"No, please, I'm sorry," I said, sitting up. He backed away from me as I moved to the edge of the couch. Issa raised a hand to his lips, lightly touching them. They looked swollen. His fingers trembled. Every cell in my body was telling me to stand up and take that mouth again. To take every part of him, to beg him to take every part of me. "You should go," I said.
"I..." he paused. "I just never—it's not your fault," he said.
"I need you to go," I said, my voice wavering.
"Please," he said, taking a step forward.
"Go!" He stumbled back from me and I felt my breath almost as a force when I told him to run.
He did.
<<<<>>>>
"You must have realized then what you were."
"I'd always known I was different. This just seemed more proof."
"But the power you felt."
She bit her lip, and it was one of the sexist things I'd ever seen in my life. I actually stopped breathing. I saw her lips moving but couldn't hear her over the sound of blood rushing in my ears.
"Hey, are you listening?" she asked, breaking the spell.
"Sorry," I said.
She smiled. "It happens. Try not to look at me."
I pulled my eyes down to the table, the full ashtray, the two empty beers. "So what about the power you felt?" I asked.
"I didn't know what it was or how to control it. For all I knew it was a hallucination."
"So what did you do?”
<<<<>>>>
CHAPTER TEN
After Dr. Tor left I threw up. Then I took a shower, dressed, and got my ass to band practice.
"Darling!" I realized Michael had been saying my name.
I still felt weak and light headed, my mind clouded. Michael was standing at the mic, a hand on his hip. "You ready?"
I nodded, picking up my bow and placing it against the strings. Emmanuel smiled over at me and I tried to smile back, but I could feel the fear slipping up my spine and settling into my fingers. I couldn't do it; I felt that truth in the deepest part of me. Without Megan I was nothing and my fingers would prove it with every foible, every slip, every mistake. I bore down on the violin, holding it tightly, knowing that was the wrong way to go. As the band began to play I waited for my beat and then came in just a moment too early, eager, pathetic.
We did three songs, my performance off during each one. Michael began to throw looks at me, ones from under his lids, trying to hide the anger in his eyes; but I could feel it vibrating off him. And why wouldn't he be mad? I was terrible. I gripped harder, my fingers pressing against the strings, tightening onto the bow so that there was not even the hint of fluidity in what I was doing.
Michael stopped singing and Dre's sticks stopped beating against the drums. Emmanuel's steady bass was the last to stop. "Let's take a break," Michael said, smiling at me. Then he looked over at Emmanuel, jerking his chin at me, as if to say, You deal with it.
Dre stood up and stretched toward the ceiling. Pulling a pack of cigarettes out of his pants pocket, he headed out for a smoke. "I'm going to get some air," Michael said, following him.
I put my bow and fiddle back in their case and looked down at them. "Hey," Emmanuel said behind me. "You need to relax."
"I know," I said, staring down at the glossy wood.
He took my shoulders and turned me around. "I'm going to kiss you now," he said.
I shook my head. "No," I blurted out. Not wanting to say, I'm delusional and I'm afraid that I will suck the life out of you.
His lips quirked to one side.
"No, you don't understand," I said, but before I could continue his arms were around me, his lips covering mine. It felt different. His hands were in my hair, moving my head where he wanted it. My knees felt weak and then I was floating. The rich scent of honey wafted across my nose and I could swear I heard trumpets. I felt my fingers running through his hair, my leg coming up to wrap around his hips. He broke the kiss but I leaned forward, reaching for him again. Emmanuel let me catch him and then bore down on me so that all my senses fuzzed except smell: the strong scent of sweet honey.
"There you are," he said, his lips brushing mine. I breathed deeply, feeling like I'd plunged into a pool, dived down to the bottom, felt the pressure in my lungs, looked up at the blurry world above and, kicking off the bottom of the pool, decided to breath again.
I just nodded my head. Then he kissed me again. I kept one hand clutched in his curls and let the other wander down his neck, finding the pulse that beat there and laying my fingers over it, moaning softly at how beautiful life was. I breathed him in and felt that buzz again. But it wasn't overpowering. Emmanuel seemed to be controlling it, controlling me. He gave me what I wanted but held me back, not letting the hunger overtake me, suck him dry.
