The River In Spring

by Leslie Pike

  I’ve tried convincing myself the odds of fame are not great. But that’s bullshit. I think they are going to be successful, and it scares the shit out of me. Either I go with her, or I stay here and have a mostly long distance relationship. Long distance love. There’s no good choice.

  And I’m not even considering what would happen if they became more successful and toured. I wouldn’t fit in as a groupie and that’s what it would feel like. Following them around, living out of a suitcase, sounds like hell to me. Except for the being with her part.

  Just the lack of privacy and solitude, the general noise of the lifestyle, would be hard to adapt to. My invisibility would be compromised. It would take time to adjust my work habits and create movable workspaces. There are a million pieces to this puzzle.

  But I love her. She loves me. That argument holds a greater weight. Could we meet on some middle ground I cannot see right now?

  She hasn’t even responded to my text.

  * * *

  Don’t think she buys the shower story, but I’m sticking to it.

  “Pass the syrup,” she says, reaching across the table of the hole in the wall diner.

  I picked a quiet spot for breakfast, tucked against the hills on the edge of the city. Neither one of us are one hundred percent relaxed. I feel the imbalance. Never felt it before. Jumping into the problem seems the best way forward.

  “So I was thinking of our predicament all night.”

  She looks me in the eyes and a seriousness appears. “What predicament is that?”

  That sort of pisses me off.

  “I think you know. How are we going to handle this long distance? I can’t see me tagging along club to club and then hardly having your company.”

  Her fork is laid on the plate. She locks eyes with me and delivers the news.

  “Nobel, it might be much worse than that.”

  Didn’t expect that response.

  “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning if things work, we will cut a record. You haven’t heard all the news yet, because you were in the shower. But there’s more.”

  The way she says it is pointed and accusatory. She’s right, but it doesn’t stop me from not liking it.

  “What?” I say.

  “Archangel’s lead singer is interested in us. Hopefully he likes what he hears when we go to Nashville next week. Are you familiar with the country band?”

  “Well yeah. I’m not that old or out of the loop.”

  “Didn’t say you were. It’s just that their rise has been recent.”

  “What does that all mean? What does he have to do with you?”

  “Not sure yet.”

  “You’re going to Nashville for how long?”

  “I don’t know for sure. Arthur wants to rerecord “Mined” at his studio. That’s huge in itself. He wouldn’t put the money in if he didn’t think it was going to pay off.”

  “Congratulations. I’m happy for you, Dove. You deserve the recognition.”

  As much as it is hard to admit, what I said was the truth. Minus one thing. Happy for her, unhappy for me.

  “But there’s more.” She doesn’t break eye contact.

  I am not going to like this.

  “If it turns out the record is as good as Arthur believes, it will be released under his label. Maybe we will be signed. If so, it will be important to stay so we can write and record more songs there. Be close to the label.”

  I lean back in the booth and take a breath.

  “Wow. This is a lot to take in. Moving to Nashville for good?”

  “It’s a probability if things go our way.”

  I huff a response, not certain why I factor so little into the story she’s telling.

  “What about us?” I lay it all on the line.

  “What about us? There are choices to make. You can come with me. We’re in love, Nobel. I can’t bear to think of you being here, and me being in Tennessee alone.”

  “Obviously you can.”

  I hurt her with that sharp response. But it was accurate. I got used to making my point in law school. Identify the hole in the argument if it can be found. Tears fill her eyes and at first I do nothing to stop them. I’m hurt too. Just because I’m not crying is no indication of the depth of the wound. The silence is thick, and it sits between us. I reach for her hand, and she gives it to me without hesitation.

  Our eyes are almost begging to see hope in the face of the person across the table. Some crack in the wall that would say there is room for compromise.

  “I understand what you are feeling. It’s a lot,” she says in low tones.

  I play with her delicate fingers, so soft against my hand. “I’d love to be like you, Dove. But I’m set in my ways. And I never fool myself that I’m anything different. It sucks because I actually wish I could be.”

