Maybe

by Amber L. Johnson

  Tyler shakes his head and rests his chin on my shoulder, meeting my eyes in the mirror once more. Over my clothes, pressing harder, he runs circles across the barrier between his palm and my softest skin.

  Taking the initiative, he slides his hand higher until his fingers are resting lightly above the waistband of my shorts. I urge him on with a shift of my hips. He presses against my back and grips my other hip with his hand tightly, while his fingers disappear beneath the fabric. They stop mere millimeters away from where I want them the most.

  “Here?”

  I nod at his question and whimper slightly.

  “Or here?” His hand drops lower as my legs spread wider and his fingertips brush against me.

  Tyler begins a slow circuit, running his middle finger in between my swollen lips. I watch his hand move within my shorts and try to focus on what he’s doing to me.

  “Now what?” he whispers, his breath ragged against my cheek.

  I slip my hand over his inside my shorts, pressing against his fingers firmly and moving them in a slow circle and then lower, until they rest at my entrance. With a simple push, I show him exactly where I want his fingers—inside me.

  Our hands move in time with each other, and he follows my lead, causing me to writhe against his lap. He responds by shifting his hips to meet my movements. My head is thrown back against his shoulder, and my eyes are shut, just feeling him. I need the complete experience, so I wrench his other hand free from my hip and guide it under my shirt, telling him silently where to go—how to knead and squeeze roughly until I’m moaning.

  “You’re gonna make me come if you don’t stop moving in my lap like that.”

  “You started it.”

  My hand is slick and warm on his, and in a moment of bravado, I yank it free from my shorts and shift my hips upward to snake it around and inside his pants.

  “Slow down,” he whispers, pushing me off his lap so that I have to let him go. I’m turned once more to face him, and I straddle his legs, my forehead against his while I try to breathe.

  His hands are on my knees, up my thighs, squeezing and kneading, spreading me wider until he’s flush between my legs. With one push upward, he’s hard and warm, getting to his feet to carry me to the bed, where he lays me down gently. Tyler raises my right leg up to his chest. He kisses my ankle and unwraps old silk, letting the ribbons fall and brush against skin. When he repeats the process with my left leg, I don’t think I can want him any more than I do right now.

  When he lowers himself, I clutch his neck and wrap my legs around his hips, anchoring and pulling his hair while we kiss, both tongues sweet like candy. He pulls back to tug up my shirt with one hand and lower my shorts with the other. I’m arched, letting him undress me, but he doesn’t hurry. He breathes and licks, presses and rolls, and I’m caught up in it, too far gone.

  The shirt is off and my shorts are halfway down my knees when I start to reach for his belt, but he pulls back a bit.

  “Don’t do that,” I whisper and grab on to the leather while shaking my shorts free.

  “Emily.” It’s not a sigh or sweet sound that comes out of his mouth. It sounds like a warning.

  His belt falls open, and I push his denim down his legs, catching the boxers along the way. Clutching on to his shirt, completely naked beneath him, I slide farther down to the edge of the mattress. He’s right there, and I reach between us to pull him closer, feeling his tip slide against me, resting right at my entrance, but he doesn’t move.

  “Just tonight. I’m leaving soon, okay?”

  “We can’t. We should stop.” He angles back a little, and my hips rise to follow, but he grounds me to the bed with his hands.

  Realization floods my mind and body, and I flush hot. “Is it about a condom? I’m covered, if that’s all. It’s okay.”

  His eyes open to meet mine, and his jaw flexes. “Yes, it’s about a condom. No, that’s not all.” He guides me up farther onto the bed, his hand coming to rest where I want his cock. “I can make you feel good, Peach. I can lick your pussy, and I can finger fuck you until you come. I can hold you at night while you sleep and touch you, but I can’t have sex with you.”

  My heart hammers, and my knees start to close, but he slips and slides and curls his fingers until I’m quivering under his touch, even though my good sense wants to respond.

