“Let me know if anything’s not okay,” he says. “It’s . . .”
“Extra magnum. I’m well aware.”
I move down, slowly, and his hands guide us, and he’s a lot, but it’s so good. He feels so good. His hips move beneath me, and mine move to join his, and we look at each other, just the two of us, caught together in a swirl of white sheets and fading sunlight.
My hair falls into my face, and he reaches up to move it back, holding it away.
“I want to look at you,” he tells me. “I want to watch you feel good.”
I moan. Because this is so perfect, and because I want to watch him, too, as we move together, as he fills me, as his eyes close, finally, and he throws his head back against the bed, his jaw flexing, all of him tightening beneath me.
His hands take control of my hips, gripping them as our movements intensify, as our breath comes harder and faster. I spread my body over his, my full weight against his massive warmth. I put my hands in his hair, kiss and lick and suck on his lips and tongue, the smooth skin of his shoulders. He groans, and I do, and we move together, faster, both of us trembling, both of us seeking after that light again.
He gets there before I do, his harsh gasps, the sharp movements of his body beneath me, telling me everything, pushing me over the edge. Again, that lashing, exquisite warmth, the ripples undulating like sun-warmed waves, flowing outward and over us, sweeping us along, as we rock together, trembling, sharing breath, fingers locked together now, bodies joined.
We settle, finally, and he takes my face in his hands and leans up to kiss me.
“Sky, beautiful Sky.”
“Grey, beautiful Grey.”
“Oh, shit.” His smile disappears. “I just realized something awful.”
“What?”
“We’re Grey Sky. I mean, our names together. Grey. Sky. That’s awful.”
I laugh and kiss him. Then I rest my cheek against his chest, listen to the fierce and steady beat of his heart. “Yeah, that kind of sucks.”
“I don’t think we can be together,” he says.
“No, you’re right. Not with those names.”
“We should break up.”
“Definitely.”
“When do you think? Like, three hundred years from now?”
I smile. “Maybe five hundred.”
He tightens his arms around me and kisses the top of my head. “Okay, five hundred years, and that’s it.”
We doze and wake up to kiss again, to touch one another, to whisper all of the things we’ve spent months not saying. It’s like that night in the darkness of my room when he held me, only so much better. Because now his body is mine to explore, now we can pour out our hearts to one another, tell each other our dreams and plans and know, because we’re free to say it, that we’ll pursue those dreams and plans together.
“Are you sure you want to keep acting?” Grey asks. “I don’t like what it did to you.”
I smile and slide my bare leg over his. “Acting didn’t hurt me. I hurt me.”
“Still . . .”
It occurs to me that being good at something, that making people happy with a gift, isn’t all of it. It has to feed me, too. It has to give me joy the way music does. The way Grey does. I’m hungry, I realize. So hungry for so many things. Food, most definitely. But for my music, too. For a life that reflects my passions. That gives me life, makes me burn inside. I’ve been starving myself in more ways than one.
Mia comes to the door with a couple of carryout containers, which I grab from her like she’s handing out fistfuls of gold doubloons. I don’t even care what’s in them.
“Whoa,” she says and peers around me into the room where Grey lounges on the bed, barely covered and smirking.
He gives her a jaunty wave. “Howdy.”
“Uh, howdy to you.”
I turn back to her with a look I know is the absolute opposite of a poker face. “Thanks for the food. And for everything.”
She grins. “So, I should come in, right? Hang out with you guys? You look like you want company.”
“Um, that’s a big N-O, but thanks again.”
“Fine.” She gives me a phony pout.
I give her a kiss on the cheek. “I’ll text you later.”
“You better.”
“I will.”
I close the door, and Grey is right there, taking the boxes from my hands. “I’m starving.”
“Me too.” I know I need to take it easy. I don’t want to make myself sick. But it’s like a switch has been flipped inside me again. I have so much more energy, such a stronger feeling of just plain life than I’ve had in a while. I guess intravenous fluids and a couple of orgasms will do that for a girl.
