Prelude: Book One in The Interlude Duet

by Auden Dar

  “Julian, don’t ever feel sorry for bringing your mother up. I’d like to think that we’d all be here together. Right here. Right now.”

  He offers a soft smile before offering, “Lina, I’m happy here with you.”

  My smile agrees with his sentiment, and we stand facing one another. Cool air hits us, and it feels wonderful. Gazing up, his gray-blue eyes have turned green in this light.

  One word sticks in my head.

  Beautiful.

  How can someone be so beautiful?

  Interrupting my thought, he gently leans forward. “We should head back. Father’s celebration is only a few hours away. Shall we go?”

  His scent surrounds me, and I could seriously smell him all day. I don’t want him to move away, and I begin to daze, simply enjoying the miniscule distance between us. The sound of rowdy teenagers as they skateboard startles me, interrupting my Julian Caine dream-like state.

  “Ready?” he asks softly, completely unaware of the effect he has on me.

  I can barely nod as he takes my hand with his. Without any more words between us, we stroll back to the parking garage in Union Square.

  “Julian, I made you a playlist,” I say, scrolling through my phone.

  “Really?” His eyes widen a little, and there’s no mistaking the surprise in his voice. “Let’s set you up, and we can listen to it on our way back. I’m curious to hear your playlist.”

  “It’s your playlist,” I remind him.

  A few minutes after toying with the Bluetooth program on my phone and syncing it with his car’s system, Chris Martin’s voice greets us. Song after song, we find ourselves singing along like teenagers. With Coldplay’s “The Scientist” in the background, his phone’s ringtone interrupts our private moment.

  “JC.”

  Lowering the music volume, it takes everything in me not to be nosy.

  The other line is a voice that I recognize from last night. “Boo, I can’t wait to see you tonight.”

  Boo.

  “Shira, I’m in the car on my way back to the house.”

  “What time will you be here? I can’t wait for you to fuck me.”

  The bitch is definitely not shy.

  “Cecelia has arranged for Leonard to pick you up at seven sharp. I’ll see you later.” He ends the call without waiting for her to respond as if it’s not a big deal to be fucking someone later tonight.

  I remain mute, and a feeling I have never encountered until last night envelops me. I am jealous. No, this needs to be rephrased … I am insanely jealous. I can’t remember ever being jealous before Julian re-entered my life. I gaze out the window while he drives, fully aware of the bursting emotion inside me.

  Remain calm, Lina.

  Why on earth am I jealous of Shira?

  The last thing I want is for him to realize I feel something … something other than friendship for him. He’s a friend, Lina. Nothing more. You’re engaged to the same guy you have loved half of your life. You’re simply attracted to this Englishman and nothing more.

  Shira called him ‘Baby.’

  I am a ‘dear family friend.’

  Julian continues to drive with confidence, weaving in and out of traffic as we head toward Pacific Heights. My own confidence wanes. After staring directly ahead for what seems like hours, he glances my way. “I’m sorry about that.”

  Although affected by his date’s call, I give him a nonchalant shrug. “No need to be sorry. She’s ‘Wonder Woman’ gorgeous and is obviously excited to spend some time with you.”

  You’re her baby.

  Her Boo.

  You’re going to fuck her tonight.

  And I wish I could be her.

  We’re caught in traffic again as I continue to gaze at all the folks wandering about in this lively city … wishing I could get out of the car, run away and wander among them. Anything to lose this sense of jealousy. Anything to stop this attraction toward a man I shouldn’t be fantasizing about. “I had a great time, Julian. Thank you for spending the day with me.” He remains quiet, and my nerves are reaching a high point. “I … I … I’ll take a morning flight tomorrow. I need to get back to Andrew sooner than later.”

  He doesn’t respond. Nothing. All of a sudden, a new familiar tune catches me off guard. The anguish in Bob Marley’s voice cuts through as he belts out “Waiting in Vain.”

  Ridiculous playlist.

  Caught up in the lyrics, I try not to think too much. And then there is Julian, staring at the road ahead, his beautiful, large hands on the steering wheels, simply keeping to himself.

  I squirm uncomfortably in my seat, trying to occupy myself. I stare out the side window. I study my hands. I close my eyes. But nothing can take away this uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach. I reach for my phone and decide to text Patti to let her know I’ll be coming home. In a matter of minutes, my friend responds:

  PATTI: I can’t wait to hear about him!

