Mind Games

by T. K. Leigh

  “I get it,” he responds with a slight wink. “My body’s hard-wired to stay up late, too. That was always the difficult part about teaching, and the part I don’t miss. I could never adjust to the early hours. Grams always said it was because I inherited her non-conformist free spirit. It was hell waking up at six every morning after having gone to bed only a few hours earlier. Falling asleep by two was a good night.”

  I nod in understanding as we approach his car. He opens my door, and I slide into my seat.“That’s why I don’t mind working the night shift. I think it gives you a different perspective on things. Makes you see the world in a different light.”

  He ducks in behind the steering wheel, treating me to a small smile. “Glad to see there’s still a little Holly Golightly in you.”

  I scrunch my brows.

  “Holly Golightly,” he repeats. “You know. Breakfast at Tiffany’s.”

  “I know who she is, but I—”

  “The opening scene. When she’s strolling down Fifth Avenue in an evening gown and stops in front of Tiffany’s to eat her breakfast. Something about that scene always spoke to me. Like it was the calm before the storm. Few people get the opportunity to see Manhattan, or any city, so peaceful. I think that’s why I do my best work at night after the world’s gone to sleep. There’s no distraction. No constant buzzing of my cell phone. I can lock myself away in the studio and write.”

  “Are you working on something now? A new album?”

  “You could say that.” He sucks his bottom lip between his teeth, glancing at me in contemplation. “Actually, it’s something pretty big. Something that could change everything for me.”

  “That guy at the bar…,” I begin, meeting Asher’s gaze. “The one who said in a few months we wouldn’t be able to turn on the radio without hearing your music.”

  “Wasn’t lying,” he states without me having to ask the question on the tip of my tongue. “As long as I meet this deadline. Honestly, I shouldn’t have gone out tonight, but when Mark mentioned his band was in town, I figured taking a break and performing could be a good way to get the creative juices flowing again.”

  “Did it?”

  He cranks the ignition, stealing a glance at me before reversing out of the parking spot. “I do believe it has.”

  He shifts into first and maneuvers the car through the lot, coming to a stop before merging onto the street. I focus on my surroundings, relishing in the chilly night air on my skin. The sky’s no longer pitch-black as it was when we entered the restaurant. There’s an almost purple-blue hue, a warning that daybreak is on the horizon.

  We come to a stoplight, the lack of any noise unnerving, especially when I feel the heat of Asher’s gaze on me. I glance his way, a flicker of something I can’t explain in his expression. Yearning? Nostalgia perhaps? He parts his lips, peering at me as if my face holds the answer to whatever has him so conflicted.

  Then his mouth quirks into a combination of a grin and a smirk. “Are you tired? Or do you think you can last a bit longer?”

  A little voice in my brain warns me I’ve already spent more time with Asher than I should have. But just like those nights at Grams’ lake house, I don’t want tonight to end.

  “Oh, baby, I can last all night long,” I shoot back playfully. My smile falls quickly when I notice his grip on the steering wheel tighten. The vein in his neck throbs, his jaw ticks. I continue to stare, making sure I’m not imagining it. This time, I know I’m not. I see it. The quickening rise and fall of his chest. The constricting of his muscles. The flaring of his nostrils. All over what should have been a harmless sexual innuendo between friends, one I’d made several times with him in the past. But that was before. When it truly was harmless. I’m not sure I can say the same thing here.

  Not saying a word, he pulls a quick U-turn, driving deeper into the night. The wind blows my hair as I observe the commercial buildings turn into more residential neighborhoods, the traffic becoming more and more sparse. I steal a glance into the rearview mirror to see the familiar silhouette of the Vegas Strip grow smaller and more distant behind me.

  “Where are we going?” I break the cryptic silence.

  “You’ll see.”

  “So secretive.”

  “Trust me. If I told you, you wouldn’t believe it. It’s better if you see for yourself.”

