by Autumn Grey
Were we supposed to attend a Game of Thrones-Iron Man-Braveheart convention?
My gaze wanders down to my knee-length, plum dress that hugs my curves in all the right places, black heels and a clutch to match. I don’t go out on dates often, but when I do, I like to put a lot of effort into dressing up. This dress is one of my prized possessions. A sigh of disappointment passes through my lips when my gaze travels back to the boy-man across the street, but I’m trying hard not to judge him based on his attire.
“Elon?”
The sound of my name being called in my ear pulls me away from my stunned state.
“Um . . . sorry, Mom. I’m in the middle of something right now. Can I call you back tomorrow?”
Silence falls between us, causing guilt to stab my chest. Then she mutters, “Sure.” A pause, then, “I love you, Elon.”
“Um . . . I love you, Mom,” the words stumble awkwardly from my lips. Crap. Why is it so hard to say those words to her, and yet, I find it easy to tell my sisters and Amber I love them?
Shaking my head, I shove the phone back in my purse and step out of the car.
Poor Sean is now nibbling his thumb and stopping every few seconds to look around, shaking his arms as if to throw off the nerves. He’s probably just as nervous as I am. It wouldn’t hurt to sit through dinner and try, for once, to enjoy someone else’s company, other than a Judith McNaught novel.
I cross the street while murmuring a Hail Mary under my breath, begging her for patience and guidance and strength. As soon as Sean sees me, he stops pacing and flashes a bright smile in my direction.
“Elon, right?” he says with enthusiasm. I feel a little guilty for bitching about this date.
“Yeah.” My hand shoots out in greeting, but he surprises me instead when he steps forward and pulls me into a hug, squishing me against his body. He pulls back and holds me at arm’s length.
“I’m Sean. Oh man, the photo your sister sent me doesn’t do you justice. You are hot.”
I chuckle. “Thank you. You look um. . . interesting.”
That smile grows even brighter, and he straightens to his full height. “You like? It’s medieval night over at our frat house. Thought I’d just dress up for our date and the party over there later.”
He’s still grinning hard when he offers me his arm and I hook mine around his, then let him guide me into the restaurant. Despite my previous worries, I have to admit that it feels great to be treated nice by a guy as cute as Sean. After the headwaiter eyes us up and down, straying a bit too long on Sean, he shows us to our table. Sean pulls the chair out for me, and as soon as I sit down, he rounds the table and settles into his seat, scooting it a bit too close to mine. Our shoulders are almost touching. I catch a glimpse of his hand dipping down to adjust his junk.
Hell, no. He didn’t just fiddle around with his crotch, did he? In the restaurant. Twice, as if to make sure everything is in place.
Another waiter appears at our table, pulling me from my thoughts.
“Good evening, I’ll be your waiter for tonight.” He hands us both a menu and tells us he’ll give us time to look it over, turns and strides back to the bar.
Sean flicks his hair back and grins at me before his hand finds its way to his crotch. Again.
“Sorry. New underwear. Shit is getting real down there.”
Oh, Jesus. I shaved my legs and dressed to the nines for this?
I swear this is the last time I let Elise set me up. There was this one time she set me up with a guy who couldn’t stop talking about Jesus. We parted ways when he said he couldn’t kiss me or touch me because I was the devil’s temptation. Prior to that, he’d been urging me to dye my hair a different color because, according to him, women with red hair are Satan’s little disciples. When I refused, he told me I desperately needed salvation. The little shit put the fear of God in me, and by the end of the week, I was a complete wreck. I ended up attending confession for the first time in my life for three weeks consecutively, fearing for my soul.
Even when I say no to the dates, Elise somehow ends up convincing me that I need to put myself out there for me to meet Mr. Right. What can I say? I’m a sucker for a happily ever after, even though all I’ve done is kiss frogs so far.
By the time my date with Sean is over—I cut it short with an excuse, telling Sean I have some homework to finish—my cheeks are permanently on fire due to the constant blushing I’ve done the past hour or so. The conversation ranged between hilarious and cringe-worthy.
