The Beat Match

by Kelly Siskind

  “I’ll have a driver take you home. He’ll bring you to work and drive you to my place after. If you have to go out before then, let him know.”

  She pulled her fallen strap up her shoulder and folded her arms around her middle. “I thought we were done with you bossing me around.”

  “Bossy is in my DNA.” When she didn’t reply, he said, “Let me do this. I’ll be worried about you otherwise.”

  “I’m pretty handy with my subway card and Uber app. I’m adept at taking care of myself.”

  “It’s not about your independence. It’s about my…issues.” His gaze kept flitting to his phone, that vicious frown returning.

  “Is something wrong?” Or was he suddenly that concerned something would happen to her? His fear of loving and losing.

  He shook his head slightly. “Just work stuff I need to deal with.” He lifted his phone as though that was proof he wasn’t acting strange. “A car will meet you downstairs. I can’t wait to see you tonight.”

  Going with his odd flow, she blew him a kiss and left his office.

  Marjory took one look at her and laughed. “Do I need to disinfect that room?”

  Cheeks burning, Annie checked that her dress was on straight. She forced her eyes on Marjory. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Likely story. Do we get happy-yet-broody Weston back now?”

  Annie glanced at his closed office door, stymied by his reaction to whatever had been on his phone. He hadn’t cared about driving her around until he’d checked his texts. His request could have been a delayed reaction, but it didn’t sit right. “Is there something weird going on at work?”

  Marjory rolled her chair back. “Weird how?”

  “Wes got a text and seemed really bothered by it.”

  “Sounds like an ordinary day to me.”

  Possibly, but something felt off and she’d had all the drama she could handle. She’d drop it for now. Give Wes the benefit of the doubt and let his driver shuttle her around. Mollify the anxiety that had him scared he’d lose her. As long as his need for control didn’t get out of control.

  21

  Joyce’s last piano notes vibrated in the air, the entire phrase perfectly played.

  Annie whooped. “You’re a virtuoso,” she said, beaming.

  “I told you, dear, I don’t pay you to lie.”

  “You’re paying me to teach you piano while boosting your confidence with my exuberant personality.”

  Joyce clutched her wrinkled hands on her lap. “A job well done, on both accounts. When I set out on this piano mission, I expected a dowdy teacher and dull days. You’ve made Thursday my favorite day of the week.”

  I will not cry. I will not cry. Annie had become embarrassingly emotional these days, the dam she’d burst with Vivian and Wes infecting her life. She’d just never expected teaching others would move her this much. “I love Thursdays, too. You’ve become my favorite student.”

  “I’m your only student.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong. I signed someone up last week, and I’ve had two more inquiries.” Thanks to Annie’s scrapbooking skills, she’d created fun flyers that she’d posted around public transit and at several bars. She wasn’t taking on advanced pupils yet, but if this kept up, she’d be able to cut back on waitressing shifts eventually. “I’ll be turning people away before I know it, but you’ll always be my favorite.”

  Joyce gripped the piano edge and used the leverage to stand. “You should spend some of those earnings cleaning up this place. Hire yourself a maid.”

  “You should use that smart mouth to do stand-up comedy. Start a Golden Girls revival.”

  Joyce coughed while laughing. “You’re definitely my favorite, dear. See you next Tuesday.”

  “We meet on Thursdays, Joyce.”

  She grinned. “I know.”

  Annie frowned while making sure Joyce took the stairs okay, then she snickered. C U Next Tuesday. Joyce had just lovingly called Annie a C U N T.

  She smiled while piling the piano music sheets. She stacked them next to a shipment of Sudoku books that had magically appeared last week. Below them was a mysterious bag of buttons she’d found tucked in her purse. Scissors that could cut through steel had materialized on her coffee table after a waitressing shift.

  Whenever she asked Wes if he’d sent her the secret gifts, he’d shrug and say, “I have no clue what you’re talking about.”

  Total liar.