  Desperate to cut through the stiff tension, I flash him a bright smile. “You’ve been moonlighting as an Elvis impersonator and have to perform a last-minute wedding for some celebrity A-listers.”

  He glances my way, his tight expression waning, his dimples popping. I remember looking through family photo albums from when Jessie and Asher were younger. Due to their proximity in age, it was often difficult to tell one from the other. Unless they were both smiling. Asher has these adorable dimples that have only made him more endearing with age. He can give off this tough, brooding persona of a tortured artist all he wants. But the second he smiles and those dimples pop, he looks like the boy next door.

  Maybe the bad boy next door.

  But he’s not a bad boy, either. I’m not quite sure how to describe Asher York. I also wasn’t sure back then.

  “Nope. But good guess. Try again.”

  “Was I even remotely close?”

  “The only thing I have in common with Elvis is that he could also play guitar and sing.”

  “Okay.” I exhale dramatically, looking at the sky as I try to come up with yet another ridiculous scenario. When I return my eyes to Asher, I can’t help but admire his carefree and relaxed demeanor. One hand rests on the steering wheel, the other on the gear shift. Something about how casual he is as he drives this beautiful classic car makes him appear even sexier than when he performs on stage.

  “You have an audition for one of those all-male reviews and want me to give you a quick rundown from the striptease classes Bernadette made us attend a few days ago.”

  His wide eyes fling to mine, the vein in his neck pulsing once more. Maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned those lessons.

  “You took striptease classes?” His voice comes out as a low growl, heat and desire dripping from him. I can only imagine his reaction if I offered to give him a private show.

  “And pole dance lessons.”

  “Fuck,” he hisses, his hand sliding off the gear shift and onto my thigh, squeezing.

  I remain still, unsure where to go from here. All I know is the way he’s touching me has me wanting more, that spark returning with a vengeance.

  He suddenly slams on the brakes, causing my body to jolt toward the windshield. The only things that keep me from crashing through it are the seatbelt and Asher’s arm bracing me.

  “Sorry.” He clears his throat as he takes a quick left, the houses becoming more spread out and opulent. This isn’t a regular residential neighborhood anymore. This is where the wealthy play when they’re in Vegas. “Almost missed the turn.”

  “Did something distract you?” I tease.

  “I’d have to surrender my man card if I wasn’t distracted by that.”

  “I can see how that would be a problem with whoever sets the rules. Just as women are supposed to fawn over shirtless, well-built men as they dance on a stage, men are supposed to salivate over a woman on a pole.”

  “Not just any woman,” he clarifies. “The idea of you pole dancing is, well… It’s like every fantasy I’ve ever had.” The flirtatious quality to his voice is gone, replaced with a truthfulness I didn’t quite anticipate.

  “Asher, I—”

  “Here we are,” he interrupts, his voice brightening. I study him for a moment, but his expression is even once again. Like he’s flipped a switch, and any craving he exhibited mere seconds ago is nothing but a distant memory.

  I look away, my brows drawing together when he pulls up to a gated driveway. He stops outside a box, inputting a four-digit code. The large, metal gates slowly open, granting us access.

  “Who lives here?” I ask. “Do you have some weal
thy benefactor, like Paul Varjak did in Breakfast at Tiffany’s?”

  He chuckles as he navigates up a winding driveway. The instant the sprawling mansion comes into view, my jaw drops. I have no idea what’s going on, but my curiosity piques more and more with each beat of my heart.

  “No wealthy benefactor. Well, not like that anyway. There’s no rich older woman I’m sleeping with in order to bankroll my life while I write.”

  “Then—”

  “Have you heard of Fallen Grace?”

  I snort. “Who hasn’t? You can’t turn on the radio without hearing their music. Not to mention I work in pediatric oncology. I have several patients who are teenage girls. A few of them have even hung up posters of the band in their room.”

  Asher pulls the car into a detached garage off to the side of the main house and engages the parking brake, killing the ignition. I stare in awe at the row of sports cars. Tesla. Mercedes. BMW. Even a Maserati.