All I want to do right now is go home, drink wine and watch cat videos on YouTube.
Inside my car, I kick off my heels and fish my phone from my bag. I quickly type a message to Elise.
Me: You and I need to have some words.
The phone chimes immediately.
Elise: How was the date with Sean?
Me: One of a kind. I <3 you but I’m done. No more blind dates for me, sis.
Elise: Shit. Sorry it was a bust.
Me: I’m serious. I can’t do this anymore.
Elise: Okay. No more blind dates. Please don’t hate me?
A laugh pours out of my mouth.
Me: I couldn’t hate you even if I tried.
I toss the phone on the console and concentrate on pulling out of the parking spot.
The silence inside my beat-up Ford Fiesta is shattered by the ringing of my phone. I grab it and answer, pressing the speaker button. Amber’s voice fills the space.
“Remember that swanky place I’ve been telling you about? Reed’s Lounge?”
I squint at the traffic lights at the intersection through the windshield. “Yeah?”
“Meet me there in ten minutes. I booked us a spot.”
“A spot for what?”
“Talent Thursday,” she says excitedly. “An open mic of sorts.”
“It’s a weekday,” I state firmly.
“Oh, come on, E. It’s only 8 p.m. and we don’t have class until 10 a.m. tomorrow.”
“Amber—”
“Just two hours tops. Alex is—” Her words fade and Alex’s voice replaces Ambers.
“Never thought you’d ever back down from a challenge, Freckles.”
“I’m not in the mood, Alex—”
“Let’s make a bet. If your performance receives more applause than mine, you’ll receive an Amazon gift card worth twenty-five dollars,” he announces in a confident voice, making me straighten in my seat.
“What if you win?”
He laughs. “Somehow I have a feeling you won’t let that happen. But let me humor you. If I win, then you’ll announce in class that I’m the best fucking cellist to ever walk the earth.”
I laugh and say, “Too bad. That position has already been filled—” by Nathaniel freaking Rowe.
“Feeling overconfident, are we?” he drawls with a chuckle “So, are we doing this or what?”
“Why are you doing this, Alex? Did Amber put you up to this?”
“Does it matter?” he asks. “Look, the past few weeks have been hard on you, dealing with news about that wanker Rick contacting Amber and your brother-in-law being sick. We might be competitors but outside of that, we’re friends.”
He’s right. Thinking about Josh and how sick he has been and also the news about my ex . . . everything seems to be closing in on me. Cello is the one thing that has the power to make me relax. Make me forget about the things happening in my life.
“Fine. I’ll just grab my cello from my place, then head over there.”
“No need to do that. Amber brought it with her,” he says quickly.
I sigh, turn the car around and drive back downtown. “I hope you have that gift card ready, Alex, because I’m planning to kick your ass.”
He laughs and says, “You wish. Just hold on a sec. Amber wants to talk to you.”
I hear them whisper for a few seconds, then Amber giggles before her voice fills the line. “How far are you from here?”
“Five, six blocks maybe. See yo
u in a few minutes.”
I disconnect the call and concentrate on getting to the Lounge.
As soon as I walk into Reed’s Lounge, warmth engulfs me and I breathe out, feeling relieved to be out of the cold evening air. The large room is lit up in subtle lighting with the raised stage in the middle of the room illuminated with stage lights. On the second story, I notice what looks like glass booths made of black glass and steel. Very sleek.
Amber suddenly appears and pounces on me. She drags me to a booth in the back of the room where Alex sits cradling his cello like it’s a baby. After a round of hugs, I shrug off my jacket. Amber and I sit down while Alex props his cello next to the table and heads to the bar to get us drinks after we give him our orders.
Amber shifts around in her seat to look at me. “You’re up next—” she points at the stage, “then Alex and lastly me. So how was your date?” she yells, in an attempt to be heard above the woman shrieking “Someone Like You” by Adele on the raised stage in the middle of the large room.