I start with a container of chicken soup, which is just heaven, and Grey tears into a turkey club sandwich, though he wraps up half for me and makes me promise to take a few bites at least.
While we sit there, I send an email to Parker and Jane, telling them to hold off on scheduling anything for me until further notice. They know I’ve been sick, but that hasn’t kept them from coming at me with messages, phone calls, notes of concern wrapped within reminders of obligation. But I know I need to take care of myself first. I don’t need my body to tell me that twice.
Next comes the tougher call—the one to my mom. I sit there and polish away the smudges on my phone screen with the edge of the sheet.
“You okay?” Grey asks.
“Yeah. Have to call my mom. Just not sure what to say.”
He leans over and smooths the hair away from my neck to press his lips there, trail kisses down to my shoulder. “Just tell her how you feel.”
“I know. I just . . .”
“Just what?”
I shake my head. “It’s just hard to let her down.”
“Well, don’t you think you’re letting her down worse by making yourself sick and taking on too much?”
“I guess.”
He starts in on the French fries. “So, this thing I figured out, with some help from a friend, is that if you avoid something it just keeps coming at you, over and over again, to kick your ass in bigger and bigger ways.”
I sigh. “You’re right.”
“I am wise beyond my years.”
He takes the soup from my lap, clears all the containers from the bed. Then he draws me against his chest and puts his arms around me. Grey kisses the top of my head. “Whatever happens, I’ve got you. More importantly, you’ve got you. Believe me.”
I feel a tingle in my sinuses that tells me I’m about to start crying. Lately, I’m just a wreck over everything, but I know that’ll get better as I do. “I believe you.”
Picking up my phone again, I have Siri call my mom. I feel like I forget to breathe as the phone rings once . . . twice . . . three times before my mom answers.
“Oh, honey, are you all right?” she says. “I’ve been so worried about you. I wanted to come there, but—”
“It’s okay. I’m out of the hospital. I’m doing better.”
“What a relief. You need to take care of yourself, Skyler. You can’t worry me like that.”
“I know, Mom,” I say. “That’s what I want to talk to you about, actually.”
Before I chicken out, I tell her I’ll always do what I can for her, but I need to think of myself, too.
“I think you should sell the farm,” I say. “The land is worth a mint. You could get a nice apartment near Scotty, help with the girls.”
She’s quiet for a long moment. I feel her disappointment beaming across the miles at me, but at least she doesn’t reject the idea outright.
“You don’t want me out there?” she asks, finally.
“I don’t think either of us wants that, Mom. Not really.”
“And you’re not coming home?”
“I’ll come for a visit soon,” I tell her. “But I’m staying in LA. It’s where I need to be.”
I look up at Grey, and he t
ightens his arms around me and nods. His expression is so adorable—enthusiastic and encouraging, but beyond that there’s a maturity, a look that tells me he understands what this means to me. And he truly does have my back.
I can get used to this, I think. Even if it’s only for five hundred years.
Chapter 43
Grey
This is so unusual,” Titus says as he pulls the guitar strap over his head.
“Yeah, it is. But it’s kind of the same, too. We’re still playing music for an audience.”
“My parents are out there. With all their lawyer friends.”
I laugh. “And I’m counting on them to be our most law-abiding fans.”
We’re in the back room of Norman’s, a club owned by one of my dad’s friends. It’s crowded in here, a small back office that’s piled high with paint cans and blueprints, crates of vodka and industrial-sized cleaning solutions. Titus and I needed a second away from the commotion outside. Just five minutes for us both to process the insanity of the last twenty-four hours.
Yesterday, Sky and I came back from the Virgin Islands to find the entire band waiting at the apartment. As Beth swooped Skyler off to smother her with affection and care, the guys presented to me their idea. It was: Let’s fuckin’ play anyway!
