by J. Saman
“My pleasure. Now, go get her before Harry Evans makes his move. And if you fuck this up again, I’ll make sure they never find your body. There is no such thing as third chances in this world.”
I give him a nod and turn around to go get my girl. No way I’ll need a third chance. No way.
Chapter 26
Lyric
* * *
Our bodies move and sway in a synchronized rhythm in time to the music the band is playing, and in harmony with the other dancers surrounding us. Harry is talking to me about a song he wrote, that’s of course, not part of the original tracks we’re starting from. He’s humming it to me as we dance close, his hands on my lower back, just above the fabric line of my dress where they, ever-so-slightly, run across my bare skin. My arms are on his shoulders, trying to maintain awkward distance from an overeager guy like I’m at an eighth-grade dance.
His voice tickles into my skin and when he hits the chorus, he sings the words directly into my ear. If I wasn’t so focused on his physical proximity and how to disentangle myself from it without causing an issue, I would say that I like the song. That it has potential. I think it might, but I’m not entirely sure.
He presses me closer and I inwardly cringe, about to open my mouth and put a stop to this once and for all when I catch sight of movement out of the corner of my eye. That familiar electrifying feeling lifts the hairs at the back of my neck. My stomach does that same goddamn swoosh. My body knows who’s headed for me with focused determination before my eyes can even catch up. Jameson’s pale eyes are an eloquent mixture of dark and dangerous as they smolder with lust and fury.
My breath hitches as nervous energy fills me, making it difficult to keep the giddy laughter from bubbling out of my lips. I cannot believe he came. I have no idea how he got a ticket, but evidently, the man is resourceful when determined. Drunken butterflies take flight in my stomach, bouncing all around and making me sick with their uncoordinated flutters.
Jameson smirks, stalking toward me like an animal about to pounce on his prey. Harry says something to me, but I can’t tell what it is past the blood rushing through my ears. My body hums with nervous anticipation. I know Jameson is here for me. I know he must have gone to great lengths to get a ticket. I know I should still run in the opposite direction, but when he looks at me like this, I can’t help but draw closer instead of farther away.
I used to love the way Jameson would see me. The way he was able to look past what everyone else saw on the outside and find me hidden beneath. He made reality better than the dream and he did all that simply by smiling into my eyes or watching me from across the room. That’s what he’s doing to me now. Reminding me that he knows me. That he owns me. That this is so much more than simple attraction or a need to reconquer what was lost. This is soul-searching, depth-scouring, primal recognition of your other half.
My knees weaken and my resolve turns to mush.
“May I cut in?” It’s a demand, not a question, and Harry stops his half-baked dancing and turns to face him, ensuring that he doesn’t release my body from his grasp even the slightest amount.
Harry’s smile doesn’t touch his eyes as he replies, “The lady and I were in the middle of something.”
“And that something is over.”
Harry shakes his head, more into the fight than I would have imagined. “Sorry there, mate. Not gonna happen.” He shifts his position, allowing his posture to dictate the message that he’s not afraid to fight for what he wants.
I’m almost tempted to interject, but I’m dying to see where this little standoff is headed.
“Come now, Harry,” Jameson patronizes with a small tsk of his tongue. “I can’t imagine you want to start something at the Rainbow Ball. Especially considering you’re just coming off your DUI incident a few months back.”
I don’t smile and I hold in my snicker. Mostly because I’m shocked that Jameson even knows, a) who Harry is, and b) that he was arrested for a DUI.
Harry’s back straightens like a rod, and this is the moment I need to get over my morbid voyeuristic enjoyment at watching these two square off. “Harry,” I say, touching his shoulder so that he’ll turn his attention back to me and away from Jameson. “He’s an old friend from college.” I have no idea why I just said that. The words flowed out of my mouth like a burst pipe. “Why don’t you go speak to Ethan about which studio you want for Monday and he’ll make it happen?”