“One of the most interesting dates I’ve ever been on,” I say with a laugh, then proceed to tell her about my date with Mr. Grabbing-the-Crotch, while we wait for Alex to return with our drinks.
THE MEDICATION I TOOK A few hours ago is wearing off. Sweat beads on my forehead as my body attempts to fight off the ache slithering across my collarbone, down my shoulder and throughout my spine. The spasms in my right hand are more frequent now. I clench my fingers on my thigh to stop the tremors while shoving my free hand inside my blazer pocket, yanking out an orange plastic bottle.
Discreetly, I toss a white pill inside my mouth and swallow it dry, then cap the bottle and shove it inside my navy blue blazer before Izzy or Bennett notice my movements. Over the past few years, I’ve learned the art of discreetly taking pain medication. It’s the only way I’d ever be able to function in society without curling into the fetal position and praying for death. A year after the surgery, my doctor at the pain clinic had thought it best to wean me off the medication. A week into the new pain regimen, I wanted to die. That and the urge to flatten everything in my path with my fist had the doctor reinstating my old dosage after I stalked into his office and threatened to tear his arm from his body.
Feeling the ache wane from my shoulder, my fingers loosen around my thigh and I sink back into the leather seat.
“Have you picked a name for the baby yet?” I ask, watching Bennett rub Izzy’s feet in his lap. We made it to the restaurant an hour and a half later than planned. I couldn’t get Izzy to calm down. She was utterly nervous when I went to pick her up. My sister always has the hardest time leaving the kids, even if it’s just to steal away to grab a bite to eat.
“Yeah. Harper if it’s a girl and Henry, after your dad, for a boy,” Bennett says, a big grin on his face. He is so in love with my sister he can’t see straight, which is fine with me. I would kick his ass several times over if he wasn’t.
Izzy grabs his face and pulls him in for a kiss, then rubs her nose against his in an Eskimo kiss.
I look away, not because I’m embarrassed.
God, no.
Seeing them like this reminds me how amazing it feels to be held by someone that adores you and vice versa. Sometimes I miss sharing the kind of love Izzy and Bennett have so much that it causes a physical pain inside my chest. A desperate longing and unquenched thirst for someone to look at me like I’m more than my dead career.
My fingers wander to the scar on my shoulder, subconsciously tracing a path down my upper arm.
“Nate?” Izzy’s soft voice calling out my name jolts me from my thoughts. “Are you okay?”
I force a smile and drop my hand, exchanging glances with Bennett. Izzy doesn’t know the extent of my pain, and I made him promise not to tell her because it would just serve to worry her. She doesn’t need that, especially in her current condition.
“I’m fine. Just a little discomfort.”
She frowns. “Still? I thought the medication was helping.”
“It does. It’s not so bad.” The look she gives me is full of doubt, and I roll my eyes playfully, hoping to ease the suspicion from her face.
“Have you gone back to playing the cello?”
“Not yet.” My jaw clenches as I grab my beer from the table and gulp the liquid, feeling it chase frustration down my throat.
Bennett looks at me, then tugs Izzy’s hand trying to catch her attention, but my sister pats him on the hand and murmurs, “Hold on, baby.” She leans across the table and takes my hand into hers, giving it a little squeeze. “You will,” she says in a firm voice. “You’ve been playing since you were five, following Dad around as he played his cello. Surely, God wouldn’t take that from you. You were born for this.”
He would. He already did.
Shit’s about to fly out of my mouth, but my brother-in-law’s warning glare shuts me up. So I down more beer, my gaze distractedly straying past the dark glass wall encasing us inside this booth. The view of the stage is clear from here. I can see the artists performing on the stage at the Talent Night below us. The space has been built in such a way that one can faintly hear the sounds from outside the four walls. Music filters in through the glass enclosing us. At this moment, there’s a girl gesturing animatedly with her hands and making weird faces on the stage. I wonder what her talent is, maybe scaring the hell out of everyone?
