Tall, Dark, and Brooding

by Amanda Faye

  I drop my hand and roll my eyes at the dramatics, flipping the guys the bird before slipping my first cello from my shoulders.

  "Guys, this is Natalie. Natalie, the guys."

  She waves and says hello, her accent thick on her tongue. I love how her accent fluctuates depending on her mood.

  She’s shooting me glances that say don't be such an asshole. I chuckle under my breath. Little does she know. If I were any sweeter to these guys, they'd think I had a brain tumor.

  My electric is next, and I prop it up against a wall.

  LaMarcus, my closest friend—shit, my only friend—gives me a curious look, his eyebrows raised to his hairline, before handing me his tumbler of liquor. I take a swig, enjoying how the flavor bursts on my tongue, and the brandy burns its way down my throat. After a second glance at Natalie, pulled into the middle of the band, I swallow back the rest.

  I'm going to need the liquid courage tonight.

  LaMarcus, bless his soul, doesn't say a word.

  They introduce themselves one at a time, name and instrument. At the mention of music, Natalie becomes putty in their hands, eager for any scrap of information they're willing to give.

  "Hello, sweet thang," Damaris croons at her, grasping her hand and bringing her fingers to his lips. "What in God's name are you doing here with this old stick in the mud?"

  She looks at me over her shoulder, and I read the panic clear as day. 'What do you want me to say to him?' her eyes seem to scream.

  Seeing him touch her does something to me, and I stride up next to her, lacing our fingers again.

  "Fuck off," I say to the room at large, then pull her beside me and lead her out of the room. Cheers and laughter follow us down the hallway.

  "That was interesting," she giggles, and I scoff at her obvious amusement.

  There's a section roped off to the side, reserved for VIPs. And for the band to migrate to in between sets. I take her to it, letting the server know she's on the house tonight.

  "Still not going to tell me what's going on?" she asks, voice pitched and playful over the murmuring of the other patrons.

  "You're a musician. If you haven't figured it out by now, that's your fault."

  I push her hair behind her ears, towering over her where she sits in the booth. My skin feels hot and tight, and it's a physical strain not to drop a kiss to her lips.

  "Eli Summers," she purrs. "Bad boy cellist, boyfriend, and secret bluesman."

  Desire churns deep in my gut when she calls me her boyfriend. I know I can't have her, but it doesn't stop the want.

  "Promise me that you won't tell anyone about this?"

  Her smile widens, a spark of delight behind her eyes.

  "What? You mean you don't want the whole campus to know you moonlight as a blues musician?"

  I smirk.

  "I do have a reputation to protect after all."

  "I wonder what would happen to that reputation," and she's mocking when she says it, "If everybody knew you the way I did?"

  Nothing. No one would believe a word Natalie said. I'm still an asshole, even if she brings out something softer in me. Though, I sometimes wonder what she sees when she smiles at me like that.

  "I better get back."

  She nods her head, her finger between her teeth, and I'm a heartbeat from leaning over and replacing it with my tongue when her eyes flick upwards, and I feel an arm around my shoulder.

  "I hate to steal your man here, but we're on in twenty."

  Her smile is angelic, pleasure brimming from her eyes.

  "Just make sure you give him back."

  LaMarcus groans in my ear, bending at the knees at her saucy reply.

  He's silent on the way back to the green room, but as soon as we step through the doorway, raucous laughter and clapping assault my senses.

  "Eli got himself a woman," someone yells, followed by other, not so gentlemanly opinions on the situation.

  I shoot them all a nasty look, walking over to my instruments. "It's not like that, guys. She's just a friend. She's a student at the school."

  "Damn, Eli! You banging a student? I didn't know you had it in you, man."

  LaMarcus pretends to bow, while the others drop into a chant of 'we're not worthy.' I throw my resin at their heads. The laughter is hard and instantaneous, the band bending in half in their hilarity.

  "I'm not banging her"—unfortunately—"and don't fucking talk about her like that."

