by Amanda Faye
"Dr. Eli"—and I already want to punch him—"is one hundred percent moon-eyed over some girl." Lower, as if talking to himself, he mumbles, "Just a friend, my ass."
I roll my eyes, rotate my shoulders and turn my attention toward Natalie. She's joking with Steven, or someone who looks an awful lot like the pictures she's shown me. Relaxed and carefree, she throws her head back in amusement, then watches the chick on the stage belting out a Beyoncé song.
"It doesn't matter if I am or not. I'm a bastard. Natalie deserves so much better than me."
Instead of laughing, he sobers like he's seen a ghost.
"What? You're not even going to try to deny it. Last month it was all, ‘Nah, man. She's just a friend.’ Now we're just throwing around the love word willy-nilly, like?"
"Bastard, remember? And nobody mentioned love."
He shakes his head, a look of awe coating his features.
"Shit, man, it's worse than I thought."
I take a swig of my beer, barely managing to keep the grimace off my face. I'd love to take Natalie to Cleveland's. They have live music, but a wine list to rival the Pope’s. Despite the no smoker rule, the atmosphere always has a hazy hue, and we could sit in the back booth for hours, lost to the music, and each other.
LaMarcus's voice breaks my thoughts.
"Yeah, but you're not such a bastard. I mean, I've known worse. My old man, for instance. Now there was a real bastard, may he rest in hell." He makes a cross over his heart and kisses his fingers before pointing to the floor. "Besides, some women go for that sort of thing. They like to think only they can redeem him or something."
"Maybe they do, but she shouldn't. I'm fifteen years older than her. I'm grumpy, and I hate everything and everybody."
He huffs in a laugh through his nose.
"We've known each other for a long time LaMarcus. Do you think a girl like that should be spending time with a man like me? For fuck's sake, when I met the King of Spain, I had Mirabel suck my dick in his closet. I'm going to hell, man."
LaMarcus looks at me with pity on his face, and it just makes me angry. I dig my nails into my thigh, wishing I had my cello. I need something to ease the tightening in my chest.
"Natalie? She's going to grace the stages of Broadway and London. She'll have her name in lights and awards littering her mantlepiece. Me? I'm a washed-up has-been with a temper problem. I should end this sham now and pray she forgets about me quickly."
The MC announces Natalie, and she climbs to the stage to wondrous applause. I stare at her, at that glorious head of copper hair glowing under the stage lights.
"I don't know why she's still a student," I say. "Wait until you hear her sing. She belongs in the finest opera houses in Paris, not giving private lessons to high school students and undergrads."
Natalie takes the microphone. Her accent is light, just a brush on the breeze. Warmth spreads through my body as it fills and silences the crowded room.
"This was supposed to be a duet," she says, giving a scathing look to a person standing off to the side.
Steven stands up, hands in the air.
"Hey, now, I can't help it if I'm the only one of us with an actual paying job, guys. I have two performances tomorrow. I have to save my voice."
Comments erupt from the crowd; sit down, shut up, you're only in the chorus, Steven, and it takes a few extra seconds for the laughter to get back under control.
"Anyway. This was supposed to be a duet. However, since someone who shall remain unnamed, decided to back out at the last minute, I had to change my song.
"I'll be singing, Make You Feel My Love." Her eyes meet mine above the crowd. "You know who you are. This one's for you."
She winks to the audience, and I bet every man in here thinks she's singing to them.
LaMarcus breaks the spell.
"If you feel that way, why are we even here then?"
The piano accompaniment starts, and her presence blossoms on the stage. I swear her aura doubles in size, demanding the attention of everyone in the vicinity.
"Because I figure I'm already going to hell. I might as well enjoy the ride."
No matter how hard I try, I can’t stay away.
Her voice is strong and clear, like bells ringing out over our heads. With the other performers, there was always some chatter in the background, patrons moving to and fro. When Natalie starts to sing, the building stills, holding its collective breath as she shares her gift with the room.
Goosebumps appear up and down my arms, and my chest swells, shoulders rise, arching into the sound of her voice.
Every emotion she has flickers across her face, one bleeding seamlessly into the next. She catches my eye again, and it's as if she's reached into my chest and hollowed it out, taking my heart with her back on the stage.
The second verse ends, and people cheer and clap during the piano break. She smiles and blushes, gives one person a cute little curtsey, but never breaks her stare in my direction.
"Hell?" LaMarcus asks, and I can’t be bothered to look in his direction. "She looks more like heaven to me, man."
The song ends, and the audience explodes into noise, the hounds baying at their master’s feet. LaMarcus stands, whistling out his appreciation. Before she skitters off the stage, though, Natalie brings her fingers to her lips and blows me a silent kiss.
CHAPTER EIGHT
NATALIE
December
It’s late. Like really late.
I haven’t seen another soul for hours, but I have a graded performance in my German diction class on Monday, and I’m still struggling with the female part of Arabella.
When I had to pick a focus, Classical versus Modern/Broadway, I picked Classical without a second’s hesitation. At least once a week since, I wonder what in the hell I was thinking.