I’m about to call it a night when she waves to the crowd and steps down. A vision in a plum dress holding a cello climbs on the stage. I take in the way the dress drapes that body like a second skin, and my eyes drift down to her black heels, which do wonderful things to her calves. Red hair in loose waves rests on her shoulders, spilling down her back.
Red hair.
Heat gathers in my groin, my cock twitching as Elon’s face flashes through my head.
Proof number one why I should get the hell out of here. . . I’m becoming increasingly obsessed with my student. Everything reminds me of her, yet, she shouldn’t be anywhere in my thoughts.
Taking in the woman’s round ass and legs that make my mouth water, I stand up, ready to thank my sister and her husband for coming to celebrate with me.
And freeze.
My lungs deflate as air rushes out of my gaping mouth. Elon—my unhealthy obsession—turns around and takes a seat gingerly as if she’s afraid the dress will tear, then kicks off her heels from her feet. Back straight, she parts her legs at the same time positioning the instrument between them, and I find myself standing in front of the glass walls. She turns and nods to a blonde guy—one of Reed’s waiters sitting in front of a piano in the dim area of the stage. It’s obvious they had discussed which song they’d be playing, given the knowing glances and nods they pass each other.
“Planning on leaving without telling us, Nate?” Bennett asks from behind me, but I can’t be bothered right now. My attention has already been stolen by someone else. The constant calm, the simmering fire, the woman on the stage.
The second her bow kisses the strings, I’m out of the booth, muttering the words, “Be right back.” I bound down the stairs, my good judgment no match for my feet.
On the ground floor, I position myself next to a wall, making sure my view of Elon is not obstructed, and cross my arms on my chest. I listen as she soars through the Mission Impossible tune, her head rocking with each beat. Goosebumps form on my skin, my breath suspended inside my chest. She stumbles on some notes but quickly recovers, but it doesn’t matter. I’m spellbound, hypnotized by the beauty of both the music and the player. In the two weeks I’ve been here, I never bothered to wander further than my Music Theory classes and my office. Never the practice rooms. Now I know what I’ve been missing. Christ, I’d listen to this girl play from sunup to sundown and never get tired.
My gaze flicks back to where the cello rests between her thighs, roving over her creamy skin where the plum dress ends. Visions of me standing between those legs instead of the instrument fill my head. Her legs wrapped tig
htly around my hips as I rock into her. Her fingers, like a bow, strumming my body with reckless bliss as we compose a symphony: moaning, screaming, harsh breathing. Reaching a crescendo as she comes around my cock and I come inside her. A masterpiece.
Our masterpiece.
Quick pants leave my mouth just thinking about it.
Fuck. The things I would do to her, places I would take her with just my tongue. Places no man has ever taken her.
Yeah, I’m confident about that.
I’ve got three years of pent-up sexual frustration on my side boiling inside me; hands and mouth that know how to please a woman, make her keep coming back for me.
The stirring in my groin has grown into a full-blown arousal. My cock is hard. So fucking hard it’s pressing on the front of my pants. Every molecule inside me sways with the music. I can’t even remember the last time I was this aroused. It’s a fact my student is beautiful, but seeing her in her element is so goddamn sexy.
She ends her performance, and air rushes into my lungs. I feel giddy, high as a kite. Could be the pain medication or the alcohol, or the woman sitting fifteen feet away.
Christ, there is no way I’ll let her leave without saying something. My feet propel me toward the stage just as Miss Blake’s long lashes flutter open, and the loud applause threatens to bring the house down. She smiles to the crowd, slips on her heels and stands up, holding the neck of the cello with one hand and bows her head slightly to acknowledge her audience. Her usually shy demeanor is gone. Standing there is a woman full of confidence. As soon as her eyes find mine, the air around us crackles with tension. Her gaze widens as she watches me stride toward her in determination.
She backs away, looking like she’s about to flee, then changes her mind and stops. She lifts her cute chin. If what I’m feeling right now is written all over my face, then little Miss Blake has a reason to run and hide. She licks her lips when I halt in front of her, nearly blowing my load in my pants just watching her tongue brush across those red-painted lips.