by KC Enders
Finn nods and heads to the kitchen with our orders. As if he were going to actually have those shirts made.
When he’s clear of our table and out of hearing range, I lean forward, wrapping my hand around Alex’s thigh. I pull her close, my pinkie grazing the crease of her thigh, the heat of her core. “I like you best in nothing at all.”
The afternoon passes in a blur. A haze of innuendo and lust. I almost can’t get Alex out of here and back to Gavin’s guesthouse fast enough.
• • •
“What do you mean, they’re not coming? None of them?” The beer I had in town turns to acid, churning in my gut.
Gavin inhales hard and then pushes that breath out even harder. “Vince and Rand jumped on a plane to LA this morning. Kane, uh …”
Of course. Fucking Kane.
“Make it good, Gavin. Make it a good enough excuse for the fact that he couldn’t follow a simple directive, not even a fucking request. Rand, Vince, the fucking label, Gav. The fucking label told us all to be here this weekend to get kicking on the new shit. To work together and get this album going, and that … that … that selfish piece of shit couldn’t even manage that?”
I know it’s not Gavin’s fault; he’s just the messenger. But this is the shit that happens all the time. This is what’s going to kill us. If something doesn’t change soon, our careers, our band, will be massacred, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to stand by as Kane fucking Newton revels in the carnage he’s wrought.
22
CORY WELLS
ALEXIS
What was supposed to be a relaxing weekend away before things got crazy, exploded into a stress-filled mess.
I could cry. I need to get out of this car and free of the ocean of tension swirling around us.
And, maybe, away from Nate.
Sure, I felt a thousand percent guilty for going away for the weekend and not spending every waking moment in the studio, preparing. Absolutely. Totally.
But I let that go. I stuffed it down to spend time with everyone. Gavin, Ian, and Sasha, getting to know Gracyn. Hell, even meeting the owner of that Irish pub, Finn. He was a goddamn hoot with the way he stumbled over himself, fawning over the band—Nate in particular.
Jesus, and then … then … when his friends brought their twin boys into the bar—pub, whatever—and Nate, Gavin and Ian took turns cuddled up to those itty-bitty boys, bouncing them in their tatted-up, muscular arms …
No woman’s ovaries were safe from that shit. No one in that room was immune.
But mostly, I went along to spend time with Nate. To get lost in him, with him, away from all the stress of everyday life. I thought it was suffocating us in the city. Turns out, stress is more mobile than that. Or maybe our jobs, individually, just rack up a stupid amount of the stuff. Combined, it might just be completely unreasonable.
For what feels like the millionth time on the drive south, Nate pushes out a lungful of air and says, “I’m sorry.”
“I know. It’s okay.”
It has to be because this is who we are. A professional musician and a professional dancer, both in the prime of our careers. Both fighting for everything we’ve worked for.
“It’s not. I shouldn’t have—”
“Nate, you have a lot you’re dealing with, and I am as well. It’s not like you knew, like you had any control over …” I flick my hand in the air because we both know what I’m referring to, and I don’t think either of us really wants to utter Kane’s name out loud. Because that’ll just pump the car full of even more stress and tension.
So, we don’t say another word. Neither one of us says anything for the rest of the drive until we cross from Queens into Brooklyn.
“Stay with me.” The words are softly spoken but without a hint of question. It’s a statement of want, desire. Need.
My need to escape, to be alone in my own little bubble, battles hard with everything I feel for Nate. I love him. I never stopped, not for a single moment, even in all the time and years that separated us. But this is my chance. This is what I sacrificed all of those years for.
“Please. It’s late, and I’m tired and pissy. All I want to do is crawl into bed and wrap my arms around you. Hold you close and crash for the night.” He reaches across the console and takes my hand in his. “Please, Alex.”
My head bounces slowly in a nod, the movement subtle and small. “Okay.”
His breath rushes from him in a gust of relief, and he squeezes my hand. “Thank you.”