Emmanuel pulled away again, bringing his thumb up to wipe it across my lips. "Let's play," he said. I let my leg slide down his and uncurled my fingers from his hair. Emmanuel smiled and buttoned the top of my blouse. I looked down, not even realizing it had come undone.
I heard the door open and turned away, letting my hair fall across my face so that Michael and Dre wouldn't see the bright red flush that I could feel spreading across my chest, up my cheeks, straight to my hairline. Emmanuel walked back over to his bass and picked it up. I watched him over my shoulder, through a curtain of my hair. When I saw his head move to look at me I quickly bent down and picked up my violin.
My fingers still felt weak, my knees unsteady. But the fiddle felt good in my hands, lighter, more a part of me. As soon as the first song started I knew there was something different. Instead of trying to play the song I seemed to almost melt into it. My eyes rolled into the back of my head and I felt the music washing over me, my own fingers reacting, my hips dancing. Michael's voice felt like it was in my blood, the drum felt like it was inside my head, and the bass, that low controlled never-fading bass, beat in my chest.
****
Emmanuel insisted on driving me home. Michael talked the entire way. He was very impressed with my turnaround. "You did really great," he said.
I nodded, looking down at my hands resting in my lap. I was scrunching in my shoulders and trying to make myself as small as possible so that I wouldn't touch Emmanuel. Sitting next to him felt like sharing the bench with an electric current. I was afraid to touch him, convinced it would ignite a spark that would engulf me in flames.
Emmanuel pulled up in front of my place, double-parking. The pickup vibrated as he put it into park. The hairs of his arm brushing mine, I closed my eyes, breathing deeply waiting for the sensation to fade. "So I think we're ready for the show," Michael said. I looked over at him. "You'll be on time?" he asked. "Of course," he continued with a smile, "you're always on time. But, hey, we could pick you up."
Emmanuel opened his door and climbed out. "That's fine," I said. "It's not far."
"It's no problem, right, Emmanuel?" Michael said.
"Really, I like the walk," I said.
"Okay, sure, um..." he looked down at his hands for a moment and then back up at me. "Maybe you should wear something sexy," he said with a shrug of his shoulder and a small smile meant to take out the sting.
"Okay," I said, feeling a blush warm my cheeks.
Emmanuel reached into the bed of his pickup and grabbed my fiddle case. I slid across the bench, past the wheel, and was reaching for the open door to steady myself when Emmanuel offered me his hand. I bit my lip and grabbed the door handle instead, lowering myself to the ground, noticing that the pain and exhaustion from the surgery was gone, leaving me with no excuse for the weakness in my knees. I wondered if he would kiss me in front of Michael; I didn't think I could bear it if he did, or if he didn't.
"Thanks," I said, taking the violin from him, making sure our fingers didn't meet. He smiled down at me and I peeked up at him. His brown eyes seemed to hold mine; against my will I smiled up at him, feeling as though my feet hardly touched the ground. He turned toward my door and I followed, carrying my v
iolin. Pulling my keys out of my purse, I inserted one into the lock, letting my hair hide my face. "Thanks for the ride," I said.
The tips of his fingers brushed my temple as he tucked a lock of hair behind my ear. It felt like all the blood in my body was suddenly rushing to that spot, making the rest of me feel unreal. "See you tomorrow," he said and then turned back to the truck. I got the door open and hurried up to my apartment, unlocking it and then shooting the deadbolt once I was inside, my heart pumping hard. What was happening to me? I raced to the window just in time to see his truck pull around the corner.
<<<<>>>>
"You didn't know what he was even after he kissed you?"
"I'm not sure I know what he is today, and I've done a hell of a lot more than kiss him."
"Oh," I said.
Darling laughed again. "Yeah, oh."
"So you went through with the show? Even as the world was ending?"
"I didn't know the world was ending.”
