by Auden Dar
Prelude
Book One In The Interlude Duet
Auden Dar
Dear Reader,
Thank you for taking a chance on a new writer.
With love and gratitude,
Auden
Contents
ABOUT PRELUDE
Definition
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Playlist
Acknowledgments
About the Author
ABOUT PRELUDE
I thought I had it all until he came back.
Julian Caine, my childhood friend, was a short, scrawny thirteen-year-old boy
with thick glasses and a mouthful of braces the last time I saw him.
Fourteen years later, he’s no longer an awkward teen.
He’s all man.
A. Beautiful. Staggering. Drop-dead. Gorgeous. Man.
This is more than a fleeting attraction. I’ve spent too many sleepless nights obsessing over him while my fiancé sleeps next to me.
Then Julian makes a proposal I can’t ignore.
One night.
That’s all he’s offering.
If I say yes, will I finally have it all? Or will it be a prelude to disaster?
Prelude
Book One in The Interlude Duet
© Auden Dar 2017
All rights reserved.
This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Permission by the author must be granted before any part of this book can be used. This includes the right to reproduce, store in a retrieval system, or transmit in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, brands, media and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products and establishments referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Any similarities to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
Cover Designer: Sofie Hartley of Hart & Bailey Design Co.
Editors: Evelyn Guy of Indie Edit Guy, Emma Aldridge of Edit For You, and Jenny Sims of Editing4Indies
For the three loves of my life.
prelude
noun
1. : an introductory performance, action, or event preceding and preparing for the principal or a more important matter
2. a : a musical section or movement introducing the theme or chief subject (as of a fugue or suite) or serving as an introduction to an opera or oratorio
b : an opening voluntary
c : a separate concert piece usually for piano or orchestra and based entirely on a short motif
Prologue
Beauty is a bitch. It teases you, haunts you, and consumes every inch of your soul. It’s a love song reminding you of a first kiss. It’s a painting that renders you speechless. It’s the subtle yellow, orange, and red hues of a sunset fading as night slowly approaches. But nothing beats the beauty of the unattainable; the obsessive desire of a man your body begs for but can never have.
Obsession is defined as a compulsive and often unreasonable idea or emotion. I am obsessed with him. It is he who continuously forces his way into my consciousness. I can’t stop thinking about him, longing for him, aching only for him. As I read an excerpt from a novel, he becomes the main character in the story. When I prepare myself for the day, I see his image in the mirror. My light brown hair transforms into his black tousled hair. The light green of my eyes turns gray-blue so often that I need to do a double take at the reflection staring back at me.
Like a chimera capturing my every thought, he haunts me every second of every minute and every minute of every day. Those crystalline eyes of his greet me when I wake up, and I silently wish good night to them before I sleep the night away … all in my fucking head. I hear his raspy voice whispering dirty words while others converse. I crave his infectious laughter and desire his touch. I want desperately for him to make love to me … to fill the void, the emptiness that plagues me. After several years apart, he returns, upending my life, my relationship, and all that I have worked for. Like a seductive melody on repeat, I can’t think of anything else … of anyone else. I pray that this longing passes, whatever it may be.
The clock next to my bed reads 2:36 a.m. Sleep escapes me. I imagine his full lips on every inch of my body. I feel him in my bones.
I toss.
I turn.
The unbearable yearning escalates.
Soft breathing startles me, a painful reminder of where I am … of who I am. I’ve heard the familiar sound for more than a decade. Slowly and with care, I turn to face him. His eyes flutter, lost in a reverie. What is he dreaming about? He remains in the same pose as when he fell asleep a few hours ago. I love you. Yet emptiness manages to surround me. My chest tightens, slowly taunting my heart. My forefinger traces his bottom lip out of habit. Guilt and desolation sweep over me because it’s not his lips I want on mine. It’s not his body I want inside me. He’s not the man who has me … crazy with desire in the middle of the night, begging to be taken, craving just for a taste of him.
He’s not the man who consumes my thoughts.
One
Andrew stands motionless by the front door for at least five minutes. With his brown leather briefcase in hand, he finally hangs the matching brown hat on the coat rack by the door. Even with his brown raincoat on, he’s soaking from the unfamiliar Southern California rain. His wrinkle-free dark brown pants and brown cotton shirt are also wet. I sit on the couch and watch him head straight to the master bedroom to change without any sort of acknowledgment.
