A Moment of Truth: A Complete Bonus Set (A Matter of Trust #1-2)

by Q. T. Ruby

  I shrug. “I know.” No I don’t.

  “It will. She’s just still mad,” Camille reassures me.

  “She didn’t even want to stay, Camille. Not even for a minute. Didn’t want to talk to me. Told me to keep in touch. Who tells their child to keep in touch?”

  We’re quiet until Bridget says, “You know, your mom and Sauron are such parallel people, Claire.”

  “Still with The Lord of the Rings, huh? You know he’s fictional, right?” Camille asks.

  “Yes, I know that! Sheesh. My point is that Sauron used a mutant army and black magic, and your mom uses ice and guilt, but it’s all the same really—a dark force that sucks the life out of you.”

  Camille grins and nods. “Rita is a force, that’s for sure, and she certainly knows how to get under your skin, Claire. Today was probably the most crafted use of guilt I’ve seen from her. Genius, really.”

  “She’s just trying to make her point. If she really didn’t want to see you, she would’ve left before you got there. She knew you were coming and what time,” Bridget says.

  “I hadn’t thought about that.”

  “Seriously, she still loves you. I mean, you don’t get all dramatic unless you care, you know? She stayed until you arrived and then slathered you with guilt just to drive her point home.”

  “And what was her point?” I ask.

  Bridget continues, “That she’s right. That she knows best. I don’t know why she doesn’t just talk to you like a person. You’re quite sweet. You’re the anti-Sauron.”

  I succumb to a laugh. “So I’m Gandalf the Grey?” I say with a cocked eyebrow.

  “No, Gandalf the Grey Sweatpants. Now stop letting her mess with your head.”

  Chapter Four

  After picking up my stuff from my parents’ house, I spend the next few days unpacking and one hundred percent procrastinating on getting started on the songs I have to write. Not that I don’t want to work on them, but I’m a bit paralyzed. How do I start this new career of mine and not look like a big, fat faker? Sure, I can play instruments and write music—nothing about music has ever been particularly difficult. But this time? There’s pressure to knock it out of the park, pressure not to fuck it all up, and if I do screw it up, it’s over—this brand new career will be the shortest one in recorded history. And God knows Rita will have a lot to say about that.

  The one saving grace is that David’s able to secure a practice room at NYU for me. I have to call and reserve a spot when I need to use it, but thank God this is a thing—who knew? Owning a piano would be impossible in my little apartment. NYU’s expected minimum “donation” is pretty pricey, but I can manage if I budget right, which is something I’m used to. Plus, it’s a short ride on the subway.

  I’ve already spent several days unpacking—a.k.a. avoiding work—and now I’m really down to the wire, so I head to the university Monday morning. I’ve got to get this done before I leave for Mexico . . . Ahhh, Mexico and Dan! Gah. I can’t wait to see him and hold him and smell his magical soap and shaving cream scent.

  My thoughts drift off until the subway jerks to a halt, and I realize it’s my stop. With my backpack slung over my shoulder, I head up into the steamy July air and slowly melt as I walk the remaining distance to the university.

  When I finally arrive, I check in with the department secretary, Mrs. White, who introduces me to the chairperson. They give me a rundown of the layout and the dos and don’ts. Mrs. White shows me to the room I’ll be using for the day. I close the glass door to the small piano practice room and am bowled over by my fortune. I’m actually here to write and play music—as a career!

  It wouldn’t be normal if I wasn’t a churning ball of nerves, or at least that’s what I’m telling myself. You can do this, Claire. You really can. I do my best to push away the doubts as I set up; pencil out and paper on the tray of the gorgeous grand piano. I sit, breathe deeply, and begin warming up, my fingers loosening and stretching. I take several deep, calming breaths and suddenly—Wham! She’s awake! My muse is flying through my fingertips like an unleashed genie from a bottle.

  What a rush! She’s diving deep into my soul, carving out melodies, new and crisp, and harmonies that balance everything out. Seems that having been shut away for so long took its toll on her, because she can’t wait to play. I shut up and listen. For hours. It’s hard to write it all down; instead, I record what I come up with so I can transcribe it later. When I leave late in the afternoon, I’m floating. I have to stop myself from skipping.