<<<<>>>>
CHAPTER ELEVEN
On stage I liked to wear all black but Megan always fought me on it, insisting that I was hiding away, trying not to be seen. Yeah, she practically had a Ph.D. in Darling psychology.
I looked through my closet, and finally held up a knee-length black dress in front of the mirror. It made me look like I was heading to a funeral. Dropping it on the bed, I turned back to my closet and pulled out a belted dress with owls on it. Holding it up in front of the full-length mirror, I decided it was too casual, daytime, and not short enough. Throwing it on the bed next to the black dress, I turned back to my closet. That was when I noticed the gold shorts.
They were Megan's; she'd worn them the night we got our record contract. I pulled them out of the closet, wondering how they got in there, but more than that, remembering that night. The music was perfect; we were in sync—it was as though there was a force field between the two of us, making my fiddle and her voice into one instrument. People said they'd never heard anything like it. Two months later, days before we were set to begin recording our first album, Megan coughed up blood. It was terrifying, blood dripping between her fingers, an expression of abject terror on her always-brave face. She knew what it meant before I did.
Turning to the mirror, I held the small gold shorts to my waist. They'd probably fit now, I thought. I nodded at my reflection and headed back into the bathroom to dry my hair, apply makeup, and finish getting ready for the show. I owed it to my bandmates and myself to rock tonight. Megan's little gold shorts were just the thing to help me try.
****
As I walked over to the venue I felt eyes on me. Despite the black raincoat I wore, which fell respectably close to my knees, the people I passed dragged their gaze over me. Bare legs and low-heeled black ankle boots, even without seeing the gold shorts, say something. Before leaving the house I'd dabbed Gilt onto each of my wrists, behind both ears, and once right between my breasts. "For luck," I'd said as I replaced the bottle on Megan's dresser. Then with a last look around I'd picked up my violin and hit the streets.
"Wow," Michael said when I walked into the green room.
I laughed.
"You look great," he said. "I like what you did with your hair."
I'd pinned it away from my face but it flowed in loose, broad curls down my back. "Thanks," I said, nervous about shedding my coat.
Emmanuel was watching me, sitting on the green room's old couch. He held his bass, leaning it against his chest, his fingers playing absently across the strings, his forearms tensing and relaxing as he watched me cross the room to the coat hooks. Turning my back on them, I shrugged out of my coat, exposing the shorts and open back of my shirt. I hung up the coat and turned around. Both men were staring at me. Michael's jaw looked loose, his eyes fixed on my cleavage. Emmanuel's fingers stilled, his gaze heated. My top was low cut, tight, black, with the edge of that pink bra poking over the top.
Michael whistled under his breath, a soft and appreciative sound. "You look incredible," he said.
I stared at Emmanuel. "Lovely, as always," he said and began to strum again.
"Thanks," I said and walked over to the refreshment table, picking up a bottle of water and cracking the lid. Taking a long sip I felt the cool water travel down my throat. When I looked over at Emmanuel again he was still watching me. "Can we have a minute?" he asked Michael without taking his eyes off me.
"Sure, yeah," Michael said, heading for the door. Emmanuel stood up, placing his bass on the couch. He walked over to the door and locked it, turning back to me. My heartbeat pulsed through my body. Emmanuel slowly walked toward me, his movements liquid and dead sexy. I bumped up against the table, feeling the edge hit my butt. Putting the bottle of water down behind me, I tried to break from Emmanuel's gaze but couldn't. I literarily could not take my eyes off his slow approach.
He was mere inches from me—his breath on my face, his scent almost overwhelming me. Electric vibrations made it feel like we were already touching. I meant to speak, to tell him not to kiss me, but instead I nodded. I felt my head bob on my neck and a small voice inside me screamed a question—What I was doing?—but before any part of me could answer, Emmanuel was kissing me again; and there was nothing in the world but him and me and the spark we made.
He pulled away, his lips still close, and I tried to go after them but he held me in place, his palm controlling my head, fingers dug deep in my hair, warm against my scalp. "Stay still," he said, breathing raggedly, pressed up against me. I could feel he was hard. He groaned and closed his eyes, leaning his forehead against mine. "Darling," he whispered, my name sounding almost like a prayer.