It’ll be fine. As we pass my apartment, I crane my neck to see if there are any lights on. The only glow comes from where my window faces the building next to us. Maybe Mia is in there? She shares a wall with Lauryl, and those walls are thin.
All the more reason to spend the night at Nate’s in his big, comfy bed, wrapped in his arms and silence that’s an unattainable luxury in my tiny apartment. Especially with a roommate who’s a screamer.
Nate pulls his SUV into the garage—an unbelievably rare Brooklyn commodity—and kills the engine. Wordlessly, we exit the car and grab our bags from the back.
The silence continues as we make our way through the house, climbing the stairs—the millions of stairs—to the master-suite level.
No words are spoken as we drop our bags and strip off our clothes. Nate in just his boxer briefs, me in my tank and panties—we slide beneath the covers. The sheets are cool and crisp, the room dark and quiet.
The silence that has weighed heavily settles around us as Nate rolls to his side and pulls me close, fitting my back against his front. His lips brush back and forth on my nape. “So glad you’re here.” He pulls me impossibly closer and relaxes into me, around me.
I twine my fingers with his and press our hands to my chest, my heartbeat steady against where they rest. I close my eyes and pray for sleep because no matter what’s happened or what’s been said or where we are, I have this, right here with Nate.
Tomorrow, I need to make the shift. Tomorrow, I will make the switch to work mode. Tomorrow, I will throw myself—mind, body, and soul—into dance.
• • •
Out for a run. Be back soon.
xoxo,
Nate
Waking to the distance granted by a note is a godsend. There’s coffee in the stainless steel carafe and a mug set out next to it. I splash some milk into the strong, dark roast and drink it down quickly, infusing caffeine into my bloodstream.
My bag sits next to the front door, ready, waiting.
As the clock ticks, pushing time irretrievably away, my impatience builds, and anxiety mounts. I don’t begrudge Nate his run; he understandably needs to blow off some steam and work through everything that’s happened. I get that better than maybe anyone. But I need to go.
I can’t sit here, waiting on his return, when I have no idea how long he’s been gone. How far he needs to run. Exactly how much shit he needs to wade through to get to the place where he can make sense of the mess. I need to go.
I flip over the piece of notepaper to scrawl my own note on the back. My pen hovers just above the surface of the paper, unmoving. Do I write a quick I love you? It feels weird to do, having not said the words out loud yet. Face-to-face. Whispered into the space between our hearts. To gauge his reaction and see if the feeling is reciprocated. I think it is—I truly do—but this is big. It’s different. I settle on drawing a lopsided heart across the center of the paper with a simple A and set it in the tray by his wallet.
I rinse my coffee cup and place it in the dishwasher, making sure to tidy up after myself. I have to go.
Out of time and out of reasons to stall any longer, I sling my bag over my shoulder and step out, making sure the door is locked behind me. I search the sidewalk all the way back to my apartment for any sign of Nate, but his circuit must have taken him on a different route. I’m home in a matter of minutes, climbing the three flights and pushing through my door.
The apartment is quiet, but considering the early hour and the fa
ct that it’s a precious weekend morning, I’m not at all surprised.
I tiptoe into my room in case Mia is in there, but the room is empty. Maybe I imagined the light glowing in here last night. I don’t know. I’ve had a roommate since I moved up here. They changed periodically, after a fight, sometimes moving away from the city entirely. It’s exhausting. More than ever, I think it’s my turn to move out—find somewhere else to live. I have time to figure it out later.
Now, I need to change and get my own cardio in for the day.
• • •
Sweat beads up, skating along the surface of my skin, and when I finish my fourth run at the combination that’s been challenging me, it sluices down my arms and drips from the tips of my fingers. I feel warm and tired, loose-limbed and tight-muscled.
I’m exhausted.
And so lost in my head that when movement by the door registers with me, I jump, startled.
“How long have you been standing there?” I ask Nate as he pushes from the wall and stalks toward me.