  The anger lacing my voice just sets them off more. I drop into a chair, pulling my acoustic cello with me. I tune it by ear, warming up the strings and flexing my fingers.

  "For real though," LaMarcus says, and some of the chatter dies down, all eyes turned in my direction. "I ain't seen you with a lady on your arm for a damn long time. What's up with the girl?"

  "We ain't ever seen him with a girl on his arm. It must be true fucking love," Damaris cackles from the couch.

  LaMarcus and I have known each other since our touring days. The first batch of tours. He's a classically trained prodigy pianist, performing since he could stand up to pee. Not that you can tell it by looking at him. We dress for comfort and sweat during these shows. People come for the music, not the clothes.

  I shrug my shoulders, rotating them back and forth. The cello may be a classical instrument, but it takes the body and mind's flexibility to coax more than twinkle little star from its depth.

  "She's a friend," I say, and pray that he leaves it at that.

  "Fair enough, man. She's a pretty young thing, though. If you ain't tapping that, maybe I'll go out and introduce myself."

  I freeze in the motions of plugging my electric into an amp.

  "Yeah," pipes up one of the guys taking a drag from his joint, "If she ain't your property, maybe I'll see if she wants to come home with me tonight. I could offer her a hell of a better time than you could."

  They laugh and snicker, but white-hot anger licks up my spine. I loosen my hold on my bow, afraid I'm going to snap it in my hand. My muscles shake with the need to stand up and beat him with it.

  "If you even fucking look in her direction, I'll break all your fucking fingers," I growl, heat lacing my words.

  The room grinds to a halt, the violence in my voice momentarily stealing the sound from the air. Until they explode into laughter, LaMarcus tipping over in his chair.

  "Eli's in fucking loooooove, man," he cackles, and I roll my eyes and go back to my instrument.

  CHAPTER SIX

  NATALIE

  When you think of blues music, the cello isn't the first thing that comes to mind. From this moment onward, though, I won't be able to think of it any other way.

  Eli is onstage, his acoustic cello on a stand next to him, a cerulean blue electric cello resting between his knees. His hair's a mess; sweat is dripping down his face. He's torn his bow to shreds from the acrobatics on the instruments.

  There's a tumbler of golden honeyed liquor sitting at his feet, and the curvy flirty server working the font of the house never lets it get too low.

  By the way he's grinning, and swaying with the motion of his bow, I sense I'll be driving home tonight.

  He looks so free. I could never have imagined seeing him this way in person. I've seen a glimpse of it from time to time, watching an old performance on YouTube or when he tells me a story. But nothing like the pure exuberance pouring from his body right now.

  It's exhilarating to watch.

  He leans back in his chair, letting the guitarist riff for a time. I catch his eye, and he rises from his seat, sitting the cello and bow to the side. He leans down and whispers something in the pianist's ear, taking the vape off the piano and pulling it deep into his lungs.

  Eli bounds off the stage, dodging customers and servers alike until he's leaning over the top of me, grinning like a devilish fiend.

  "Like it?" he asks, as if I haven't been quietly soaking my panties watching him on the stage for the last two hours.

  "Better than sex," I reply.<
br />
  Maybe I've had a little much to drink tonight, too.

  "Oh, baby girl," he growls out, and I flush in pleasure at the unexpected term of endearment. He closes the space between us, his hands supporting his frame against the table.

  The muscles in his arms flex and quake, straining against the puny constraints of his Cellists do it better t-shirt.

  "If you think this is better than sex, then you haven't been doing it right."

  My head tips upward, my gaze sucked in by his intoxicating presence.

  “Vorrei fare l’amore con te come un dio al sole. Ma io non un dio. Sono un mostro che cammina nell’ombra.”

  I would make love to you like a God in the sun. But I am not a God. I’m a monster who walks in the shadows.

  Holy. Fucking. Shit.

  Eli wraps his hand around my throat, thumb sharp under my jaw.

  “The road to hell,” he mumbles against my lips.