  “I’m not going to have sex with you. Or make love to you, if that’s what you’d think this was. You don’t deserve to be fucked in Austin before you leave. You don’t want this.”

  I’m struggling to tell him that he doesn’t know what I want. He doesn’t get to tell me how I’ll feel in the morning. I’m stone cold sober. His fingers are in me, so even though I want to say these things, the only sound that comes out of my mouth is a stilted cry when he makes me come.

  Breathing heavily, I push back so that he’s no longer touching me, curling my legs against my chest to shut him out and cover up. “Go away.” It’s not like I didn’t enjoy it, but he’s punching a hole in my chest.

  He crawls up next to me and grips hold of my thigh. “Admit it, okay? If we have sex, it will mean something to you. It’s not just a one-night stand. You’ll go somewhere and think about this but won’t come back. Ever. I’ve seen the map. I’ve heard you talk about your job and your life, and that doesn’t include this. You know it, and I know it. You’re not this girl, and I’m not this guy. You don’t want this. I don’t want you to regret it.”

  “You don’t get to tell me what I want. Maybe I would come back. Maybe I’d stay. Maybe I just want a one-night stand because I’ve already fucked up my job so why not at least get what I want for just a few minutes?”

  His lips twitch. “It wouldn’t be a few minutes.”

  Every last wall I’ve built up, he’s infiltrated in less than a month. But I’m strong. If this is the end, I can figure things out in the morning. “You need to leave.”

  He doesn’t make a move to go, so I take my sheet and wrap it around my body, not speaking a word until I get to my bathroom door. “Leave, Tyler. This never happened, and we’re not anything. You know the way out.”

  Being rejected once is enough for any person in his or her lifetime. Opening myself up to have it done again just makes me feel unwanted in every sense of the word.

  Chapter Fourteen

  From the Private Journal of Tyler Macy

  Walking out is the hardest thing to do. But it’s right, and I know it. I need her too much. The notes are too loud, and maybe I’m afraid that if I’m inside her, then it all disappears, or it’s so perfect that I’ll ask her to stay and she’ll say no. Or she’ll say yes, and then what does that mean?

  Sometimes I replace Addie’s face with Emily’s. But eventually it morphs, and Emily is fucking one of my best friends in my bed after she’s lied to me about something so awful that my heart doesn’t just break. It’s eradicated.

  It won’t happen twice.

  —M

  Chapter Fifteen

  Ethan calls from the studio at eleven and wonders where I am because the band is asking for me to be at the photo shoot. I imagine that the people he’s talking about are Hollis and Tyler, and I don’t want to speak to either of them right now, but I’ll do my job here if it kills me, which it just might.

  It’s too bright and sunny outside, and I lose my shadow more than once under the shade of the buildings that line the street I’m headed down. I’ll keep my sunglasses on all day if I have to. Austin’s weather is too cheerful for my mood.

  My friend is setting up shots, putting the guys into their places for what I assume will be the centerpiece, two-page spread. It’s not surprising that Tyler is in front, and it’s not surprising that Shawn’s demeanor shows a glimmer of jealousy that it won’t be his face there. I’d never believed that he’d be okay going back behind the drums if it came down to it. He’s too interested in the spotlight.

  The thing is, they’re in suits, and it pisses me off a little. Ethan doesn’t
know what happened last night, and I’m not going to fill him in. But I’ve told him more than a handful of times that a musician in a suit makes me weak, and it feels like he’s an unknowing traitor. The only thing that would make it worse would be if he was holding a sucker, because that’s just a thing I like a little too much.

  “I hate you, you know,” I say lowly when he walks over to where I’m standing by an old brown leather sofa that is situated by the windows.

  He has this look on his face like I’m a bitch. His eyes narrow, and he scrunches his mouth up before pushing my shoulder a little. “You’re in a piss-poor mood. This won’t take long, but I figured you’d like to get this process in your article. Excuse me if I was wrong.” He pretends to bow like I’m a queen and he’s my subject who I’m giving orders to.