After so many weeks of preparation, we were primed to play and, without the showcase, everyone felt wired and unsatisfied. We had, as Emilio put it, gig blue balls. Forget the showcase and Vogelson, who still hasn’t replied. We had to play. Anywhere. ASAP.
I got behind the idea immediately, which started a flurry of activity as each of us reached out to our social networks. I went right to Adam’s house, to see my parents. Dad was there; he’d arrived in LA while I was in the Virgin Islands. When I told him what we were doing, he made some calls and got us the venue for tonight, Norman’s, which is closed for remodels. That easy. Hey, sometimes it’s nice to be a Blackwood. None of us cared if we played on plywood, or if the walls were unpainted Sheetrock. We had a venue.
The audience gathering outside right now is all family and friends, anyone who’s rallying to the call we put out last night. Emilio’s music students and people from the film crew have showed up. Some of the Boomerang people are here. Nora’s yoga class is taking a night off, and I think Shane said his dentist just showed up. It’s random and awesome. Totally personal. I think we’re almost at two hundred people. Not bad for a day’s notice.
And as it’s turned out, Norman’s is looking pretty swag. Saul, from sound, is finishing up all the amp hookups for us right now out on “the stage,” which is really the platform where the raised bar will eventually go. Last I checked, Danny and Alfredo, the grips, were out there setting up lights under the guidance of the director of photography, who’s offered to film the show for us. Bernadette and Kaitlin were out there with some of the set designers rigging up colored canvas sheets. About an hour ago, Ethan and Beth were out there holding panels and hammering nails for them. There’s more, too. Mom and Ali were running down some catering. Dad and Adam were on drinks/bar. Mia, as usual, was putting out fires.
About an hour ago, Rez even got some calls from a couple of the local bands we know offering to be our opening act. We have that one covered, though, so they’ll be coming just to enjoy the show. It’s crazy how many people want to help us. I’m not sure what I did to deserve it, but I’m not going to question it. Just letting the good times roll.
What we’ve ended up with is an aged-up-music-recital-slash-private-party. Kind of funny. Kind of not showcase-y. But cool. Already, it’s really, really cool. And it makes sense that these people, who mean something to us, will be the ones to hear us play at the height of our ability, exactly how we know we’re supposed to sound.
Good stuff.
Emilio swings the door open. “Your girl’s on in five, Blackwood.”
I head out of the small room and find Skyler standing behind a canvas panel that separates the stage from the rest of the club. She’s holding her electric cello, talking to Beth and Mia, and has her back turned to me.
Walking up, I wrap my arms around her and bend to her ear. “Hey, beautiful. You ready?”
It’s loud in here. The whole place is thrumming with the energy of dozens and dozens of people enjoying themselves, laughing, knotting new friendships from our social web. The sound the crowd’s making has a warm vibe. It’s different than when we play our regular gigs.
Skyler leans against me, tipping her head up. She’s wearing heels, but I can still look right into her eyes this way. “Kiss me,” she says, “and I will be.”
I turn her in my arms, and we somehow manage to hold on to the cello and kiss. As always, we get carried away.
“Oh-kay. I guess I’ll just go find Ethan?” Mia says.
Skyler and I laugh. “You’re feeling well enough?” I ask, brushing her soft pink hair behind her ear. Just three days ago, she was in a hospital, hooked up to an IV. And it’s not like I’ve let her catch up on sleep. I’ve been teasing her lately, telling her that’s what she gets for dating a younger guy. Bigger appetite. Just thinking about being alone with her, touching her, the way she looks and sounds and tastes . . . what she does to me . . . everything. No way I’ll ever get enough of her. Ever.
“I feel great,” she says. “Don’t worry, Grey. I really do. Actually, I can’t wait to play.”
“Okay. You’re going to kill it.”
“So will you.”