  Every day this week, I hit the practice room and meet up with my muse as she uncovers new melodies, one after another. By the end of the week, with a decent sampling ready for David, I’m feeling good—accomplished. I have no idea if this is what he’s looking for, but I’ve done it! I feel confident about the music I’ve written, too, and I figure that’s half the battle. On my walk home Friday afternoon, I’m patting myself on the back. So far, I’ve been able to tackle my first assignment in my new career and manage a long-distance relationship with Mr. Beautiful. Go me!

  Chapter Five

  Well, that didn’t take long. The thrill of writing the new music has slowly faded, and the distance between Dan and I is hitting me. God knows that dark ideas like to hover over me like dark clouds when Dan and I are apart. I hate to admit it, but for these last two weeks away from him, I’ve subconsciously worried something unexpected would happen and we’d break up like the last time we were apart. It’s why I’m holding my breath on the plane now, crossing my fingers that I’ll get there quicker than quick—I’m ready for those gray skies to clear when I see Mr. Beautiful. Even though we’ve talked on the phone every day, I need to see him in person to know everything between us remains steady and strong.

  I scramble off the plane and decide not to call him to tell him I’m in yet—it’ll be fun to surprise him. Once I arrive at his hotel, I grab the extra key he left for me at the desk and head to his suite. Flicking on the light, I see it’s like a luxurious apartment. The spacious living room is furnished with soft, cozy couches, chairs, and a table for eating with a huge flat screen TV against one wall. There are French doors that lead to a balcony. I check out the bedroom, which is straight from a magazine with its king-sized bed and the softest bedding I’ve ever touched. To say it’s nicer than any hotel I’ve ever stayed in is an understatement.

  But Dan’s still working—he’s been filming long, odd hours. So I settle in, take a shower, and call him.

  “Hey, Claire!” I love how happy he sounds. “Tell me you’re here—I haven’t had a chance to check your flight status. I’m on my way back to the hotel right now.”

  I sigh loudly before I say, “Unfortunately, my plane’s been delayed so I probably won’t make it in until after midnight.”

  “Oh.” I can hear the disappointment in his voice, and I force myself not to giggle. “Okay. Be safe, and I’ll see you when you arrive. I’ll try to wait up. Wake me if I’m not, all right?”

  “Definitely.”

  “I can’t wait for you to get here.”

  “Me, too. It’s been too long.”

  “Far too long. Now hurry up!” He laughs and we hang up.

  I quickly dress in one of the lacy lingerie sets I brought along. I stuff my breasts in the black push-up bra and adjust the matching, skimpy black panties. In the bathroom, I brush my teeth again, fluff up my hair, touch up my makeup, and dab on lip gloss. Back in the bedroom, I lie on the bed, propped up on one elbow, in the dark. My heart is thumping, and I’m giddy.

  It’s hard to surprise Dan, but I love to when I can. It must be the smile I’m rewarded with—the one that makes my heart explode—that spurs me on. I’m just about done fiddling around when I hear the lock on the suite door click. From under the crack at the bottom of the bedroom door, I see the living room light come on. The b
edroom door opens. He flips on the light and jumps back with a yelp.

  “Fucking Christ, Claire! You scared the bloody hell out of me!” There it is—that radiant smile—and my heart leaps, rejoicing along with the rest of me that my boyfriend is right here! His eyes drop to my body, sliding left and right, up and over my curves as if he’s just noticed what I’m wearing. He tosses the stuff in his hands onto the floor and begins unbuttoning his shirt and kicking off his shoes. My God, he’s sexy.

  “I thought your plane was delayed, you big, fat liar.”

  I giggle. “Nope, just wanted to surprise you.”

  “Surprise? Heart attack is more like it. And look at you. Fuck, I can’t get this off fast enough.” I laugh as he drops his button-down shirt on the floor and whips his T-shirt over his head.

  Bare chest. Rippled abs. Rounded shoulders. DaVinci’s dream. Gah!