  She leans in. “But what about how we all morph into something new, whether it’s on purpose or not. Life changes us all the time.”

  “I wish it would change me now.”

  Her hand raises to my cheek and it’s so tender a gesture.

  “I don’t want you to change. I think you’re perfect. But what I do want is for you to be the man who, in spite of being uncomfortable, offers up his discomfort to be with the woman he loves.”

  I don’t know what to say. There is a logic to that, and it feels uncomfortable knowing I may not be capable.

  Her hand drops, and she continues. “And in return, I promise you the same. There will come a day when you need me to stand by you. And I will. It would be a given.”

  I let her words settle in my mind, where I pick them apart. My heart already knows the truth. But my mind. That fucker fights till the end.

  “Your career demands so much of you, Dove. I understand that. But it would demand things of me too. That’s something that seems unscalable.”

  She sighs before presenting her final argument.

  “Great things seldom come from comfort zones, Nobel. It’s all just words before you are asked to do it. The proof is in the doing. I have stood with those I love and been happy with the choice. With me, love wins out. Over music and career. Over every fucking thing. It’s you who doesn’t see it in yourself, and I’m not sure I see it in you either.”

  “That’s harsh,” I say, feeling the sting.

  “Yeah, it is.”

  We finish breakfast, passing the time trying to ignore where we find ourselves. Small talk seems odd. One click off the norm. All of a sudden, it doesn’t flow at the same pace. But we keep at it because the sound of silence is heartbreaking. Our deepest selves are exposed. The chink in my armor, her sense of self.

  I have five days to figure out how to bend. And if I don’t, I will find out what it feels like to break. Asshole, I say to myself.

  On the way out of the diner, our better angels reach for each other’s hand.

  * * *

  The days pass with a quickness I anticipated. Time runs out, as it always does. No matter how much we want to hold on to a day or a moment, it dissolves and reappears as the past. Day by day you think nothing has changed. Then you look back and see it all has. I feel nearly dead. It’s all about her leaving now.

  It has become increasingly clear that this is no false start to Montana’s real rise. The phone calls and Zoom meetings have increased with each day. Jimmy and Dove are writing furiously. At least I was able to contribute some general legal advice on a few points when they asked for my input. It was a short high though. A shallow contribution.

  The producer is interested beyond what he is saying. Just his mention of contracts and timelines tells me he has already made up his mind. He’s a bit too obvious to hide the fact. Think he’s afraid someone else will scoop them up. And it hasn’t escaped Dove or her bandmates. Rightfully so, they each are charged with the reality of the situation. This is the end of their long beginning.

  It becomes clearer with every day that passes. I am about to lose my mountain girl to the world. I hate that she t
ries to hide her excitement. But she does. The natural joy has been tapped down for my fucking benefit. That truth can’t be ignored. Am I becoming the one thing in Dove’s life that tries to hold her back? It would be fucked up to quiet the nightingale’s song. That is a horrible thought about myself.

  Now it’s our last night together before the flight to Nashville in the morning. I don’t want to see a clock or have any idea of the time. All I know is that this could be, and probably is, the last of us as we were. After tomorrow she becomes something new. Damn. I love the old us. Why can’t things ever stop evolving when you get it right?

  We’ve been laying in each other’s arms for an hour, watching the light from the full moon. It’s visible through the open window. There is a sadness to the image and scene. Maybe everything from here on will have that melancholy feel. I know it’s my mindset, but I don’t see it changing. Despite efforts to be a better man, I know myself. Dove said it early on as a compliment. Now it has become my undoing.

  All I can do is try to take this one step at a time. Don’t live it before it happens. I’ve told myself that all day. So far it hasn’t stuck beyond the time it took to think. Consequently, I die a hundred deaths, like all cowards do. To erase the thought, I kiss the top of her head and hold her closer.

  She meets my gaze.

