by Brianna Hale
I hear the groan of his release, feel his rhythm stutter as he presses deeply into me.
We stumble to the shower and clean up, the hot water blasting our skin. I feel heady and I’m rushing high and he holds me tight in his soapy arms.
Later when we’re clean and drying and back on the bed we’re both still smiling. I rub my forefinger over his lower lip. “I’ve always loved your teeth.”
He smiles, amused. “My teeth?”
“Yes. Those pointy canines of yours. You’re like some sort of good-natured vampire or something.”
Laszlo nuzzles my neck, growling and nipping me with his teeth. “All the better to eat you with, my dear.”
I giggle, shifting myself closer in his arms and running my fingers over his jaw, his cheeks, through this hair. I can’t seem to get close enough to him. I think it must be that place he puts me into, subspace, he called it, and I hold him back, hard. I feel so close to him in my mind that I need his body even more as I start to come out of it. I think that’s how he feels, too.
“Have you enjoyed the tour?” I ask when I’m able to unclasp him a little.
His face splits into a grin. “God, I have. So much. It’s been a challenge but the audiences in Asia are so much more receptive to experimentation than they are in the London. There’s opportunity here for more. I’d bring the orchestra back in a heartbeat. In fact, I have a feeling we’re going to be invited back before we even leave the country.” He gives me a mysterious look but won’t say anymore. “What about you? Have you enjoyed the tour?”
I think back over the doubt and nerves, the hot stage lights and the riotous applause. And Laszlo. “I have. In all the many and varied ways. So much has happened for me in these past few weeks that it’s hard to tease it all apart, but I can say it’s been wonderful, discovering all these things with you.” I take a deep breath. “I’m so happy you’re my dom. My lover.”
He looks at me for a long time, like he’s trying to figure out what to say. It’s there, hovering at the edges of our cozy little nest. I love you. I feel it so keenly and I want to speak it out loud. I’ll continue to fight, to reach for the things that will make me happy. But for now I hold back the words. It’s not that I’m afraid, but I’m learning patience. The moment will come when I will tell Laszlo how deeply I love him, and he will say it back. There’s no need to rush.
“I’m so happy too, baby. With all my heart.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Laszlo
Now
After the performance that night the owner of the concert hall greets me backstage, a man in his early forties called Mr. Niran Anumak. We shake hands and he takes me up to his office, which looks over the sparkling lights of Bangkok.
“Do you like the view, Mr. Valmary?” he asks me, hands clasped behind his back as he smiles out at the vista of skyscrapers lining the Chao Phraya River. The roads are filled with moving cars and scooters and pedestrians line the sidewalks of the night markets and restaurant precincts. Bangkok is an intensity of light and color, especially after dusk.
I watch him narrowly for a moment, catching a meaningful tone in his innocent question. “It’s very beautiful.”
“Very different from the gray London streets, hmm? There’ll be an even better view from the musical director’s office at the new concert hall.”
I keep my tone as casual as his and say, “Yes, I imagine there will. I’ve been past the construction site many times.”
Mr. Anumak turns to me with an appraising look. “I suppose you know we’re looking for a musical director for the new concert hall.”
My face doesn’t change but my heart starts to pound. “No, I didn’t.”
He smiles at me broadly and then gestures to his desk. “Why don’t we sit down, Mr. Valmary. There are some things I’d like to discuss with you.”
It’s gone three in the morning when I leave the concert hall but I feel wide awake. Musical director of the new state-of-the-art Bangkok concert hall. A chance to handpick every member of the orchestra myself. Control over what the orchestra plays. Greater freedom to experiment and innovate, to invite world-class soloists.
I look around at Bangkok with fresh eyes. This could be my city. Mr. Anumak wasn’t merely offering me the chance to apply, he was offering the job to me. All I have to do is say yes.
I consider hailing a cab to get back to the hotel but the evening is warm and fragrant and the lights of the city are bright. There are plenty of people abroad and I stroll along the sidewalk, thinking. There’s lots to think about. Isabeau is foremost in my mind, because wherever I go in the world I want her with me, but I also know that London is the best place for her.
Asia, though. Asia could be good for her career, too.
All I know is that I want to say yes to Mr. Anumak. I want to shape the new Bangkok symphony orchestra with my own hands. Me. Not anyone else.
The scent of flowers reaches me. I want to tell Isabeau how I feel, how I really feel, but there’s a correct way for things to unfold. You can’t have the finale before the overture, even though we’ve skipped straight to the crescendo. It’s time for things to be returned to their proper order, and that means Isabeau knowing everything that happened after I took her into my house when she was eight years old. I could tell her now, putting a finger under her chin and drawing her face up to mine. “Sweetheart, there’s something I need to tell you. Several somethings.” Will she be angry with me? With him? I’ve wondered this so many times over the years and I don’t know the answer. Her feelings are hard to gauge because Isabeau’s always refused to talk about her father. The heroin frightened her and the loss of her mother was painful. I wonder if that’s why her sub tendencies have manifested in the way they have. I’m not afraid of the power I have over other people. Power can be benevolent. Power can support, uplift. That’s all I want, to see Isabeau and my orchestra thriving in my care, and I swear by every star above me in the night sky I will have it.