I wanted to tear his shirt off and lick every inch of him. I went for those lips again but he held me. "No," he whispered. "I won't be able to stop." He sounded pained.
"Don't stop," I panted, pulling at his shoulders. Leaning up, I captured his lips; wrapping my arms around his neck, I held him tight. His hands dropped to my ass and lifted me onto the table. Pushing between my legs, he took control of the kiss. I heard water bottles falling over, plastic wrap squeaking, the table scraping across the floor as our tongues played.
Bright orange and white heat splashed across my closed eyelids, feeling alive, real, as it burned around my body, coursing through my veins at insane speeds. His hand was hot on my naked back, the other gripping my ass, squeezing, pulling me open.
There was knocking at the door. "Yo." It was Michael's voice. "Come on," he called through the closed door.
Emmanuel did not stop kissing me. His hand came around and cupped my breast, stroking my nipple through the satin material. His lips left mine, traveling south. His hand came up from my ass and pulled my hair back, tilting my chin skyward, so that I was exposed to him. Fingers dipped into the cup of my bra and pulled. He stilled, staring down at my exposed breast. I opened my eyes and saw the ceiling; it was painted white, yellow from smoke, cracked down the center of my vision.
Another knock, this one louder. I heard the door handle jiggle and then Emmanuel's mouth covered my nipple. I cried out, a small, strangled sound that changed into a low moan as he swirled his tongue. "Jesus! Unlock this!" Michael called. "We don't have time for this."
"I told you I wouldn't be able to stop," Emmanuel said against my breast, the tickle of his lips sending shooting rays of pleasure and energy to my throbbing center. He returned his hand to my ass, clenching even harder, pushing my thighs further apart as he began to kiss back up to my neck.
"I've got the key," Michael yelled through the door. "I'm coming in, in 3, 2..." I heard the key in the lock. Emmanuel brought his palm up to cover my breast, turning to look toward the entrance behind him.
"Get out of here, Michael," he said as I heard the door open. Emmanuel’s body blocked my view; his hands were still on my ass and breast, his neck, twisted toward Michael, mere inches from my lips.
"We go on in ten, you asshole."
"I don't give a shit," Emmanuel said.
"The fuck you
don't give a shit." I heard Michael take several steps into the room.
Emmanuel's hand tensed on my breast, tightening. It felt so good. I wanted him so badly. But there was that voice in my head, the one questioning what the fuck I was doing, spread out on a concession table of a club I was about to perform in. That wasn't professional. That was insane.
I shifted, trying to pull my shirt back up. Emmanuel turned to me, ignoring Michael. "What are you doing?" he asked.
"We're going on," I said.
"I told you I couldn't stop."
Both hands tightened at once, making me ache, desperately hungry for him. I felt his hard length against me and I wanted it in me so badly that it clouded my thoughts, but I wasn't this person. This wanton girl. I pushed him back, yanking my shirt up and closing my legs. He stumbled away, his gaze hot on me.
"Alright," Michael said. "You ready to play? Come on!"
****
The show was incredible. My eyes were closed for most of it but I could hear the crowd reacting to us. Michael's sultry voice, Dre's precision drumming, I could hear them. But all I could feel was Emmanuel's bass. It was almost like I could feel his fingers running up and down my spine as he played.
After it was over, we stumbled off the stage, all of us drunk on the music, smiling, knowing we'd done something special. Michael threw an arm around me. "You were incredible," he said.
Our manager, Veronica Haus, a tall woman wearing cowboy boots, tight jeans, a black tight T-shirt, and a grin, walked into the green room moments after us. She was older than me, in her late thirties, with bleached blond hair she'd pulled back into a loose ponytail. "You guys were amazing!" she said.
"Thanks," Michael answered.
Veronica turned toward me. "You were on fire," she said. "I haven't seen you play like that in a year."
One Kiss: An Apocalyptic Urban Fantasy (Transmissions from The International Council for the Exploration of the Universe., #1) Page 7