  “They’re patients long enough to decorate their rooms?” Asher’s voice pulls me back from the myriad of questions swirling in my mind.

  “Some of them will never walk out of that hospital again. Unless the family makes the decision to do home hospice care in their final days.”

  “But they’re kids.” He shakes his head, heartache etched in the lines of his face over this sad truth I confront daily.

  “Cancer doesn’t discriminate. Young. Old. Rich. Poor. It doesn’t matter.”

  He stares deeper into my eyes. Then he reaches toward me, cupping my cheek, his long fingers burrowing into my thick hair. “You are an incredible woman, Izzy. I’ve never met anyone as compassionate and selfless as you. You deserve better than…” He trails off, stopping himself from finishing his sentence. He doesn’t need to. I know what he was about to say. “Well, you deserve better.”

  “Thank you.”

  He keeps his hand on my cheek a heartbeat longer. For a second, I think he’s about to kiss me, the way his gaze strays to my mouth and he licks his own lips in preparation. Kissing him would be wrong, would violate the unspoken rule against falling for a woman your friend — your brother — already dated. But it didn’t bother me when I tried all those years ago. And it doesn’t bother me now. Not like it should.

  He closes his eyes and I tilt my head toward him, my breathing increasing in anticipation. Then his shoulders fall and he drops his hold on me, his expression pinched, as if reminding himself of who we are. Who we’ll always be to one another.

  “Come on.” With shaky hands, he opens the door and steps out of the car, rushing around to help me. A stiff silence fills the air as he leads me out of the garage and down a path lined with succulents in a stone bed.

  I glance up at the vast, two-story house that would rival some of the ones I grew up near in Greenwich, still having no answers about who lives in it and what we’re doing here, other than it having to do with one of the most popular boy bands around today.

  “Is this Fallen Grace’s party house?” Chloe had mentioned several celebrities owned houses on the outskirts of the city for that exact purpose. Since she works as a celebrity news columnist, she would know.

  “They bought it for that purpose a few years ago, but lately it has served as more of a recording studio.”

  I halt in my tracks, mouth agape, eyes wide. I didn’t expect him to agree with my statement. “This is Fallen Grace’s party house-slash-recording studio?”

  He shrugs, as if he’d just told me he had to do laundry or some other mundane task. “Sure is.”

  I blink, gawking at him. Then the house. Then back at him. “Are they here? Am I going to meet Fallen Grace? Some of my teenage patients would lose their minds, especially if I’m able to get their autographs.”

  “They’re home in London for a break before we hit it hard in a few weeks.”

  “We?”

  His grin widens as he extends his hand toward me. “Come on. I’ll explain everything.”

  I stare at his hand with skepticism before lifting my eyes to his. He arches a brow, tilting his head slightly. I wonder if this is how Alice felt when she noticed the White Rabbit scurrying past her. If she was torn between remaining in her normal life and experiencing something she’d never forget, even if it was fleeting. But that didn’t stop her from following the White Rabbit. I don’t let it stop me, either.

  Blowing out a breath, I place my hand in his, following him deeper and deeper down my own rabbit hole.

  But there’s no place I’d rather be.

  Chapter Five

  “You live here now?” I ask as I run my fingers along the cool ivory of a baby grand piano, floating my eyes to where Asher leans against the soundproof wall in a state-of-the-art recording studio. No more walls and ceiling covered with egg crate foam to prevent outside noise from filtering into the basement of his parents’ house. This is all professionally constructed and designed. A musician’s dream.

  “It’s more a temporary home out of convenience. The guys need to get a new album out, as well as prepare for an extended engagement at one of the casinos. I need to be somewhere I have access to whatever I require. Granted, when they first approached me to help with the new album, the plan was to record in LA.”

  I sit on the piano bench, lightly pressing the keys, the soft sound filling the room. It’s been years since I’ve played, but it’s like riding a bike. You may have a few slips and falls at first, but once muscle memory kicks in, you’re cruising right along.