The door to my practice space creaks open, and I finish my verse before hitting the button on my remote to silence the instrumental background spewing from my speakers.
Beth, in her last year of the masters’ program, leans against the doorway.
“Hey, Beth. What are you still doing here? I haven’t seen anyone else for ages.”
“Same thing you are probably, trying to grasp that stupid song Ms. Sullivan assigned.”
Stupid? Arabella is a classic opera. When Renee Fleming sings it, hearts break all over the world.
“Yeah, I hear ya,” I reply, not knowing what else to say.
I need to get back to work. I grimace, masquerading as a smile, in her direction, hoping she’ll take the hint.
She doesn’t
“You waiting on Dr. Dreary?”
It takes me a minute to realize who she’s talking about. Eli is so different than what I originally thought when I walked into his office that first day. It lends credence to the phrase appearances can be deceiving.
“Eli? He’s still here?”
“Yeah, I mean, last time I checked. Tony brought me dinner, and he said he heard him wallowing in misery on his cello when he cut through the strings ward. That was less than an hour ago.”
He’s playing?
I’ve listened to every recording of him I could get my hands on. I watched hours and hours of his performances on YouTube. But, outside that night at the blues club, I’ve yet to hear him play up close and personal. Blues, in a bar, is not the sort of performance I’m desperate for.
“I gotta go,” I snap out, throwing my stuff into my bag and making a quick sweep of the room.
She looks at me like I’ve sprouted a second head, but I give her a tiny push to get her out of my doorway and hit the lights on my way out. Locking the door, I take off at a trot down the hallway, leaving a bewildered Beth standing in my wake.
I hear him before I find him. The rooms are semi-soundproof. They have to be with this many musicians jammed in such a tight area. Which means he must have his door open. I don't recognize the piece, but it's dark and powerful, and I feel it in my gut.
He doesn't have a piano a
ccompaniment; it's just him with his bow, the sound echoing off the corners of the room.
I close my eyes and slow to a standstill outside the door, letting the song's emotion tell me its story. As the vibrato expands, I creep inside.
My first thought is that he's been at this a while.
His eyes are closed, body moving, flowing in rhythm with his bow. He's barefoot, his cello centered between his knees. His hair is in disarray and sweat is coating his brow. His shirt is half undone, the buttons loose and the hem pulled from his jeans.
He looks tormented.
I can't think of a single thing in my life sexier than he is right now.
The door makes a sound as I latch it behind me, but he either doesn't hear it or doesn't care. He never pauses as he draws the bow across the strings.
I don't want to disturb him, and in some faraway corner of my mind, I'm horrified at how I'm invading his privacy. But I can't stop walking toward him. The sight of him pouring his soul into his instrument draws me to him like a moth to the flame.
But unlike a moth, I want to be burned.
His bowing slows; the song is pulling to a close. His fingers on the strings tremble with their intensity, and my body pulses with need.
I need to know what his calloused fingertips feel like sliding across my body.
As the final note vibrates around us, he opens his eyes, and the intensity in his stare sends a tingle up my spine. His arms flag, knees droop to the side, and I slip in next to his cello.
It's where I belong. In Eli's arms, next to his heart.
He loosens his hold on the cello, letting his shoulder support the neck of the instrument. He transfers his bow to the other hand, wrapping his free arm around my waist.
I lean into him, my body soaking in his heat. He's radiating power and endurance, sweat coating his skin. I push my fingers into his hair, smoothing the damp strands away from his face.
When I lower my face to his, my heart is pounding in my chest, nervousness and adrenaline coursing through my veins—our noses touch, soft and hesitant. I keep my lips closed, gentle against his own. I kiss him once, twice, and when I pull away the third time, his lips chase after mine.
He makes a sound deep in his throat. Regret or distress. His grip tightens on my waist, fingers digging into my hip. It breaks something deep inside of me. I never want to hear him make that sound when it's within my power to prevent it.
He lets his bow fall to the ground with a clatter, lowering the cello with a little more care. His freed hand makes its way up my back, cradling my head in his palm.
I dip my face a second time, and he angles to meet me halfway, lips parted and tongue seeking entrance to mine. He pulls my bottom lip between his, and my hands find their way to his face, enjoying the feel of his week-old stubble against my palms.
He's quietly consuming me, hands muscular and rough against my back. His tongue slides against my lips, and it's me chasing him now, silently begging for more.
His hand slips into my shirt, fingers splayed across my lower back, and I melt into his caress, my skin tightening and beading under his touch.
My chest is heaving when our lips part, and I rest my forehead against his cheek. I'm too blissed out to bear to be parted from him, even the distance of me standing up.
He rubs his cheek against my face, whispering, "I do not deserve this," so quietly, I'm sure it wasn't meant to be heard.
But I do hear, and the anguish in his voice breaks against my soul.
The man I know deserves everything and more.
"What happened, Eli? Why did you quit?"
The question startles me more than it does him. It's not my place. But every time I see the fervor that coats his face when he has an instrument in his hands, I wonder more and more.
What happened to make him give that up?
I never could.
I stand when he loosens his hold on my neck, only to wrap his hands around my belly. I run my fingers through his hair, letting him pull solace from my comfort.