  What’s there to tell? I send her a heart emoji before placing the gadget back in my purse. I didn’t have it in me to text back. Moreover, I sigh because there’s nothing to write. I had a wonderful dinner last night. Sadly, it was also the most romantic evening of my life even though it was a platonic dinner. I can only imagine what it must be like to have a real romantic date with Julian. I can’t write that let alone admit that to anyone but myself. What else is there to write? Well, I went back to my room last night alone and masturbated to dirty thoughts of the man next to me. Nope, can’t admit that one either. Umm, I did have another wonderful meal this morning with Julian, and now I’m jealous of another woman. I’m acting like a fool.

  Yes, Lina, you’re acting like a fool.

  We finally arrive at Marcel’s house, and the silence throughout the ride has yet to be broken. Before Julian can open the passenger door for me, I quickly get out of his Aston Martin. With only a few feet of distance between us, I walk slightly ahead of him. It’s as if we just had a lover’s quarrel, but we didn’t. I quickly turn around before opening the bedroom door. “Thank you for brunch. I’ll see you at the party.”

  Julian nods before moving slightly forward as if he’s about to say something. Stopping himself, he fixes his large eyes on mine. What, Julian, what? I want to scream out loud. His silence unnerves me. I utter again, “Thank you,” as my hand reaches for the door handle. I can’t enter the guestroom fast enough and finally exhale. The door next to mine closes. Dammit, he’ll be next door with that woman tonight.

  What the hell just happened?

  I recall the last hour in my head and can’t think of anything that should have affected him this way. Scanning the enormous guest room, I feel so small and as soon as the door behind me closes, I slip to the ground.

  With my knees close to my chest, I use my shaking arms to brace them. I won’t allow myself to cry. I refuse to feel this way. Why should I care that tonight Julian will be next door making love to one of his women? I have a fiancé. I have a man who loves me. You’re being ridiculous, I scold myself. Sitting in the same position for a good half hour, my leg muscles finally cramp and it forces me to finally stand and move to the bed. Rather than do something with purpose, I lie there motionless. My sleepy eyes begin to close, and I see Julian. I see the intensity in his eyes. Oh, those crystalline eyes! I see layers of dark hair. I see his smile. Those perfect, white teeth. I see his juicy lips. Damn those beautiful lips.

  God, help me tonight.

  My alarm goes off, and I realize I’ve dosed off for an hour and a half. I grab my phone and place it on the Bose docking station that sits on the dresser.

  I need to listen to something fun, something to get me out of this sad state. Disco! After scrolling through hundreds of songs, I finally decide on Donna Summer’s “Last Dance” to help psych myself up for an awesome night.

  A long shower always makes me feel like a new woman. With the help of the queen of disco in the background, I am finally in a better mood. For the first time in a long time, I want to get
all dolled up. And maybe flirt with a handsome man who is not Julian.

  When I get dressed up, it’s usually for a work-related event at UCLA or a movie event. Not tonight. Tonight, it’s different. I want to look absolutely beautiful … for Julian. Reality hits me that he’s used to being surrounded by the most beautiful women in the world. Shira. Case in point.

  My racerback beaded dress fits like a glove, and I’m thrilled that the nude Louboutins work with the dress. My light brown hair is up. My almond-shaped green eyes pop from the smoky eye makeup. My full lips are wet with a light gloss. Jewelry has never been something that I like to wear, but tonight, I go to my suitcase and retrieve my mother’s simple Tiffany diamond studs. Glancing at the mirror in front of me was a confused woman a few hours ago. But at this moment, I see a woman ready to enjoy a party.

  I’m here to celebrate Marcel’s birthday.

  I reach for my phone on the docking station and scroll through my music list. Ah, I find another perfect song and select Pink’s “Get the Party Started.” The song has definitely elevated my mood. I dance, swaying my hips, raising my hands in the air, and I play the song on repeat at least three times.

  I am going to have a wonderful time tonight.

  After checking my appearance in the mirror for the tenth time, I finally have the courage to go downstairs. I peek at my watch and realize the celebration has already started.

  Twenty-Two

  The swing band’s rendition of “Fly Me To The Moon” plays throughout the mansion and confirms the already bustling party. Earlier in the day, the palatial room was being transformed into a ballroom. First thing first, I need a glass of something strong. I head directly to the open bar and request bourbon. “Basil Hayden, straight, please.” I cast the entire room in search of anyone I may know. And there is Julian, holding court in the corner, surrounded by at least five other men. My breath hitches. His presence staggers me. He’s handsome, no doubt. But it’s more than those grayish-blue eyes that have captured me. Fourteen years ago, Julian was a prepubescent teen. Buzz haircut, mouth full of braces, dark Harry Potter style eyeglasses, short, skinny, and frail. The awkwardness of his teen years has been replaced by confidence earned by being successful in his own right.