Harry’s eyes search mine as he weighs the situation at hand. “I always do as my lady requests,” he says with a flourish that has me suppressing my eye roll. “I’ll catch up to you later, beautiful.” He leans in and plants a kiss on my cheek and then walks off, intentionally bumping into Jameson in the universal way that says: you didn’t win, I ceded the victory.
Jameson doesn’t waste time. In the next second, his arms wrap around me, pulling me into his warm body, the scent of his enticing cologne disarming my better judgement. His fingers glide up my bare back, running lovingly over the place my tattoo is, as if to remind me that he’s as much a part of me as this ink is. I shudder, chills running up my arms as he presses my head to his chest directly over his heart. His heart that is beating wildly, betraying his cool, confident exterior.
“Home at last,” he murmurs into my ear, his voice soft and his tone so sincere that I can’t help but mimic his sentiment. Because nothing has ever felt as right as it does in Jameson’s arms. I close my eyes, sink into him and then, my eyes snap open wide.
What am I doing? Why am I giving into this so easily?
Four years, Lyric!
Four years with not so much as a peep out of him. His story about seeing me with Ethan and thinking that I was with him and that I was happy feels like bullshit. It all feels like bullshit. Because at the end of the day, he didn’t fight for me. He didn’t fight for us or what we had. Which means I wasn’t special to him. I wasn’t important. And now? Now I don’t know what this is. Regret? Nostalgia? Quarter-life crisis over his father’s poor health?
I can’t say, but it’s like a cold hard slap on my underused and overzealous libido.
I realize I’ve stopped moving when he says, “Dance with me Lyric. Let me hold you in my arms and press you against me. Let me remind you what it feels like to be touched by someone who knows every inch of you better than you do.” He draws back and meets my eyes, the glitter in them spreading warm tingles through my body. “Come on, baby, let’s make the world around us disappear the way only we know how.”
“And what happens when it comes back into focus, Jameson? What then?” He silently stares at me, almost like he doesn’t quite know how to answer. And wow, that’s just…shit, I don’t even have words. “You’ve missed so much. Four years is not an insignificant amount of time. In fact, it’s a hell of a lot longer than we were together.”
He shakes his head at me like I’m not getting it. And maybe I’m not. I feel too lost to understand much beyond my own sense of this. “I was reckless. Reckless with your time. With your heart. With your love. I was reckless, Lee, and I don’t know how to express my regret in terms that you could understand. It goes beyond words or even emotions. It’s inside of me. It’s a part of me. I was reckless and I let the love of my life get away.”
“That’s the thing,” I say, staring straight into his eyes, “I never went anywhere. I was still there. The whole fucking time. I hadn’t moved. Not houses. Not jobs. I was there, Jameson, waiting on the guy who never showed up. For the guy who was too reckless to even call me back. I know it was a no-win situation, but we should have never ended like that. That’s on me, too. I know it is. But I don’t know how to forgive you. I honestly don’t. But even if I could find a way, I don’t know how to trust you. I’m not sure my heart could sustain another blow like the one you gave it.”
He stares at me helplessly as he imagines up the magic potion. The one that erases time and memories. The one that makes all of this better and allows us to try again. And when he comes up e
mpty, he just pulls me back against him, holding me so close, knowing this moment is fleeting. That our expiration date on this dance is just about up.
“Inevitably, we’re forced to make sacrifices. It’s when we sacrifice the ones we love for the things we shouldn’t that changes us. That’s what I did, Lee. I sacrificed you for something that wasn’t anywhere near as important to me as you were. As you still are. It’s not something I would ever do again. Could ever do again. Yours is a forgiving heart. It’s the biggest, most beautiful heart I’ve ever had the pleasure of holding. But I get it. You need more than just my words or promises.” He moves back and now he’s grinning like he’s got it all figured out. Like he just had that ah-ha moment and it’s all coming together for him. “When you’ve screwed up so bad that you’re at the bottom, there is no place else to go but up. I’m gonna fight for you, Lyric Rose. I’m gonna fight like crazy. Because I love you and I know deep down you still love me, and we’re it. We’re meant to be. Fucking kismet and all that bullshit, but no less true. This is it, baby. So yeah, you’re not done with me yet.”