  “I’m bad with words right now, Dove. I hope you’re good at reading eyes.”

  I don’t wait for the answer. It’s difficult to stop thinking of the real possibility I’m about to lose her. The reality sucks. She doesn’t know how slow the moments go when we are apart. If we end up living in different places permanently, time will stop.

  “Kiss me,” she says softly.

  We come together gently at first. Her silky skin. Blonde hair falling over my chest and shoulders. The sweet breath and taste of her mouth. The shape of her breasts. I try to memorize it all. To make some facsimile in my mind, that can be called up at will when I don’t have her next to me. When she becomes the world’s pleasure and not mine. But tonight’s for us. I throw off the covers.

  “I’m going to give you a massage. Roll on your stomach.”

  “Oh, yes please. Want to put a towel down?”

  “No. I don’t care if it stains the sheets.”

  “Let’s have music,” she says. “Alexa! Play Dove’s playlist.”

  The smooth sounds of Chris Botti’s trumpet sets a mood. “What Are You Doing the Rest of Your Life?” Seems weirdly appropriate.

  “Now just relax.”

  Lifting her long hair she tucks it over a shoulder. Giving me an all access pass. I take the bottle of oil and squeeze it over her back, between her shoulder blades and down her spine. My hands begin a subtly sensuous journey starting at the shoulders and neck. Kneading soft flesh in a slow steady rhythm.

  “That feels sooo good,” she says, face to pillow.

  I wish she could feel what she does to me. It’s fucking unbelievable.

  I move to her beautiful arms, taking a journey up and down the length of them. After a while the tension starts to release and her hands relax. Sliding over the shoulder, then round and around, my fingers reach toward her breast. A little closer each time. I take her wrist and gently bend the arm behind her back at the waist. Now I lift the shoulder and reach for the mound of a perfect breast, letting my hand cup and massage the entire orb.

  With each pass I linger longer on the nipple, tickling it at first, flicking the tip. Pinching. It’s hot that she likes it.

  “Baby.” Her voice is low and sounds like desire.

  My dick responds by standing. I give it a few strokes, even though it makes not mounting her torture.

  One beautiful brown eye opens. “Do all your customers get this treatment?”

  “You’re my only client. You get all the treatments.”

  “You’re going to get a huge tip for that.”

  “You’re going to get a huge tip for this,” I say, pulling on an aroused nipple.

  She giggles, and it makes me harder. I move to the other shoulder and breast. Nipple. Nipple. Nipple. I could fucking come playing with her tits. I’m hard as fuck. With hands on her narrow waist, I press my palms into her lower back and move up and out. Over again. More.

  “Ahhh.”

  I go lower. What a great ass. It rises with my touch, like she is offering a gift. I want her to wait for it. To feel the pull. Yeah. I want her to fucking want it. I’m gonna fuck that. That ass and pussy is a fuckin’ feast.

  “Let me see!”

  Legs spread with the command. The woman is a mistress when it comes to the tease. As master, I’m going to return the favor. With each movement I’m a millimeter closer to the holy land. Fingers finding buried treasure. I want to smell that thing. Smell her sex on my mouth. Just the thought sends a bolt to my balls.

  I bury my face in between silky legs and breath in the scent of her. It makes me want to come. She knows what I’m doing and likes it. There is this rawness to the woman. I love that she is so open. Makes me want to fuck her all day long.

  The pink lips. They’re calling me. Oh yeah there’s the clit. It’s peeking out of the hood. Sucking that tiny center of the universe gets me hard. Even her asshole is asking for attention. It’s sitting there daring me to finger it.

  My breathing. The heartbeat. My dick. I want her bad.

  A slow, intimate rubbing begins. At first fingers just grazing the edges of her lips. Then taking more. Going deeper. I part them and look at the wet heart of everything. I want her so fucking much. Lifting to her knees, I’m invited to have a closer look. Moonlight highlights the glistening oil on the roundness of her ass, on the curve of the spine. She squeezes her pussy, knowing what it does to me to watch as lips tighten then release. The sight is mine alone.