"You've heard the rumors. Surely that's enough information for you."
His voice is rough and bleak. Hard. Not the man I've spent so much time within the last few months.
I have heard the rumors. In the middle of a world tour, playing stadiums and concert halls alike, he quit. Canceled his performances, refunded his tickets, and announced his employment as the resident cellist at Chanler. They said he had a nervous breakdown. That he couldn't handle the pressure. I don't believe it for an instant. The man I know, the one before me, could juggle universes barehanded.
"I have. Now I want the truth."
He tightens his grip on my waist.
"Please."
He shrugs his shoulders against my stomach. Is he agreeing? Or trying to push his demons off his back?
I look down at him, and his eyes are glazed and far away, seeing something only he is privy to.
"I was the darling of the Classical world—beyond that, even. I made cello cool. How often does a cello CD make Billboard’s lists?"
"I know," I say, still running my fingers through his hair. "I've seen your music videos."
He huffs out a laugh.
"At the height of it all, my mom got sick. She hid it from me until it was too late. She thought she was protecting me from the burden of caring for her. I was an unstoppable force, and she didn't want to be the person who got in my way.
"I didn't find out until the hospital called: she'd collapsed in a store. Stage four liver cancer. Ironic—she hated alcohol, and I drank like a fish."
"I'm sorry," I whisper, not wanting to stop his story but wanting to offer him support.
"They said she had a few months, a year if she was lucky. Or unlucky, depending on what killed her first, the treatment or the disease. Chanler had been trying to get me to come home and guest lecture. You know I studied here?"
I nod. Yes, I know everything the internet can tell me about you. Plus, some things the internet can't.
"I agreed to a year's contract with the school and bought a condo a few blocks away from the brownstone my mother lived in. I thought I would take a year off, or however long it took to care for my mother until the end.
"The woman—" He pauses, and I sense we're getting to the crux of the matter—the bitch who broke his heart. If I ever meet her, I'm going to slap her across the face. I'm from the South, and it's an art form we're taught early.
"The woman I'd been living with disagreed with my choice. I'd been with Mirabel for years. She traveled the world with me. Hung on my arm, spent my money. She left me two months after I came home. She told me she wasn't made to be a teacher's wife. My mother died a few weeks later.
"Let's say I became—disenchanted with the whole thing. Fame, money, power. What was the point?
"Within days of my mother's passing, all the sycophants who'd abandoned me when I stepped out of the spotlight were back, knocking on my door and wanting to know when the partying would start again.
"I decided then and there that I would never go back to that lifestyle. I made my position with Chanler permanent, sold my mother's brownstone, and have been teaching ever since."
I get that. I do. My heart breaks at the despair Eli must have felt. He lost everything, all in one fell swoop.
But still.
"Your music? You love it. It—every time I watch you play—I feel like it bares your soul to me. I don't know how you could give it up."
With him sitting, his head rests at my shoulders. He looks up at me, fingers splayed against my hip, and I let my shoulders fall, grazing my lips against his. I don't stay that way for long, but his eyes were eating into my heart.
"I didn't give it up. I still play. I play with the band. I play with ensembles. Hell, I'm even in the occasional movie orchestra."
He squeezes me, and I lower myself onto his leg. Now that we're sitting face to face, the intimacy is almost unbearable. My forearms rest on his shoulders, fingers still playing with his hair. I'm desp
erate to kiss him again.
"Do you miss it?"
He starts to shrug and shroud himself in the armor of indifference that's protected him for so long, but it's half-hearted at best.
"Yes," he says, looking me in the eye. "Every day."
He pushes my hair behind my ears.
"You are so beautiful," he says. "When I look at you, it doesn't hurt so much anymore."
CHAPTER NINE
ELI
She kisses me again like she can cure all the pain in my world with the simple act of pressing her lips against mine.
Maybe she can?
Her mouth is sweet and innocent, and I'm disgusted with the way I lean into her touch. I pull her to me, into me, when I should be putting as much space between us as possible.
She's on my lap, her legs straddling my thighs. My dick is straining against my pants. Every squirm or breath that causes her to glance across it sends agony shooting through my spine.
I need to end this.
I will end this.
Soon.
She tastes like fruit, and I know it's from the strawberry Chapstick she keeps buried in her pocket. The orange tea she drinks to soothe her throat. The lavender body butter she wears to help calm her nerves.
She's so responsive, moaning and sighing into my mouth. It's fucking addicting. I want nothing more than to lay her on the floor of my practice space and cover the tiles with her juices.
I bet she'd be ripe as a fresh peach.
I drag my fingers over her throat, savoring the tortuous wiggle that causes her hips to rub across my dick, and use my thumb to point her chin up, trailing kisses down her neck.
I need to stop this.
"It's late, Natalie. Let me take you home."
She walks to and from campus most days, and there's no way in hell I'm letting her walk in the dark at almost midnight.
I'll drive her to her apartment, then forget any of this ever happened.
"Yes, please," she pants, "so long as I'm going home with you."
I freeze in my ministrations on her throat, rubbing against her like a cat as I bring our faces level.