  If there was a boyfriend contest judged by attentiveness, thoughtfulness, and bedroom prowess, Wes would win gold with his hands tied behind his back, or her hands, as was the case that one time. He and Annie had been incredibly in sync the past few weeks, sleeping together every night, splitting their time between her tiny apartment and his massive loft. He didn’t seem to mind staying over. He said her place felt like a real home, but when they made time to work on music, his loft was the go-to.

  He had somehow mollified Rosanna’s father, their merger still full-steam ahead, and he’d loved the video montage she’d created. Eyes glazed and voice thick, Wes had thanked her for focusing on gun control and making Leo part of the project. They had tweaked a few sections, played with different classical music fragments to heighten the emotional impact. He was planning to unveil it at his next big show, and she was really doing this DJ thing. Thanks to a push from Wes and more nudging from Vivian, she’d finally agreed to DJ Sarah’s birthday party next month.

  A deadline to focus on. Her first real gig.

  Everything was absolutely, positively perfect…and she was absolutely, positively terrified.

  If truthfulness were part of the boyfriend contest, Wes would fail epically. The control freak had become a domineering vigilante. He had his driver pick her up and drop her off everywhere. He kept tabs on her constantly, asking her to check in, messaging her at all hours. Every time she asked him what was up with the obsessive worrying, he’d play to her heart, and say, “Because you’re the most important person in my life.”

  She’d get all moony and accept his lame excuse, then later, when she’d catch him sneaking off to talk angrily on his phone, she’d worry this slice of paradise was too good to last.

  Her doorbell rang. She finished organizing the sheet music and answered the door.

  A woman held out a large box. “This is for you, Annie.”

  She regarded her visitor warily. “Do I know you?”

  “No, but I was told you were tall and beautiful, with hazel eyes that changed with your mood and a sexy birthmark by the corner of your lips.” She smiled. “The description fits.”

  Her Secret Santa must be at it again, and Annie reverted to moony status. She took the flat red box. The woman bowed slightly, then disappeared down the stairs while Annie tried to fight her giddiness. Wes’s gifts were constant and unnecessary, but she loved that he was always thinking of her. He chose perfect presents, as though he could read her mind, because he knew her at her core. It was his way of saying “I love you” without speaking the words. At least, she hoped it was.

  The card on the box read: Meet me at eight.

  Below was an address to a swanky restaurant, and her pulse tremored. They hadn’t been out in public yet. The Rosanna break-up had been front and center in gossip rags. He hadn’t wanted to put Annie through that kind of scrutiny. She’d been happy keeping Weston Aldrich to herself. But this felt right. An excuse to flaunt the man of her dreams.

  She undid the silky ribbon, set it aside for a future scrapbooking project, then lifted the lid and gasped.

  She knew this dress, but it couldn’t be here, in this box, in her shabby apartment. This was a Met Gala dress. A show-stopping stunner. She’d gone gaga over it when flipping through a Vogue issue. But how could Wes have known she’d coveted the fun, flirty fabric and pictured herself wearing the bold, cherry printed maxi dress, all that scrunched black lace funking up the style? Classic Betsy Johnson. Lightyears beyond her measly budget.

  Then she remembered. T
he night she’d forced him to scrapbook. She’d told him not to use that page, that she loved the dress in the ad. Just one mention, off the cuff.

  Now the dress was in her hands.

  She pulled it out gingerly, danced around the room like she was Cinderella and this was her coming-out ball. She found her phone and dialed.

  “I was thinking about you.” Wes always answered his phone like that these days.

  She hugged the stunning dress to her body. “How’d you find it?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “It’s too much.”

  “Still in the dark.”

  “How’d you even remember?”

  Silence for a beat, then, “I remember everything about you, Squirrel.”

  God, this man. “It really is too much. I can’t accept it.”

  “I have to work late, so I’ll meet you at the restaurant. My driver will pick you up.”

  “Weston Aldrich, you’re ignoring me.”

  “I’m doing no such thing.”

  She sighed, caressing the fabric in her hands. “How am I supposed to compete with this? I can’t afford to buy you things.”