  “Piss off.”

  He does, and I fall onto the couch, resting my head against its warmth. My face is heated by the sun’s rays when it rises farther into the afternoon sky. When the cushion I’m sitting on sinks a little, I bite my tongue against saying anything. I can smell that it’s him, and I can feel how close his body is to mine before he even speaks.

  “Can we talk?”

  It’s the most absurd thing I’ve heard this morning, and I laugh bitterly. “I don’t think that’s appropriate.”

  He settles into the seat, and I can feel his eyes on me even though I won’t open mine. “How so?”

  That’s when I do acknowledge him from behind my sunglasses. “I don’t have enough days left here to explain it to you, Tyler.” The way his shoulders twitch makes him lean away from me. Almost like the words are a physical blow. Before he can respond, Ethan calls him back.

  “Ready for your close-up?”

  He is, and that’s when I know my job here is done.

  Stepping outside, I prepare to call Rynn. She won’t be happy with what I have to say, but if I don’t do this, then I won’t be able to maintain my sanity.

  “Your assignment isn’t done, so there better be a good reason why you’re calling me.”

  “My assignment is done. That’s what I wanted to talk with you about. This isn’t about a band. It’s turned solo. The bass player is married to the manager, and they put this together so that only the drummer can get signed.”

  “Who the fuck signs a drummer for a deal?”

  “Long story short for your enjoyment. He was the lead singer. Plays guitar, piano, drums, everything you can imagine. Hates being the front man, but they don’t care. They asked that I center the story on him, and I’ve done that. While it’s been interesting, I do bands, not solo acts, so I’m asking to be put on another assignment. Please.”

  “Who will cover the performance?”

  “Grier.” I haven’t asked him yet, but if I leave he has no choice.

  I can hear her muttering and swearing under her breath. “Let me look at what we have open.” She’s always been a loud typist, but my nerves are shot so each click makes my anxiety grow tenfold. “Seattle. It’s more of an office job. You’ll be a real scout, handing these assignments off instead of shadowing for articles.”

  I don’t hesitate. “I’ll take it.”

  I lie low for the next few days, finishing what I’ve written and leaving it open-ended so Grier can insert what he needs. Ethan had never told me, but the day I saw the trash can go flying, he must have been outside taking a few shots of the building. He’d found Tyler smoking on the trellis and popped off a few shots without his knowledge. Now before me are these hauntingly painful pictures of a guy who clearly felt remorse about being with me the night before.

  The practice photos are great, and the studio ones are stellar. But the last picture in the pile is the one that stops me cold. The black and white of me and Tyler on the couch makes my chest hurt and hands shake. The way we angled toward one another and the defensiveness in our posture brings the whole memory back in an instant, so I shove it to the side and pretend it doesn’t exist.

  Sleep comes easier now that I’ve started using my earplugs. I know he’s up and banging or playing until the early morning hours. I know he’s smoking at least two packs a day because I can smell it when I crack my window. The tension never leaves my body, though. I ache when I get up in the mornings, and it hurts to my bones. But I don’t waver in my decision.

  That’s why it surprises me when there’s a knock on my door at eight o’clock in the morning. I’m already awake and making coffee, but I’m not alert enough to comprehend Tyler standing in the hallway.

  “I have paperwork.” It’s like he knows I’m staring through the peephole and won’t let him in unless it’s for good reason.

  The lock is so loud, and I have to remind myself that this is just a guy that I work with and nothing more. He’ll give me the papers, and I’ll get dressed. In two days’ time, I’ll be on a plane, and this will be an X on my map.

  “Come on in.” I turn away from the door and walk to the kitchen because I can’t even look at him right now. “I appreciate you knocking instead of using your keys.” I mean it to sound like a joke, but we both know it’s not.

  “Should I just leave these here? On the table, I mean. I can go.”

  Turning, I blow on my coffee and finally glance at him. He looks terrible. Beautiful, but terrible. “Not sleeping?” His head swivels from side to side. “You can leave them if you need some rest.”