Andrew Nielsen is my live-in boyfriend and, technically speaking, my fiancé. He has proposed, but my ring finger remains bare. Returning from our bedroom, he is now dressed in his usual uniform: brown cords and a brown polo shirt. Sitting on our old, dumpy sofa, I reach out to welcome him, and he glances and stops me before I get near enough to touch him.
“I’m sorry. I’m still a little wet,” he abruptly instructs as if I were one of his students.
“Oh.” My hand instantly returns to the armrest. “How was your day?”
“It was a productive Sunday. They just added a new sociology class to my schedule so I needed to prepare for that,” he says without e
ye contact and walks away before the last sentence is finished.
Even after all these years, I find myself still attracted to Andrew. My fiancé is five-foot-eleven. He’s handsome. His sandy blond and slightly curled hair is cut short, his chestnut eyes are warm, and when he smiles, which is rare, his smile reveals dimples that can still make me weak. Folks have remarked a strong resemblance between him and the actor Simon Baker. His ultra-healthy eating habits prevent him from his tendency to be chubby. He had weighed an extra thirty pounds when I first met him in high school. Through the years, I’ve watched him struggle with his weight before being diagnosed with an eating disorder. After several years of yo-yo dieting, countless Weight Watchers and Jenny Craig meetings and therapy, Andrew is now a vegan and a yogi. Doing daily yoga has also helped his body remain lean.
When Andrew enters a room, people continue with their conversation. He’s not the type of man who stops a party. He’s an unassuming, quiet and reserved man. In all he does, he prefers noncomplicated things. He takes comfort in the simplicity of a daily routine. He gets up at five thirty in the morning, does his yoga in our living room, walks around the block, eats oatmeal with fresh berries for breakfast, drives a brown 2002 Subaru to and from work using side streets, and is home by six every night in time to devour his vegan meal as if it was his last. After dinner, he resumes work, typing away in his home office until he retires at ten thirty every night. The routine only changes on Wednesday nights. Date night. Sex night. He’s determined to have an uncomplicated life with me, with himself.
My eyes follow him as he reaches for his brown leather briefcase. As usual, he will head straight to the home office at the back of the house, remaining there until dinner.
How did two high school sweethearts become so distant?
The man typing away in his home office is the only man I’ve ever dated, kissed and had sex with. What began as a simple date at the tender age of fourteen turned into an almost sixteen-year union. And although we have been engaged for more than five years, I often wonder if marriage is in the cards for us. Looking back, maybe I should have known all along.
Andrew and I met a few months into my freshman year in high school.
It was a memorable day because he was the first guy to come up to me. Andrew awkwardly introduced himself and asked me to join him for lunch. He was so funny back then. We laughed the entire time we ate and had become fast friends, making plans for a first date the following weekend.
After dinner at a fast food restaurant, we went to see an action film, and midway through it, my date fell asleep slightly snoring. Although I had urged him to drop me off at the corner of my building, he walked me to the front door. It was that Saturday night that I had my first, sloppy teenage kiss. I often think about how Andrew and I were back then−teenagers so full of dreams, hope, and the new feeling of love. For years, we never wanted our time together to end. We would walk around the city for hours while holding hands and talk about everything and nothing. Every weekend was spent at the movies, or at the park where we would read books to each other. And if I wanted to attend a musical performance, Andrew would join me even though he only prefers Christmas songs. Every now and then, memories of the way we used to kiss for hours hit me because nothing was better than his lips against mine. Now, we’ve become strangers living under the same roof.
“Andrew … Andrew?” Trying to get his attention, I finally kiss him on the cheek as he sits in his tiny study. I scan his home office. Papers everywhere. Books neatly stacked next to an overfilled bookcase. His desktop computer remains unused and collecting dust in the corner of the room. His desk only holds a typewriter, two college-ruled notebooks, and a black-framed photo of us as teenagers, smiling at his high school graduation.
“Uh, yes, Lina. I’m sorry. I’ve been preoccupied with these papers. I need to review them by tomorrow.”
I pat his shoulder. “Dinner will be ready soon,” I say and walk out the door.
It’s another day and another Sunday night with Andrew. I head to the small yellow galley kitchen updated last when it was built in 1953. As I slowly unwrap the food purchased from Whole Foods a few hours ago, all I can think about is meat. Beef. Pork. Chicken. Although I am not a vegan, it’s difficult to eat meat and dairy products in front of Andrew. Who wants to hear, “That’s just going to kill you” or “How could you eat that?” when I’m about to bite into a juicy burger? I can’t remember the last time I ate meat in front of him.