And then his mouth finds mine. No, it devours mine. In the middle of the dance floor in front of New York society. This kiss says: I dare you to contradict me. One hand is in my hair, holding my head as he controls the kiss, his other hand on my lower back as he toys with the line of my dress. He sweeps his tongue against mine, tasting me. I taste him, too. I can’t stop it, so why try? Scotch, mint, and Jameson. That last one so good I’m high, dizzy and weak in the knees as he kisses me like a man has never kissed me before. Like his world starts and stops inside my mouth. Inside my soul.
And when he pulls back, he cups my face in both hands, his thumbs brushing along the crest of my cheeks. “Don’t give up on our forever. It’s just getting started.” He searches my eyes, vacillating between each one as he tries to read me. “Are you really working with that Harry guy on Monday?”
“Yes,” I say softly, still stunned by the kiss, though my voice is steadier than I would have thought.
Jameson’s eyes close slowly as he releases a breath. And when he reopens them, they’re filled with fiery determination. “When do you leave for California?”
He doesn’t know about the studio here in New York.
“Tomorrow,” I lie. And I can’t even explain the lie. I have no idea where it comes from, but I don’t retract it. I don’t try to change it. I need the time the lie buys me. I need its security. All of this is happening so fast and I feel like I can’t get my bearings.
“What time is your flight?”
“Ten in the morning.”
“Then I don’t want to waste another minute.” Jameson takes my hand and leads me away from the dance floor.
“I can’t leave,” I protest, trying to pull away.
He gives me a sideways glance and a smirk to go along with it. “We’re not. We’re just going somewhere more private.” He guides me out of the main room and over to the outdoor garden that overlooks St. Patrick’s Cathedral and Fifth Avenue. The lawn and gardens are beautiful. Perfectly manicured hedges lined with small flower beds and short trees make up the majority of the refuge high above the city. The air is cool and crisp and the sounds of the city below are muted by the elevation. In fact, it’s surprisingly quiet and romantic out here with only the glow of the cathedral to light our way.
The outer hedge that lines the stone perimeter has breaks every few feet and it’s to one of those breaks that Jameson leads me. Leaning forward, our forearms rest on the cold, rough stone as we stare down at the street below. “It’s lovely up here,” I whisper reverently. “In all the years I’ve been coming to the ball, I’ve never been out here. Do you like living in New York?”
“Yes,” he says quickly, his gaze focused on the cars flying south on Fifth Avenue. “I wasn’t sure I would, to be honest. But it grows on you.”
“Like a rash,” I mutter under my breath. I don’t hate New York. But I’m mad at it, if that makes any sense. I realize I’m going to become a temporary resident over the next few months, but that doesn’t mean I’m fully resigned to it. I think I have more a love/hate relationship with it actually.
“If New York is a rash, LA is a disease.”
I nod my head. “I do not disagree with that. I love my house in Malibu, but there is a lot about the city I could do without. The smog. The traffic. The congestion. The fakeness of the people. It eats at you, but I imagine that’s like anything else and after a while, you just…acclimate.”
“I’m proud of you, Lyric.”
My head swivels in his direction, my eyes wide and my mouth slightly agape.
“Don’t look at me like that. I am. You’re one of the leaders in your field. You run your own record label and you have the respect of people more than twice your age.”
“Look who’s talking.” I laugh, nudging him with my shoulder. He smiles. He likes that I just initiated physical contact and I sort of wish I hadn’t. Mostly because I liked it, too. I lose sight of my anger when I’m with him for any length of time. I fall into old familiar patterns quickly. It’s impossible not to.
I still like talking to him. I still want to know about him. I still care about him. And worst of all, I can’t do anything to stop it. I’m torn in two. Half of me wants to throw myself into his arms and never look back. Half of me wants to slap him and run in the other direction. I love him and I hate him. I care about him and I want to kill him. But I guess that’s just love, right? It’s not known for being the most rational.