She rises onto her toes and gives me one more kiss, and then she takes her cello, and moves onto the stage. A cheer goes up from the crowd, and Sky does a little curtsy, some of Emma still in her, I guess, but then she grins, that perfect, disarming smile that’s completely genuine, and about as un-movie-star as can be. She plugs into the amp then moves to the microphone stand, and goes still, finding her focus. Her hands settle on the bow and the strings, and then she’s off.
Watching her play from my spot “offstage” is something I know right away I’ll never forget. What can be better than seeing someone you care about lose themselves so completely in art, in bliss? I never had this feeling, watching her act. It feels like a privileged position. I’m so proud of her . . . so proud of who she is, and flying that she’s chosen to be with me. That’s when it hits me.
I love her.
Wow.
Then I’m just tearing up like a total freakin’ asshole, trying not to lose it even more.
She moves to another song, with notes that rise like a story, like triumph, and my heart almost busts open when she glances at me. We’re making a story now. Together. I know that’s what she’s telling me.
When she plays the last song and takes her bow, the roar that goes up actually makes me wonder if we’ll have cops knocking on the door with a noise complaint. Good thing we have a half dozen lawyers out there to handle things if that happens.
I pull her right back into my arms as she comes off the stage. “How’d that feel?”
“So good. So, so good.” There are tears in her eyes. There’s relief and joy in them, too. “I love you, Grey.”
“What? Come on! I was going to say that.”
“Right now you were?”
“Yes! I was getting to it. I can’t believe you just trumped me.”
She laughs. “You can still say it. I mean . . . I’d still love to hear it.”
“I love you, Skyler. You’re incredible. I never thought—”
“Are you guys seriously doing this right now?”
Titus looks like he wants to kill me. The rest of the guys look less friendly.
“What? You guys want to play music or something? Shit! Let’s play some music!”
I wink at Sky, and head out to the stage with my band. The club looks incredible. I hadn’t seen the completed, jerry-rigged transformation yet, but it’s a combination of blue and white canvas, and dramatic lighting. It feels like being in a wave—and that’s a place where I’m totally comfortable.
In the f
ront of the small stage, I see my parents. First row of the audience. Mom’s outfit—jeans and a leather jacket—makes me smile. It’s probably what she considers “rock concert appropriate.” Dad, who was just eyeing the club remodel with the eye of a true entrepreneur, breaks into a huge grin when he sees me and yells, “That’s my kid!” to no one who doesn’t already know this.
Adam and Ali are right there. Ethan, Mia, and Beth. Skyler, who darts out and joins them. And so it goes, row after row of more friends. People from the film crew, friends of the guys, family members, girlfriends. I see Brooks in the back. Garrett stands near him. He blows me a kiss then he leans toward a guy standing between him and Brooks, saying something.
I’ve only seen the guy in pictures online, but I know who he is.
Vogelson.
Rez, Titus, Emilio, and Shane see him, too. They’ve met him before. I’m the only one who hasn’t. Yet.
We look at each other, grinning. After all the bullshit and heartache, wouldn’t you just know it? He’s here. But I think we all sort of feel kind of fuckit about things. We’re here to play music. Everyone we care about is here. Plus Shane’s dentist. Vogelson can kiss my ass if he doesn’t like us.
I don’t know if that’s the feeling that powers me as we start in. Freedom. Or fearlessness. Zingyness? A steely finish? Who the hell knows? It doesn’t matter. What matters is that I sing with every cell in my body. I sing my goddamn heart out. I sing about the love I wish I’d had in my life. The love I did always have and never appreciated until recently. And the new love in my life, the one that makes me feel like I can soar like a hawk.
My brother is in my voice. His unconditional love and support. Titus. Shane, Rez, and Emilio—the brothers I’ve picked up myself. Beth and Bernadette and Kaitlin and Nora . . . who’ve all helped me get here in ways big and small. Skyler.
Skyler Beautiful Skyler.
Everyone’s in my voice. I’m who I am because of all of them. And showing them that, letting them into that, is what I do on the stage. I open up, and bring them in.
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