude? In Brooklyn most people are on their third almond matcha latte right about now.”
“Shut up. You know what I mean.”
“Well, not really. You realize you’ve been here longer than you were ever there, right? There’s only so long you can blame all your bad behavior on the good ole’ country. I bet you don’t even remember the place.”
“That’s not how it works, man. Even if I live here until I’m ninety-nine years old, I’ll always be Ukrainian-Russian first. It may be hard for you to understand, because your peeps have been here since the fucking pilgrims, but home is where the heart is, and mine will always be there, even when I can’t remember it anymore.” I took a breath, and reminded myself not to sound like a crazy person.
“But, to humor you inozemtsi, how about we get Bloody Marys? It’s basically a meal in a cup. Soup, really. Breakfast soup. There’s vegetables, and vitamins. It’s a fucking he
alth elixir. Like an alcoholic smoothie. You guys can have that to make yourselves feel like you’re not morning-drinking, and I’ll have the same. I’ll just skip the tomato juice. And the celery. And the lemon slice. And the seasonings. And the Tabasco. And the Worcester Sauce. And the ice.”
“So you’re having plain vodka?”
“Right. And your point is?”
“No point, just clarifying. Blame it on my boring stick-up-the-ass ex-pilgrim self. We like to lock down the details.”
“Okay. Well, the detail is that I’ll be having vodka, straight up. Just like God intended. And now that we’ve done the fucking admin, can we go get drunk, please?” I was getting more impatient with every passing moment.
“You mean go get breakfast smoothies?” He was enjoying dragging it out, just to piss me off.
“Yeah, that too. Whatever man. Let’s bounce.” Fina-fucking-lly
Quincy was looking at us as though we each had two heads, clearly unsure of what to make of the whole song and dance.
“You coming?” I jutted my chin her way.
“Umm… yeah. Sure? Okay. But, can we go somewhere that serves coffee as well as breakfast smoothies, please? If I start drinking alcohol now, even the vitamin-enhanced variety, it won’t be pretty in a few hours’ time.”
“Pretty is boring. Pretty is overrated. Pretty isn’t going to get good music written. Pretty will get us safe, boring, forgettable music. We need gritty. We need real. We need raw. We need messy. That’s where the gold is.”
“Okay, well, all the same, I’m going to have coffee. I know my limits, and I’m not about to start trampling all over them looking for gritty, real, raw, and messy. That has landed me in trouble before, and I don’t intend to repeat past mistakes.” She looked at me pointedly, as though I didn’t already know that she was referring to our encounter in the coat closet.