  He kisses me, licking into my mouth without a moment's hesitation. He smells like sweat, and whiskey, and power. He tastes me, teases me, and when I'm a panting, quivering, sopping mess, he pulls away and jumps back on the stage.

  Well, crap on toast.

  I've got it bad for teacher.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  NATALIE

  November

  4/4 is a packed house tonight, as always. LaMarcus is at my side, covertly checking out the bevy of college students that are ten years too young for him. Though, with a maturity level like his, maybe a college student is precisely what he needs.

  Most of the tables are in use by the time we get here.

  I spot two of my kids from theory class, and head in their direction. They try to avert their gazes when they see me powering their way, but when I make a scram motion with my head, they gather their drinks and scamper in the opposite direction.

  "Here look good?" I ask LaMarcus.

  "Damn, Eli. Why you gotta be so mean to the young’un’s?"

  I give him an innocent look.

  "What? I didn't say a word to them. It's polite, is all, to give up your seat to your elders."

  "I'm sure that's what it is. They're terrified of you, man. I'd hate to see the way you treat them in class. Why you gotta be doing so much?"

  I roll my eyes at him.

  "I treat them exactly as they deserve until they deserve better."

  I take my coat off and hang it on the back of the chair. LaMarcus follows suit, gazing around the bar.

  "What are we doing here, man? This isn't my scene. And on—" His eyes go wide as the crowd parts. He catches a glimpse of the signboard. "What the hell is this? Glee night? Come on."

  His disgruntlement is clear, and he yanks his comb out of his back pocket, running it over his head self-consciously. As if the nerddom that is Glee is going to rub off on him.

  I peek at him out of the corner of my eye while scanning the busy bar for Natalie.

  "You can be all big and tough in public, but don't try to pretend that you didn't watch every episode of Glee on Netflix."

  He grumbles under his breath but doesn't speak up loud enough to be understood. I fail to hide my smirk.

  The show has already begun, and there's a group of girls on stage singing a mash-up of different songs and genres that somehow blend perfectly.

  I haven't seen Natalie in over a week, and the separation from her has been painful. Excruciating. Not something you would expect from a fake relationship.

  On Thursday, she talked me into video chatting, and I watched her fall asleep through the screen. I never closed the video chat; simply propped my screen on the pillow next to me. I woke up three hours later to the sound of her telling Steven, I hope, that it was the best sleep she’d had in weeks.

  It killed me to see her lying there and not be able to touch her. Even through a nine-inch iPad, I'm desperate to taste her flesh.

  I've gotten in too deep, but every time I try to back out, she sucks me in more.

  She's fascinating. And intoxicating. A combination of old-world charm and a millennial's over-exuberance.

  She can talk with equal vivacity about Beethoven and Cardì B. Youngest child, raised in the suburbs of Atlanta, she grew up with one goal and one goal only, and she has done nothing but work toward it every day of her life. For some reason, I always assumed she was an only child—something about her demeanor, or maybe because most prodigies are.

  I was. My mother gave up any semblance of a healthy life when I showed a talent for music at age five. She ferried me back and forth between tutors and private teachers and performances in different states. Then different countries. I was in Chanler full-time before my fifteenth birthday.

  Which makes Natalie's accomplishments even more impressive. She did it all on her own. No one handed anything to her.

  "You've got that look in your eye again, man."

  The waitress makes her way over, and I order two beers. They taste like swill from this place, but what do you expect when they cater to broke college kids. I never come in if I can help it. The only reason I was here last time, that time, was because I was meeting another teacher. I was supposed to walk in, grab him, and leave again.

  Not that I'm exactly complaining about the detour I took.

  "What look is that?" I reply with a dry expression.

  "The look that says you're thinking about that sweet young thang you had at the club a few weeks back. That's why we're here, right? Ain't no way you'd be caught dead in a place like this, otherwise."

  Ignoring him, I see a glimpse of fire-shot hair shimmering under the overhead lights and get to my feet.