“I could watch you for hours and never get tired of it.” He reaches out and slides the back of his fingers along my temple, pushing a stray lock of hair into place.
The sweat and unnatural number of pirouettes have frizzed my hair out. It’s positively wild.
“I got your note.”
“Did you? How was your run?” I reach for the small hand towel hanging from the barre, but Nate’s hand on my belly stops me from getting very far. “What are you doing? I’m gross.”
I squirm, trying to put some space between us, but he just pulls me in tight against his front.
He dips his head and presses a kiss to the side of my neck. “Dance with me?”
I arch my back—my intent is to keep from staining his pale gray t-shirt with sweat—but really, all that accomplishes is pushing my ass into his groin.
Nate hums at the contact. And when I lift my gaze to our reflection, what I see is maybe one of the most alluring, erotic sights I’ve ever seen.
His eyes are dark and heated, lids hooded.
As the pause between one song and the next comes to a close, I place one hand over his. The other, I raise, sliding it into the hair at the back of his neck. And while Mrs. Calloway had her son enrolled in ballroom dancing for a time, when the music blooms and Nate and I start to dance, there’s nothing safe for a ballroom about the way we move.
The purely instrumental piece is slow and sensual. Pulsing and sexy. We move across the space, pushing and pulling, twisting and moving with absolutely no concern for anything outside this little bubble we’re enclosed in.
The pas de deux itself is simple. Hands grasping and holding, arms twined, and hips swaying and grinding, circling. Nate spins me out, our fingertips skating down each other’s arms as I twirl around him. With smooth agility, Nate reaches back, capturing me, pulling me close, settling me in front of him, back to where we started. Our hands clasped low on my abdomen, the spread of his fingers spanning me from hip bone to hip bone.
I reach behind me and grasp Nate’s thigh, my fingers curving around the bulge of his muscle, settling into the dip of a valley. Once again, the line of us together is remarkable. Beautiful. Nate’s height and lean musculature. His bearing in general. He could have been a stunning danseur, if he had chosen to go that route.
As it is, he’s a brilliant musician with an impeccable grasp on measures and metronome. And with the piece coming to a close, he slides his free hand across my collarbone and up, up, up until that big palm rests against my throat, his thumb and fingers on either side of my jaw. Pressing in, holding me still. Tilting my head until I’m completely exposed and undeniably at his mercy. There is nowhere I’d rather be.
Wordlessly, we separate slowly, silently, invisible strings making the task harder than it should be.
I drop to the floor, removing my pointe shoes as Nate stalks to the sound system to retrieve my phone.
Like we’ve been dancing together forever, we move around each other, tucking things away, tidying the studio, almost as if we were bidding it farewell. Closing out a chapter.
Hand in hand, we walk out of the studio, out of the arts center, and out into the night air. The slight chill barely registers. Nate’s gentle touch, having him close, his hand wrapped around mine, sends heat chasing through my body.
We start out slowly strolling down the stairs, the sidewalk. The first block takes decades to traverse. Each time we cross an intersection, our pace quickens. By the time we turn the corner to Nate’s brownstone, we’re all but running for the stairs.
The second the door clicks shut behind us, the lock sliding into place, I’m pinned against the wall, being devoured. Nate wedges his knee between my legs, pressing his thigh tight against my core.
I melt against him, losing myself, splintering apart, and coming undone again and again.
23
BARNS COURTNEY
NATE
“You know how when things are going so smoothly in life, you just know the shit is going to hit the fan?”
I don’t even bother turning my head toward Ian at his stupid-as-fuck question. I only barely grant him the courtesy of a solid side-eye because things have absolutely not been going well for a very long-ass time. “Really?”
“Yeah. So, I, uh …” He shifts in his seat, his fingers drumming against his leg without active thought. Without consciousness. Which is a sure sign that there is in fact some shit going down with him because Ian and I are the only ones in here and his full kit is spread out around him, but he’s tap, tap, tapping at his thigh.
“You what?” I ask, finally turning to look him in the eye.