  “What I need is to talk to you.”

  “You’ve said enough, trust me.”

  The way he’s rushing toward me makes me cringe, but he’s in front of me, his knees bent so he’s at my eye level. “Talk to me.”

  “About what? You rejecting me like my fiancé did? Is that what you want to hear? That what you did to me makes me feel like complete shit, and I don’t allow anyone to make me feel that way? Not you. Not anybody. So the fact that you did it? I can’t even look at you anymore.”

  He’s braced against the countertop, his hands shaking and elbows locked. “Do you need me, Emily? Do you physically need me?”

  “No. I wanted you, but . . .”

  His palm rests against my cheek, and his eyes squeeze close while he exhales quickly. “This is crazy. I know this makes me sound insane. You know how you told me during our first interview that you’re no one’s muse and no one has ever written a song about you?”

  “Yeah.”

  His eyes open slowly, and they’re not angry. He’s scared. “You’re wrong. When I touch you, the notes we talked about? They come together, and I want to write music. I want to sing about how your skin feels and how your heart carries a beat that puts me to sleep, when nothing over the past two years has let me rest.”

  It aches, this confession. My cheek in his palm burns like fire.

  “I don’t know what this means or whether sleeping with you will make it stop or make it louder. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  It’s not clear, so I can’t answer. I just wait for him to complete his thought.

  “I can’t . . . need you. I can’t keep you here because I don’t want to have to need someone again. You have to go and travel, do the job that you love to do. It’s easy. Cut and dried. It could be just sex, but we both know it’s not, and I don’t want this tether to you.”

  “You’re insane. You don’t want to need me? If what you say is true, then you already do. Why would you push that away?”

  “Because I won’t let you be another Addie.”

  I nod, disgusted. “But you’ll be another Tim. Don’t come in here and tell me that I help you sleep and write, that you need me but don’t want me. This is insane and . . . what I want right now is for you to leave. I can’t go over this again, and I won’t go through it. You’ve said what you want to say, so just go. This isn’t one of your games.”

  I’m halfway to my bed when I call out to him. “I won’t be here for your show. I have another assignment.” When I turn to see if he’s heard me, the kitchen is empty, and the door is wide open. Passing by the living room table on m
y way to shut the door, I realize that the right side of the table is clear.

  He’s taken the picture of us.

  Chapter Sixteen

  From the Private Journal of Tyler Macy

  This is the best decision I ever made.

  And I am a liar.

  —M

  Chapter Seventeen

  The last thing I have to do before I can leave this place is attend the welcome dinner for the musicians. The film festival has wrapped, and the entire town seems to be gearing up for the music festival and conferences. I’m gearing up to get on a plane. Everything that I can pack, I do.

  I don’t ask for my barre to be sent to me. I’m apathetic toward the entire thing, and I think maybe it’s time I give up the ghost and let those things go. There’s always yoga, and Seattle has to have a class or two.

  My nerves are shot by the time I finish getting dressed. Laura and Grier are waiting for me so we can all drive over, but I don’t want to talk. I just want to get this over with. My dress is too tight, and the heels are too high, and frankly I hate everything about the night already.

  We step inside, and Laura grips my hand, squeezing a bit when we’re spotted by Hollis. My band—no, not my band. They’re standing by a table, drinking and laughing, like everything is fine, which I’m sure it is for them. For me, though? I’m over it, and I’m off the clock.

  “Wine.”

  The little bartending stations set on the outskirts of the party are a godsend. A glass of Riesling takes me less than a couple of minutes to drink. The second only a little longer.

  “Hey, slow down.” Grier wraps his arm around my shoulders and leans over to my ear. “Are you okay?”

  “Stellar.”

  I want to stop being so anxious. I have to get my shit together so I can leave with what little dignity I have left. Mr. and Mrs. Deets will go sit with their respective bands, and I’ll have to sit with mine, which sounds worse than water torture. Or being put into a room where they play “Panama” on repeat.