Love. You make smart women so very stupid.
“I guess,” he says modestly, inching a little closer to me. A cool breezes brushes across my face, momentarily stealing my breath. Or maybe it’s the man next to me doing that. “We’ve been busy,” he says, but I don’t miss the somber note to his tone. “Do you still like making music?”
I grin, just thinking about that question. About the meaning behind it. “Music is the passion of my life.” A crooked smile graces the lines of his perfect lips as he stares at me. I don’t look at him, but I see him all the same. I always see him.
“Not the love of your life.” Ah, so that’s the smile. I shrug, unwilling to explain further. He knows. I know he knows and he knows that I know he knows and so goes the game. “What is it you love so much about music, Lyric? I think in all our time, I’ve never asked you that directly and it’s something I’ve always wanted to know.” Lyric. He called me Lyric, which indicates that this is a serious question that demands a serious answer.
I like his question. Or maybe the way it makes me feel.
“Music is universal. It defies borders, language, race, ethnicity, age and gender. Everyone out there has a song they can connect with, even if they don’t ‘like music’.” I put air quotes around the words. “People all over the world, with virtually nothing in common, may like the same song. It unifies people in a way nothing else can. I also like the power it can wield. The way it can both heal and tear down. The way it can make you smile, and cry and sing and dance. All at once sometimes. People feel music in a way they allow themselves to feel little else.”
He stares at my profile, but this stare is different than any before it. This stare says I make him feel everything. That I’m his version of music. “Lyric Rose.” He pauses here, waits for me to turn and find him, match his intensity. “You make it impossible not to love you. And just when I think I couldn’t love you any more, you prove me dead ass wrong.”
I turn away at that. It’s too…much. Because it’s exactly how I feel about him. Even after four years apart.
“Thank you for flying across the country to see my father. It meant a lot to him…and me. Especially me.”
I don’t know what to say to that. My pleasure, or it was nothing, doesn’t really fit with this. I came because I care about his father a lot. But I also came because I was searching for closure. A closure I clearly never received. A closure I’m not all that interested in anymore and that might scare me the most
out of everything.
His fingers brush across my cheek at my silence, and he forces my face to his. His lips caress mine once. Twice. And then again. It’s whisper soft and elegantly sweet and heartbreakingly beautiful. It’s everything I need and yet not nearly enough. I pull back and stand up, desperate to clear my muddled mind of the man who is making it harder and harder to know what the right thing to do is.
“I need to get back.”
“Then let’s get back. And maybe tonight you’ll let me take you home.” He gives me an impish grin, stepping into me and bouncing his eyebrows suggestively. “Whosever home that may be.”
“Stop flirting with me, Jameson.”
“Then stop being the most stunning woman I’ve ever seen, Lyric.”
I roll my eyes. “I don’t like charming, either.”
“I’ll work on being less charming. But you should know it’s my natural state, so it won’t come easily to me to give all that up.” His arm snakes around my waist, pulling me firmly against his chest. I lean back and stare up into his eyes. “Let’s get you back in. I want to dance with you again. If I only have tonight, I’m going to give it everything I’ve got.”
Chapter 27
Jameson
* * *
Sunday mornings in New York are for running along the river, expensive alcohol-infused brunch, or sleeping in. Or all three. Typically, it’s all three for me. It’s the day my friends and I relax. The day where we just get to hang out without the pressures of work or women or families. Today, even after last night, is no exception.
I’m walking up Park Avenue toward the restaurant that Travers picked for today. We typically try to mix it up, and today the guy picked Upland, which is a California-inspired place. Or so the website says. California. It’s like the bastard is mocking me or something.
After Lyric and I went back inside, we were immediately ushered to our respective tables to eat the four-course dinner that was beginning to make its rounds. When I negotiated my invitation out of Greta’s manipulative hands, I didn’t consider table assignments. Not sure I would have had a choice so last minute anyway. It turns out I was across the damn room from Lyric at a table of old-school New York socialites. All friends of Greta’s mother who were not happy to have me there.