Patience, Laszlo, I caution myself. You will have it, but you need to be patient. When the tour is over and we’re back in London I’ll set things in motion for her to learn the truth. I’ll be there to deal with the fallout, to hold her as she cries if she needs to cry.
And to offer her my heart at the end. Forever.
I want to see a diamond ring sparkling on her finger, a ring I’ve given her. I want her to be my wife. Everything else, Bangkok, London, orchestras, performances, can fall in around that most important thing: having Isabeau as my wife.
I’m awoken by my phone ringing and see that it’s eight-fifteen in the morning. I groan, wishing that whoever it was could just let me sleep. I don’t recognize the number but it has a +44 country code, which is the United Kingdom.
I press the answer button and mutter, “Laszlo Valmary.”
There’s a short silence, and then a woman’s voice comes on the line, as if she didn’t hear me. “Mr. Valmary?”
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and sit up, rubbing my face. If this is a journalist or musician wanting to audition I will give them a piece of my goddamn mind, though that seems unlikely as it’s the middle of the night in London. “Speaking.”
The woman goes on in slow, empathetic manner. “I’m very sorry to disturb you while you’re out of the country. I spoke to your assistant earlier and I understand you’re traveling at the moment. My name is Astrid Clark.”
My assistant. She must mean the office assistant at the Mayhew because my PA is here in Bangkok. There must be an important booking, some fussy manager who doesn’t like to do things over email. “It’s fine, Ms. Clark. What can I do for you?”
She hesitates. “I’m calling regarding Mr. Piers Laurent. I’m afraid I have bad news.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Isabeau
Now
The first thing I do when I wake up is check my email and I’m disappointed to see I don’t have a reply from Ms. Sanchez yet. Then I laugh at myself, as she only received my
reply and the recording less than a day ago. Anyway, it’s the middle of the night in London. She might not even have seen that I replied to her yet.
But she will reply. I don’t know if I will be what she’s looking for but if not there are other agents who might be interested in me. I won’t crumple under a single rejection.
I make coffee and drink it looking out the window across Bangkok, wrapped in a bathrobe. Tonight is the final performance of the tour. Soon I’ll no longer be in Laszlo’s orchestra which makes me a little sad as I’ve loved every moment playing alongside them. They have welcomed me and been kind to me. Even the silly incident with the viola player doesn’t smart any longer and she’s left me alone since then.
There’s a knock on my door and when I open it I see Laszlo. He wasn’t with us after we left the concert hall last night I didn’t get a text letting me know how his meeting went. “There you are! I was wondering what happened to you last—”
But I stop myself, seeing the tense look on his face. He comes into the room, shutting the door behind him and taking my hands. “Sweetheart. I need to talk to you.”
Laszlo leads me over to the sofa by the window and sits down with me, holding both my hands in his. “I’ve got some difficult news for you. It’s about your father. He’s very ill. He’s in a hospice in London.”
Something cold and hard comes loose inside me and begins to fall. A hospice. I’ve heard that word before. It’s where people go to die. My father’s dying. I try and get my head around it, my father dying, my father being dead, but then realize that Laszlo’s still talking.
“…admitted two months ago but he refused to allow the hospice to notify his emergency contact until yesterday. His liver is failing and he was refused a transplant.” Laszlo looks at me, perplexed. “Do you understand, sweetheart?
“Who’s his emergency contact?”
He frowns, as if that wasn’t the question he was expecting me to ask. “I am.”
I want to ask why that should be but Laszlo goes on talking quickly. “My assistant is booking you on the first flight back to London and I’ll follow you as soon as tonight’s performance is over. Are you going to be all right? If you need me I’ll come now. You’re more important to me than the performance.”
But I tell him not to be ridiculous, that of course he needs to stay and that I’ll be fine in London for twelve or so hours by myself. I stand up to go. Packing. That’s what I should do. Suitcase, airport. See my father. Logical and right. I should probably feel something about the fact that I’m seeing my father before he dies, but there’s nothing there.
Then as I head for the door it does hurt. Oh god, it hurts. But not for the reason it should.
I turn back to him, needing to say something, now, before I’m torn away from his side. “Laszlo, there’s something I need to tell you.”
Laszlo puts his arms around me and holds me close, all gentle assurance. “I’ll be right behind you, I promise.”
But I have a terrible feeling that if I don’t say it now I might never get the chance. Look what happened three years ago when I left him suddenly: I lost him for years and years. “My plane might crash or you might get hurt or I could…could just lose you. I have to say it.”
Realization dawns on Laszlo’s face. He puts his hands on my shoulders, fingers digging in. “Isabeau don’t, please—”
But the words are clamoring to get out. Whatever he thought I was going to say, whatever is making him so afraid, it’s not that, it’s something much better.
“I love you, Laszlo.”
His eyes close and he just stands there, his body braced as if there’s a truck barreling down on us at a hundred miles an hour and it’s too late to get out of its path.
When he opens his eyes there’s so much pain in them, and he can barely speak above a whisper. “Isabeau, you have to go.”