  “I don’t need anything but you.”

  Those blasted tears returned.

  Several hours later she walked into the restaurant feeling like a Disney princess. Her dress slinked around her body, her hair twisted into a low chignon, a few loose strands framing her face. Wes was at the bar along the wall, sipping what looked like Scotch. His charcoal suit was impeccable as always, the expensive fabric accommodating his broad shoulders and powerful thighs. He was intent on his phone, a familiar scowl making him look slightly vicious. She knew that look. It was the one she’d seen sporadically since they had made up in his office.

  The second he saw her, the scowl fell. He scanned her from head to toe, a lecherous grin spreading. He placed his glass down and walked over as though she were the only person in the boisterous room. One arm latched around her back, he pulled her close and kissed her brazenly, not a care to their audience.

  “You look good enough to eat,” he murmured in her ear.

  “If you ruin a stitch on this dress, I’ll torch your closet. Every last designer piece.”

  He laughed. “Noted.”

  She used her thumb to wipe her lipstick off his lips. “Were you waiting long?”

  “You really do look beautiful, Annie.”

  “You have a habit of ignoring my questions.”

  He shrugged and nodded to the hostess, who led them to their table. Eyes followed them as they walked. She wasn’t sure if it was the dress, Wes’s commanding presence, or his recent Rosanna-related celebrity, but she felt like a bug under a microscope, albeit a nicely dressed bug. “Is it always like this when you’re out?”

  They settled at their table. His Scotch appeared by his plate. “Like what?”

  “Like you’re royalty. Everyone’s watching us.”

  “They’re watching you.”

  She rolled her eyes. “I’m not the one who dated a wild socialite.”

  “No. You dated a player who uses women and can’t be trusted.”

  Low blow. “I told you, the second date was just as friends, and he’s your executive assistant. If he can’t be trusted, why’d you hire him?”

  “I need strong people on my team. A hint of ruthlessness goes far in business. His personal life doesn’t impact work.”

  “So you’re saying I’m a bad judge of character?”

  He opened his mouth and closed it. Instead of replying, he laid his palm face up on the table. “Can we start this conversation over? You’ve got that pit bull look about you.”

  “Now you’re saying I look like a dog?”

  One corner of his lips tipped up, cocksure and handsome. “I’m saying you’re feisty and slightly savage when you’re annoyed. It’s sexy.”

  The compliment mollified her. She liked him thinking of her as strong and feisty, but she was tired of Wes evading her questions, specifically why he felt she suddenly needed a twenty-four hour guard. If he continued his close-lipped nonsense, she’d have no choice but to seek answers elsewhere. Speak with Duncan, even though Wes had a bee in his bonnet about the guy.

  Tonight, however, wasn’t the time or place. “I love this, by the way.”

  Wes stretched out his legs until they touched hers. He traced circles on the back of her hand. “Love what?”

  You, she wanted to say. She hadn’t been brave enough to speak the words again. She thought he felt the same as her, but it was hard to tell and harder to be so vulnerable in that uncertainty. “I love that we’re still us. We still fight and bicker. We’re us but better.”

  “Bickering with benefits.” His free hand joined his other, stroking her hand and wrist.

  The joke reminded her of Duncan’s antics. Wes really had that guy wrong. “So many benefits.”

  He kissed her knuckles. “Tell me about your day. Has Joyce surpassed her piano teacher yet?”

  Annie snickered, remembering how she’d left. “Sweet, old Joyce called me a cunt.”

  They talked and joked and squabbled, legs brushing under the table, fingers touching between sips of wine and bites of food. Annie forgot about the people casting glances their way. She quit worrying about Wes’s work stress and intensive vigilance with her. They were an ordinary couple, dining in New York City, the infectious whir of chatter and music adding to their bubble of happiness.

  At Wes’s apartment, her stunning dress didn’t stay on long. The public flirting had exacerbated their sexual tension, pushing them both to their limits. Wes devoured her body. She left bite marks on his chest and shoulders. They made love hard and deep, leaving them both sated and sweaty on top of his sheets.