He shakes his head and picks up his drumsticks, twirling one around his right thumb over and over again. “Nothing. Forget it,” he mumbles before he launches into the drum version of whatever he was playing, feeling, in his head just moments ago.
And we’re back to more secrets. More avoiding. More … nothing.
The past month has been nothing but bullshit, attitude, and bitching.
I’m so over it.
I’m over all of it. All of this.
Never in my life have I wanted to walk away from something the way I want to walk away from the band—my brothers. I drop my head into my hands and scrub at my face.
I glance at the clock. I check my phone for a message, a call, anything, even though I know it’s not there. I’ve already checked a million times since this conversation started.
The drumming stops abruptly, the silence almost more jarring than the crash of the cymbals just moments ago. I expect Ian to pick up where he left off, either with what he started to say before or with the bangfest he was laying down on his drums. But I get neither.
We sit. Quiet. Lost. Alone together.
“I want to go home,” I say when the quiet becomes too loud. I whisper the words, afraid to commit to them.
Ian palms both of his sticks in one hand and pushes his beanie back and forth before pulling it off and dropping it to his knee. His tongue darts across his lip, and then he pulls the hoop between his teeth, looking at me. For the first time in months—honestly since the end of the tour, maybe even before that—Ian really looks at me.
We rose fast and dirty once the band was discovered, filling venues and smashing expectations. Our lives have been nonstop. Tours, recording, appearances. More tours. More drama. More everything. Just more.
And I am so fucking tired.
“Home? What do you mean? Virginia home or New York?”
I flop back into the deep cushions of the black sofa, the soft velvet catching on my rough fingertips. “To Alex.” Because, wherever she is, that’s where I want to be. I was the one to walk away from us this time. And it sucks.
It doesn’t matter that it wasn’t deliberate or that it was completely out of my control. When we fell back into each other, when things started to grow and change between us, when we fucking picked up where we’d left off, there was a part of me that knew it wo
uldn’t last. It couldn’t.
It was going too smoothly.
You would think that with a bunch of life under our belts, experience and maturity, we could make this work, but the distance is too much. I don’t want it. I don’t like it. I don’t like it at all.
“Go see her. Or hell, fly her out here.” Ian lifts his chin toward the Hollywood Hills mansion across the massive backyard. “Gracyn’s been out a couple of times.”
Once it was decided for us that we would in fact be doing all the recording and prep for our next album here in Cali, Rand secured a huge house with a recording studio, a pool, and a privacy fence as well as suites for each of us. So we could sequester ourselves and dive deep into the creative oasis. Live, breathe, and sleep this album until it’s done. Creative cesspool is more like it.
“Not happening.”
Ian huffs out a laugh. “Why not? You low on cash? Need me to front you some Benjamins? I’ll do it ’cause I love me some Tiny Dancer.”
A full minute passes before I can respond as Ian pounds it out.
“She’s back at work. Rehearsals day and night, weekends too. She couldn’t come if she wanted to.”
“You saying she wouldn’t want to come out here?”
Am I saying that? I don’t think so, but as big as the fucking elephant is—our jobs—we’ve never really talked about it. About how this’ll work—or if it will.
We’ve been so wrapped up in our bubble, making our own hours. Working whenever we wanted at the arts center but hanging out together the rest of the time. I don’t even know what her schedule truly looks like, how all of that works when it’s performance time.
“I don’t think she can. She, uh …” I shove to my feet and start pacing, unable to sit idle another moment. I hate the next words I push out. “She didn’t get her position back in the company. She’s got to fight her way back to the top, back to the lead. Her injury, it set her back. A lot.”
The sun dances across the surface of the pool, blinding me until I shift slightly to one side. Gavin and Gracyn are sprawled out on a double lounge chair. Touching. Caressing. Enjoying each other. I know they’ve spent a fair amount of their time together, solidifying wedding details. The rest of the time, they’ve spent like this, wrapped up and lost in their love.