I head to my master bathroom to freshen up. Standing in front of my bathroom mirror, I assess my appearance. As usual, my shoulder-length light brown hair is in a messy bun. My face is devoid of any makeup. I should fix myself up. Opening one of the drawers, I reach for black mascara and apply it to my long lashes. This should help my green eyes stand out. Even though I have olive skin, I look a little pale. Dabbing a little blush to my cheeks and gloss on my full lips should help. My five-foot-two frame stares back at me. Even with the attached belt wrapped tightly around my waist, my size four dress is loose. I need more protein in my diet.
The spaghettini alla checca and field greens salad are arranged nicely on the dining table. Along with the meal, I bought fresh white peonies to add a sense of romance to our dinner together. I light a votive candle and dim the lights. After making sure our round table looks pretty, I seat myself and wait for him. I wonder if he’ll notice my appearance. Continuously glancing up at the round clock hanging above the banquet, I can’t help but notice he’s unusually late to dinner. Andrew’s mind is like clockwork. He’s always on time. Twenty minutes later, he finally joins me without an apology, completely clueless that I had been waiting this entire time.
Taking a bite of the pasta dish, he remarks without looking up, “It’s cold.”
“Andrew, if you had come to dinner twenty minutes ago, your pasta would be nice and warm.”
“What are you talking about? We always eat at six thirty. Every night, it’s always at six thirty.”
“Look at the time.”
Look at me, Andrew. I’ve made myself up for you.
My dinner companion turns around and notices that the clock reads 6:52 p.m. He mumbles, “I’m sorry, I’ve just been so preoccupied,” and picks up his dish and heads to the kitchen to heat it in the microwave. Although someone in my position would be angry or even sad about the whole situation, I’m just resigned. At least I know I look good tonight. I stare at the flavorless pasta in front of me, twirling it with a fork, and all I can think about is the Steak ‘n Shake place on 3rd Street. The thought of a juicy burger whets my appetite. I sigh and pour myself a glass of Riesling while waiting for him to return to the table.
A few minutes later, Andrew is at the dining table, and as it has been for the past two years, we eat in silence. It’s not a comfortable silence but rather an awkward one. We’ve spent more than half our lives loving each other but have managed to become strangers. Our eyes no longer meet. The chestnut eyes I love are always staring at the food or into space. And when I get a chance to look into them, they always seem so vacant, so removed.
Conversations are virtually nonexistent. And when we do have one, it usually revolves around household routines. “The bathroom door needs a new knob.” “I need more quinoa” or “Curtains need cleaning.” It’s been a long time since Andrew has shared anything about his day with me. Moreover, he hasn’t asked about my day in what seems like months. Gone are the days when we used to chat endlessly during meals. Nights spent in each other’s arms seem so foreign. And although we are seated at the same table, sharing a vegan meal, the distance between us grows.
At times like this, I think of my parents and their love story. I often replay my father’s account of how he met my mother in my head. Bee Gees’ “Night Fever” played. Men, young and old, were waiting in line to enter the “It” club, where a seventies party was being held. They were dressed in their three-piece suits; the wide-legged trousers, their tucked in shirts with long, wide collars along with their
matching vests. Women with feathered hairstyles wore jersey wrap dresses with high-heeled platform shoes. Very flamboyant. It was May 26. It was the day when my dad, Roman James, met and fell in love with my Brazilian mother, Mara del Campo. His best friend, Marcel, had convinced him to go on a double date. My father insisted that when he first laid eyes on my mother, everything around him had ceased to exist. He said life before my her had just been tolerable.
After a whirlwind romance, my parents married a month after their first dance to Barry White’s “You’re the First, The Last, My Everything.” Several years later, they were cruising back from Catalina Island when my mother started having labor pains. Less than thirty minutes after I was born and named Evangelina Darling James, my mother died of a hemorrhage. Thirteen years later, on the eve of my mother’s death, my father’s Beemer slid off the Pacific Coast Highway on his way to LAX, and I instantly became an orphan. My loving paternal grandparents immediately moved to New York City to take care of me.
A day doesn’t go by that I don’t miss my dad. His deep voice is often in the background when I need guidance. Of all the things he believed, the one I hold dear is “Love is the most important thing in the world.” Life without passion, without spontaneity, without someone to share it with is not a life worth living.