  “Let’s make music,” he said gruffly.

  She grinned. “Count me in.”

  Wes pulled on his sweatpants. The first he’d ever owned. She couldn’t afford to buy him designer suits, but he’d seemed pleased with the gift. The loose fabric hung deliciously off his hips, his toned behind so distracting it took three tries for her to slip her foot into her flannel shorts.

  They shut themselves inside his sound room, headphones on, beats tripping through the equipment as they experimented. She no longer had to think when splicing phrasing. She felt the rhythmic changes, loved being the conductor of those harmonic frequencies: tones, notes, chords. Beauty through sound. The ease made blending songs easier. She could think ahead instead of playing catch up. Wes pointed to the line fader. She pushed it up slightly, boosted the track to get ready for the incoming beat. He dropped the new song. She tweaked the volume as they popped their bodies in time to the blending notes.

  A seamless beat match.

  Exactly how Wes and she had melded their lives: perfectly synchronized, stretching and adjusting to fit into each other’s worlds, whether bickering or laughing or making love. A harmonious relationship built on years of friendship.

  She closed her eyes and smiled.

  Wes tapped her shoulder and held up his phone, the lightness in his eyes eclipsed with dark.

  She pulled off her earphones. “What’s up?”

  “It’s my father. I’ll just be a minute.”

  He was out the door before she could find out why Victor S. Aldrich was calling Wes at one a.m. She tried to ignore her trickle of worry and focus on the music. She played with mixing in snippets of another song, raising the volume and adjusting the bass, but her attention kept snagging on the closed door.

  Concerned about Wes, and not trusting his father as far as she could throw him—which wasn’t very far—she removed her headphones and searched for Wes. He wasn’t in the kitchen. Or the bedroom. She almost went upstairs when a muffled voice came from the bathroom. She tiptoed closer.

  “No.” Wes’s voice was quiet but angry. More silence, then, “You don’t get to control this. I will not leave her.”

  Her? As in Annie? Was his father suggesting they split up?

/>   “This is my life. My choice. And I choose…no. No. How else do you need me to say it? This is not your concern, and I won’t…what did you say? You can’t do that. You have no right.”

  His hushed tone had morphed from adamant to furious, landing on panicked. Unable to stand there a second longer, she pushed the door open.

  Wes looked at her, his blue eyes vacant, like he was lost.

  Her inner pit bull snarled. “Get off the phone with him. Tell him you’ll call back in the morning, or I’m driving over to his mansion and spray painting penises all over the expensive stone.”

  Wes didn’t laugh. He pressed the phone closer to his ear, listened for a moment, then laughed, a harsh, humorless sound. “I guess I know where I stand, then.”

  He hung up and scrubbed his eyes. “He heard we were out to dinner.”

  “And he’d rather burn your inheritance than have me as a daughter-in-law, right?”

  Wes didn’t balk at the marriage joke. He leaned into the sink counter. “He has backward views on the type of person I should date, but he’ll get over it. I’m sorry you had to hear that.”

  “It’s not the first time I’ve heard him talk crap about me.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean?”

  “The night the Bromleys told me they were getting out of the fostering gig, when you brought me to your house, I was a mess over moving. There was a foster kid there I loved, Clementine Abernathy? I promised her we’d stay together, then a week later June told us she was pregnant.”

  “I remember that foster home, but you never mentioned Clementine.”

  “There was lots I didn’t mention back then.”

  His brow wrinkled. “Where did Clementine end up?”

  “I don’t know.” She swallowed through her discomfort. Annie wished she’d kept in touch with Clementine, made sure the sweet girl had ended up on her feet, but survival mode hadn’t allowed for pen pals and phone friends. “It was hard for me to talk about. I was scared and sad and stubborn and didn’t know what to do. I went to the kitchen that night, too stressed to sleep, and overheard you and your father arguing. I heard what he said about me and my family.”