  I can tell the minute she knows I'm here.

  She's holding someone's hand. Steven, if I had to guess. If not, I'm going to break someone's nose.

  She pulls from him, pushing through the crowd, and runs in my direction.

  "You're here!"

  Natalie squeals as she throws herself into my arms. It catches me off guard, and my hands wrap around her automatically. I see LaMarcus grinning at me from over her shoulder and shoot a scowl his way.

  I turn my attention back to the creature in my arms and whisper in her ear, "Despite how hard I tried not to, I missed you, baby girl." She tightens her grip around my neck.

  "I didn't know you'd come," she says, something in her voice I can't quite place.

  "You only mentioned it a dozen times this week," I say, trying to contain my pleasure at having her in my grasp. She slides down my body, and it's only then that I realize I'd lifted her off the ground.

  "Yeah, but I didn't think you were going to be back in town until Monday."

  I push her hair behind her ears so that I can see her face. She's radiant tonight. Positively glowing. I suppress a moan when I graze down the rest of her body.

  Oh God, she's trying to kill me.

  Her blouse is a purple as rich as a queen's robe, thick straps covering her shoulders. Her pants are a material I don't recognize, and she's going to have to peel herself out of them at the end of the night. She's got boots on her legs, curving over her knees.

  She looks good enough to eat. I hate it.

  "They finished recording early," I belatedly answer her comment.

  She doesn't need to know we ended early because I insisted on it. I still have enough clout to bend people to my will, as repugnant as that makes me. I was in California recording backgrounds for some up-and-coming hip-hop artists who wanted an orchestral backup. When I told the producer I had to be back in New York for a performance Saturday night, they made it happen.

  I simply didn't bother to share that the performance was hers.

  Singing Glee covers.

  Natalie leans against my chest, her arms wrapped around my neck. Her lips are close to my ear, her breath tickling the short hairs on my neck.

  "You are the best fake boyfriend, Eli," she whispers saucily against my ear lobe, accentuating my title, "a girl could ever ask for."

  Natalie grasps my face in her hands, and I think she
means to lay a smacking kiss on my lips. Short and fast.

  That changes, however, when my hands rise of their own accord, palming the small of her back and framing her face. Her head angles, her lips part, and suddenly I'm lost to the oasis that is her mouth.

  What is wrong with me?

  Will I ever be around this girl without having a visceral reaction to her presence?

  She clings to me, as desperate to close the small space between us as I am. I want to crawl inside her and make myself a home.

  The music and the ruckus fade until all I hear is the pounding of my heart in my ears, and all I smell is the flowery scent wafting from her hair. She tastes like sugar and liquor, and I want to ask her what she's been drinking, and can I drive her home.

  "Yo, Nat! Unlatch from Dr. Tall, Dark, and Brooding, will ya! You're up soon."

  The sound of them calling her name hits me like a bullet, and I debate about hunting the bastard down and beating him with my bow, except that she seems as reluctant to part from me as I am from her.

  She breaks our kiss, but then scatters tiny pecks across my lips, nipping and tasting before she finally pulls away for real.

  "Thank you for coming, Eli," she whispers just for me. Her hair is drifting in front again, and I use my fingers to push it behind her ears. She lifts on her toes, grazing her lips against mine a final time, before turning and diving back through the crowd, yelling obscenities as she leaves.

  "Goddamn you, Steven," she drawls in irritation, and I chuckle as I watch her go. Someone's gonna get his ass kicked. Better him than me.

  "Well," I hear as I sit back down on the barstool, "I'll be fucking damned."

  I shrug my shoulders, trying to push off his gaze, but he's cackling in amusement, smacking his hands together like he's just watched a magic trick.

  "What, LaMarcus? Let's hear it. Get it off your chest."

  "Wait," he says, putting up a hand. "Give me a minute; I need to soak in what I just saw." He pulls the mug of beer to his lips, drowning half of it in one go, before turning his attention back to me.