  “And how did they approach you?”

  “Pure dumb luck.” He pushes off the wall and closes in on me in three long strides, sitting next to me. “Or maybe the big man upstairs decided to give me a break.” He places his hands on the piano keys, playing a simple baseline to compliment the B-flat blues progression I’m fooling around with. “To be honest, I was ready to give up. I was months behind on rent and facing eviction.”

  “Was gigging your only source of income?” I play with a little more confidence, my transitions coming with greater ease.

  “I taught private guitar and piano lessons in the afternoons, so that helped,” he answers, looking at me instead of the keys. He could probably play it blindfolded.

  Mmm… Asher in a blindfold.

  I extinguish the thought, silently berating my libido for going there.

  “I had enough money in savings to keep me afloat for a little while. But after a year, that savings had dwindled to practically nothing. I’d reached the point where I didn’t see any other option but to go back home, tell my parents they were right and it was a crazy idea, then hope they’d let me move in with them while I got my master’s degree so I could teach again.”

  “That sucks,” I respond, hitting the wrong note, causing a dissonance. I cringe, but Asher smiles, shrugging it off. I’m sure he’s heard much worse musicians than myself. Hell, he used to teach beginner strings. If there’s any class requiring earplugs and sedatives, it’s that one.

  “So one day, my phone in my hand, about to call Mom to ask if she’d help me settle up my affairs in LA so I could leave this chapter of my life behind, it rang with a number I didn’t recognize. I almost didn’t answer. Figured it was another bill collector.”

  “But you did.”

  “I did.” He sighs, his posture relaxing, his lips kicking up into a small smile. It’s obvious how grateful he is for this opportunity, that he has no intention of taking it for granted. “And that was the phone call that changed my life. Changed everything. I was seconds away from quitting, Iz. Seconds,” he emphasizes, his voice brimming with passion and intensity, the music he’s playing matching it.

  I steal a glance at the way his fingers move across the delicate ivory with ease. I could watch him play for hours and never tire of it. It’s so hypnotizing. So captivating. So mesmerizing.

  “I truly believe some bigger force intervened, saying ‘not yet’. At first, I thought it was a prank.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Think about it. If you w
ere a struggling musician, months behind on your rent and living off Ramen noodles, something you never even had to do in college, how would you respond to getting a phone call from someone purporting to be the manager of one of the highest grossing musical acts of the past decade, offering you a job writing and producing their new album?”

  I smile. “I’d think it was a joke, too.”

  “David, their manager, knew it would probably come as a surprise. He convinced me to meet him the following morning and judge for myself. When I walked into the luxurious office in Century City, I knew it wasn’t a prank. Gold and platinum records hung on the wall. Posh furniture filled the space. Hell, I’m pretty sure even the receptionist’s shoes cost more than my rent. Christian Lou-something.”

  “Louboutins,” I interject. “They’re Christian Louboutins. They have this signature red sole that all women foam at the mouth over.”

  He cocks a brow. “Including you?”

  I pinch my lips together as I focus on the white and black keys in front of me, the melody coming easier now, even if I am sticking close to the chord progressions. Unlike Asher, who’s riffing off the tune as if it’s second nature to improvise a song on the spot.

  “A girl can dream, can’t she?” While I’m not one to spend a fortune on clothes or shoes, considering I spend most of my life wearing scrubs, I can still look. Can still pine. Can still fantasize.

  A pair of Christian Louboutins is the female equivalent of a wet dream coming true.

  “She certainly can.”

  “So, what happened next?”

  “I was brought into this incredible corner office that was bigger than my entire apartment, the five members of Fallen Grace sitting on the two couches. If I hadn’t gotten that phone call the previous night, I probably wouldn’t have recognized them, but I did some research. I’d heard of Fallen Grace, but I’m not exactly a pre-pubescent girl, so I didn’t know what they looked like.”