  “Are you tired? Your fingers are fumbling,” I say, watching him fight with his belt and unbutton his pants.

  “Nope. Not at all. Prepare yourself.” With a laugh, he launches himself at me wearing only his boxer-briefs. He lands right on top of me, the bed squeaking in response, and I grunt as all the air leaves my body. He starts kissing my neck, but then pulls back, examining me from head-to-toe, and slides a hand down the side of my body. “Look at you.”

  “No, look at you,” I say as I run my nails down his chest. I angle myself to suck on his nipple. His abs contract, and he moans.

  I start kissing-licking-nibbling along his chest while he moans-groans-grinds himself into my hips. I can’t stand it. His underwear must come off now! I need skin on skin. Without breaking the kiss, I stretch to yank down his underwear and he wiggles them off the rest of the way.

  “You’ve got too much on,” he says, sliding my panties off between heartbeats. He doesn’t even remove my bra, just pushes the cups down to expose my breasts. And without another word we’re making up for lost time. In, out, up, down, over, under. It’s prepositional heaven.

  Afterward, we lie together, breathless, exhausted, and sweating. I sit up a bit to glance at the clock. “Wow. Sixteen minutes. Record time.” I flop back, grinning.

  “Sorry it was fast,” he says, catching his breath.

  “Fast? I thought it was one of your better times.”

  “Wench!” He laughs, turns my hips over, and slaps my ass.

  “Ow!”

  He gently removes my bra now, discarding it to the floor before we slip under the covers. I nestle into my favorite spot—that soft arm-shoulder nook. He wraps himself around me, and I throw a leg over his.

  “I like when my phone sex girls come to see me in person.”

  “‘Girls’? I thought I was special.”

  “You’re the Tuesday special.”

  “But it’s Wednesday.”

  “Eh. Tomayto-tomahto,” he says, laughing. “It’s so good to have you right here.” He squeezes me. “I was really disappointed when I thought you were going to be late.”

  “I’ve decided that lying to surprise you is fun.” I prop myself on an elbow to better see him. “How’s filming going?”

  “It’s good. Busy. The schedule’s been all over the place. Honestly, I’m exhausted.”

  Poor guy. I stroke his chest. “Sounds like it’s been hard.”

  “I wouldn’t say hard but definitely challenging. We had some crazy storms blow through last week, and it just threw us off—the schedule, the timing of things, scenes were switched at the last minute.”

  “At least it’s beautiful here.”

  “Prettier now.” He kisses my head.

  “You’re very sweet. I’m guessing you haven’t had much time to relax and enjoy, huh?”

  “Fuck, no. It’s not unusual, but I was hoping I’d have a little more time to relax, especially now that you’re here.”

  “Am I going to be in the way?”

  “No, not at all. I’ve really been looking forward to seeing you, finally hanging out with you here, fucking you . . .” He laughs and squeezes me hard and yanks me on top of him.

  “No, fuck you!” I say, laughing.

  We wrestle a bit, but then he stops to yawn. “I’m so sorry; I wish I wasn’t so tired.”

  I nestle in again and pat his chest. “It’s okay. You’re just out of shape. Good thing I’m here to help you increase that stamina.” I giggle.

  He kisses my head and yawns again. “Yes, thank fuck you’re here.”

  ***

  The next morning, I wake up alone in the bed—as usual. I glance over at the empty bathroom when I hear the suite door close. I glance at the clock—seven a.m. He’s gone already? With the sheet wrapped around me, I get up out of bed and peek into the living room. I’m surprised to see Mr. Beautiful already dressed and setting the table with breakfast that must have just been delivered.

  “You ordered breakfast? I didn’t even hear you get up,” I say, walking over to him. I run my hand through my hair.

  “Hard to hear over the snoring.” With a laugh, he sets down the plate and plants a sweet kiss on my lips.

  “I do not snore.”

  “Yes, you do, and for the record, I wanted to surprise you this time.” Beaming, he goes back to setting things up.

  I shake my head; I can’t stop smiling at his kindness. “But you’re up so early, and you were exhausted.”