  I step back and squeeze oil in my hands. Rubbing it over my torso and arms. On my thighs. Dove’s head turns. The blonde hair wild and sexy as shit. She watches like a caged female lion waiting for me to mount her. I grab ahold of my raging dick and climb on the bed behind her. Uh huh. Like this, baby.

  19

  Dove

  His cock. It’s a granite rod. He knows what he wields, and comes to me gently. A man, considering the softness of a woman. There’s a control threatening to be lost. It makes me wet knowing he struggles to contain himself. That is the sexiest, the very sexiest thing.

  Like at any moment he might lose it and take me with or without permission. Although my ass in his face is invitation enough. The strength in his body sits behind every soft touch, but much closer with the not so soft ones. I fucking love when it hurts just a little. You’re good at the art, baby. Having that big cock guarantees my satisfaction. It hurts so good. Fuck me. Fuck me.

  With a hand on my cheek, he rubs the silk covered steel tip against my lips. I hear the labored breathing and sense the sexual storm contained inside him. It threatens to break the hurricane shutters and rip off the roof. Ignoring anything that dares get in its way. But my storm rages too. I’m pulling down all barriers and letting it run free. Come with me, baby.

  The tip. He teases without mercy. It feels really good though. My pussy is on fucking fire. Slick juices allow the glide. I want more. My back arches and I press my pussy into him, asking without words.

  “Take it,” his low voice commands.

  There’s no hesitation. Not on his part or mine. The cock enters me in a slow, but unstoppable drive. My body becomes electric. Cells and atoms dance to his beat. Every bit of me, a part of him. That makes him part of me. The slow, rolling motion. God yes. You are a master at the grind. This is fucking awesome. He’s not going to choose you.

  The shocking thought pushes its way into my mind. The ground shifts. Uninvited, it threatens any remaining hope. It goes right to my heart. I want to get back. Trying to ignore the intruder, I concentrate on being in the moment.

  “That’s good, baby,” I say.

  I hear myself speak. It sounds like someone else is talking. Not because I don’t mean t
he words, but because I am not wholly here. There’s a sense of going through the motions. While part of me, hidden deep inside, can’t stop crying for us. It’s impossible to forget what I know. Or stay in the mood to be having sex.

  I feel we are dissolving by the minute. He isn’t going to make the right decision. I know it. That’s what takes center stage. Even this intimacy that has meant so much, is changing. Where did we go?

  “I love fucking you,” he says between deep thrusts.

  But there is something in the voice that sounds like sadness. A stillness leaking out with the joyful words. He needs to be processing the same things. He’s just doing a better job at hiding it. I try to use my body to convince myself and Nobel that I am still here. Getting lost in his sex has never been a difficulty. Until now.

  I give it my all, pumping against him faster and harder. This is the first time I have ever tried to rush it. Before tonight, things were different. My orgasms were built with time, to make the explosions last. But I know tonight, if I just let it play out, I will never get there. Plus, a tightness builds in my throat. Oh shit! No! A heavy tear courses down my face. Then another.

  Nobel meets my pace and grabs the sides of my waist tighter, to pull me to him with every thrust.

  Thankfully it doesn’t take long for him to get to the point of no return. Then I do something I vowed never to do with a man, and especially not with this man. I fake it.

  While groans and sounds of orgasm spill from his mouth, I’m doing my best to mimic orgasming. It’s not easy. Sounds false start to finish. Think I overdid it. But I needed to let this out. We slow to the final pumps and grunts. I end with an obligatory ohhhhhhh. It’s relief. I can wipe my eyes now.

  As he separates from me and kisses my backside, I’m repositioning myself against the headboard.

  “That was great,” I say, fluffing a pillow behind my back.

  He just looks at me. Studying my face for answers to unspoken questions.

  He stays in the kneeling position at first.

  “Did you come?”