I shake my head, not understanding, wondering what I’ve done that’s so terrible. “No, you didn’t hear me. I love you.”
In the ringing silence that follows I realize that he did hear me, perfectly. And he’s not saying it back. It’s the night of my eighteenth birthday all over again, me thinking that my feelings will be welcomed by him and Laszlo meeting them with horror.
“I…”
My heart leaps and I anticipate the words. Say it. Say it, please.
“I need you to go, baby.”
Hope comes crashing down. I’ve ruined everything again, except this time I don’t understand what I’ve done.
“Please, sweetheart,” he whispers. I pull away, hoping he’ll stop me, but his hands fall to his sides. I take another step and he watches me go, his eyes bleak. He’s not going to do anything. He’s not going to stop me.
Anger rises up and I rush at him, screaming, “Tell me what’s wrong. Don’t do this again.”
His arms come around me as I slam a fist into his chest. He holds me, gently but firmly, as I do my best to hurt him. “Laszlo, tell me what it is.”
Somewhere over my head his voice is fierce and bleak. “I can’t, baby. It’s not your fault, but I can’t. Not right now. There are things—”
Can’t, or won’t? He wouldn’t tell me all those years ago that he wanted me and there’s something he’s not telling me now. I wrench myself out of his arms.
He watches helplessly, speaking quietly but breathing as hard as I am. “You need to go now and see your father or you will regret it. That’s what is important now, and I’ll be with you very soon. I need you to trust me on this, baby. Will you trust me, please?”
I don’t understand any of this. What is Laszlo not telling me? He thinks he has to protect me from everything, against my will. “How can I when you won’t talk to me? I don’t think you understand how much you’re hurting me. Hurting us.”
But he doesn’t say anything and he’s not going to change his mind. This is the Laszlo that everyone else sees. Cool. Remote. Unreadable. And the most painful thing about this is that I never thought he would turn this blank face on me.
I rake my hands through my hair, wanting to scream again. I feel like a piano that someone’s hidden a bomb inside, and striking one more chord will set me off. I need to pull myself together through all the pain like I did that night and just go. Go to London. See my father. That’s what’s important now, my duty to him, not Laszlo and his distance.
I look at him one last time, giving him another chance to explain, but he just stands there silently, and I run from the room.
Later, when I emerge with my suitcase and cello, he’s there and he takes them from me. We walk downstairs in brittle silence, suddenly strangers again. He hugs me before I get into the waiting taxi but my arms are too heavy to hold him back.
As I get into the car I feel the weight that started falling when Laszlo told me my father was dying. It’s still in freefall, plummeting down and down, and I don’t know if it will ever stop falling.
Seventeen hours later I arrive at the hospice, straight from the airport. The flight passed in a blur of restless thoughts and knots in my stomach. I think I forgot to drink any water and I know I didn’t sleep.
When I tell the nurse on duty who I am a doctor takes me into a private room.
“Your father is in the latter stages of liver failure,” she tells me when we’re sitting down, her manner matter-of-fact but gentle, as if she’s used to doing this sort of thing. Which I suppose she is. Who decides they want to become a doctor in a hospice, shepherding people into the next life, knowing there’s nothing you can actually do to heal them? Or is it more something you fall into, by seeing an ad or being referred by a friend?
I realize my mind is wandering and I make myself listen to the doctor. The jetlag must be clogging up my brain.
The doctor tells me that many years of using street heroin cut with all sorts of chemicals damaged the blood vessels in his liver. The damage has progressed slowly over many years but, because of his addiction, he wasn’t a viable candidate for a transplant.
&nb
sp; Anger rolls through me. He put this poison into his body day after day and he never tried to get better.
“I’ll take you to see your father. He might be confused or incoherent at times,” she warns me gently. “As his liver is failing it’s causing electrolytes to build up which hinder brain function.”
How much brain function? I wonder. Why did he finally let them tell Laszlo he was dying? Did he want to see me one last time?
The doctor takes me to Dad’s ward and leaves me sitting by his bedside. He’s asleep, or unconscious. I can’t tell which. I sit and watch him as he breathes. I watch the machines measuring his heartrate. The drip with the long, clear cord going into the back of his hand. The waxy pallor of his face, roughened by gray whiskers. I remember the photograph of my parents on their wedding day that used to sit on the mantelpiece, my mother in a lacy white dress and my father in a gray suit and tie. Both so young and healthy. Both beaming with happiness.
What did he really feel about her death? Why did he have to get hurt, too? And as I look at him I wonder, what hurt more, the pain in his back, or the pain of losing her? Because it hurts, losing someone. It hurts like cold wire stitching your organs tightly together, squeezing, mercilessly shredding your insides.
Hours pass and I must fall into a doze, my head resting back against the wall, because the next thing I hear is, “Issy.”
I snort into wakefulness and look around, confused. Dad. The hospice. I stand up and go to him. He looks so small in the bed, his eyes yellowed and watery, his skin yellowed. I have my mother’s nose, I remember, but I have his eyes and chin. Even through the sickness I can see the resemblance.
“The doctor said this has been coming for a long time,” I venture at last. “Why didn’t you let them contact Laszlo sooner?”