  “It’s fine.” He shrugs and finishes laying out the silverware. “I have to get to the set soon anyway. I should be done by three today, so maybe you can meet me at the beach? But for now, let’s have breakfast together. Here, sit.” He holds out a chair for me.

  I sit and he sits across from me and begins to load up his plate. It’s funny how even with the most mundane tasks, he’s just so mesmerizing to watch; like how carefully he makes room on his plate for everything—the scrambled eggs at noon, bacon at three, followed by toast, fruit, and pancakes to round out the rest of the circle. He pours syrup on his pancakes and orange juice into a small glass and hands it to me, but I’m not ready to eat just yet. I want to bask in him—how content he makes me feel, how relaxed and happy I am that we’re here in the same space again. It’s like home. Internally I freeze. It’s too big a thought, frankly. I shake it off and watch as he opens wide for a mammoth forkful of pancakes and looks up at me with a raised eyebrow.

  “Aren’t you going to eat?” he says with a mouthful.

  I sip my juice. I want to tell him how much I enjoy watching him, but maybe that’s weird and creepy, so I take some eggs and bacon and pour syrup on the bacon.

  “Syrup on bacon, huh?” he asks.

  “You’ve never tried it? It’s really good.” I get up, clutching the sheet around me, and carry my plate to him. He scoots back from the table so I can sit on his lap, and the sheet splits open at my leg, exposing my thigh. He rests his hand there while I dip the end of the bacon into the syrup and feed it to him.

  His eyes widen. “Mmm, that’s good.”

  I nod and take a bite of it myself. I dip it again and feed him another bite, this time following it with a kiss. His hand slides up my leg, under the sheet, and grips my hip. I pull back and smile, but keep my eyes on his mouth. “You like it?” When he’s not staring at my mouth, he’s staring at the sheet I’m holding up, so I drop it. “You like that, too?” I tilt my head to the side.

  Pheromones saturate the air around us. He swallows, sliding his other hand up to my breast. “My favorite,” he whispers.

  We kiss deeply as he fondles my breast. I reach down to his belt, unlatch it, and slither my hand in to find his massive morning sausage ready to be served. I slip his pants down a smidge and straddle him on the armless chair. Slowly, he fills me. With a groan, he closes his eyes and his head drops back.

  After a moment, his head snaps up and his eyes are glued
to my breasts. His hands, needy and quick, slide here, squeeze there, and grasp my hips, driving them up and down. My head lolls back, and he drags his hand down my neck, between my breasts to my belly. I kiss him hard and grip his shoulders, holding on—literally and figuratively. Only the tips of my toes reach the floor, and it’s just enough to keep me balanced. His hold on my hips tightens.

  I pull up and he pushes me down . . . and on we go—up and down, harder and faster—until I’m just about there, riding the sharp edge of ecstasy, when my toes push off too hard, I lean too far forward, he’s too far under me, and the chair begins to tip backward. We yelp as we flail and fall backward, his feet knocking into the table of food, and then—thump! His head smacks the floor. I scramble to get up, grabbing at my twisted sheet, but it’s the tablecloth I yank on instead, and dishes start falling on us, as does orange juice and . . . syrup! I reach out to stop the avalanche of food when there’s a knock at the door.

  “Dan? I hear you wreaking havoc in there. Open up!” It’s a man, and he’s laughing and rattling the doorknob.

  “Shit! It’s Len,” Dan whispers. “Why is he here?” We scurry about as best we can, only to make a bigger, louder mess that clearly can’t be cleaned up quickly.

  “Be right there,” Dan says to the closed door. “Wait. He doesn’t have a key. He can’t barge in. Duh.”

  I sigh in relief.

  “Here.” Dan hands me the sheet this time. “Go into the bedroom. I’ll take care of the mess.” He puts his clothes back in order.

  “Okay.” I wrap the sheet around me again.

  I shut the bedroom door but can easily hear Len enter and the conversation on the other side of it.

  “Hey,” Dan says. I hear him exhale like he’s just stopped running a race.