  Elegantly dressed in what looks like a black Tom Ford suit and his favorite shoes, he walks slowly toward me, mouthing, “You look beautiful.” A glass of bourbon has given me a pleasant buzz, and Julian’s nearness feels so good. I remain planted by the door, still holding my drink in one hand, while the other fidgets with my dress. My thoughts are interrupted when I hear, “JC,” and turn my head. Right beside me is the Amazonian. A pang of disappointment washes over me. I had been an idiot for assuming that Julian had been admiring me. The sentiment he uttered a few seconds ago had been meant for someone else. The whiny bitch. Nearly bumping into my bourbon, Shira rushes over to the man who captivates me and kisses him on his full lips.

  I see his hesitation. This time, there’s no mistaking it−his gorgeous eyes are focused on me. He mouths again, “Beautiful.” One word. That’s all it takes. My heart flutters. And although we have been apart for more than a decade, Julian knows me better than anyone else. It’s his innate ability to understand my low self-esteem. As Julian walks toward me, even with Shira by his side, I continue to admire him. He’s closer now, and all I see is a huge grin planted on his face when I mouth, “Thank you.”

  I take all of him in. His grin. His outfit. His movements.

  There’s something about the way he moves. Aware of each step he takes, he doesn’t just walk. He walks with purpose. He’s ready to capture you. Julian has captivated me as no one has ever before. Wearing a suit or casually dressed in his usual vintage t-shirt and jeans, my crush always looks absolutely delicious. While all the other men had buttoned their collars and looked more formal, he kept the top of his shirt unbuttoned and seemed much more relaxed. Other men wore ties while he remained tieless. There is something quite sexy about a man who is relaxed in any attire he is wearing.

  All around are some of Marcel’s closest friends and colleagues. There were maybe two or three familiar faces, but no one, in particular, I would feel comfortable enough to approach. Shira is now draped in Julian’s right arm as they continue to make the rounds. My stomach hardens, and a sensation burns through my chest.

  Jealousy is the root of this fucking pain.

  I stand near the bar alone, avoiding a certain couple. I continue to drown myself in Basil Hayden when I hear a distinctive voice I have not heard in years. “Lovely as ever, Evangelina.” Peeking up, it’s those blue eyes staring at me that grab my attention. “Cat got your tongue, lovely?” the staggering handsome man teases.

  “Could it be?” I tilt my head as I marvel at the sight of this gorgeous guy who looms a few inches over me. His blue eyes sweep over my body without any hint of embarrassment. He slowly starts to lick his full lips.

  Alistair Caine.

  Like Julian, Alistair has grown up to be ... hot. His light blue eyes are similar to his cousin’s, yet there are lines on the side of his eyes. Although he’s an inch shorter than Julian, he is equally imposing. His short, dark blond hair is slightly messy, and his skin is slightly tanned from what could easily have been a recent trip from somewhere exotic. As I blatantly admire him, he’s nothing short of gorgeous. He was always a good-looking kid. But now, he’s got that bad boy thing going on−a cross between Alex Pettyfer and a young Steve McQueen. His hand is now holding mine, slowly bringing it up to his lips. As the back of my hand finally reaches them, I hear, “Alistair,” and it is Julian’s voice that startles us.

  “Hey, mate,” Alistair responds without taking his blue eyes off mine, his lips still planted on the back of my hand.

  Shira is by Julian’s side, and there are no introductions. This does not go unnoticed by her. “JC, who is this?” Her tone clipped, her arm possessive.

  Bitch.

  “My cousin, Alistair,” Julian responds, his gaze traveling back and forth between me and his cousin. There is tension in the air, and I understand why. Growing up, Alistair and Julian were so close as children. Only a couple of months apart, they were inseparable when they were in the same city. Yet tragedy tore them apart.

  Like all the relationships after Elisa’s death, this one disintegrated as well. The last time I saw him was a couple of months before Elisa’s passing. Alistair had remained in London during his aunt’s memorial while grieving his own father’s death.

  It’s been easy to be familiar with Alistair’s whereabouts all these years; he has an affinity for publicity and remains a constant fixture in the society pages in several continents. Evidently inheriting his father’s charms and womanizing ways, Alistair is often seen squiring the latest models and heiresses. I glance at him and he definitely has ‘playboy’ written all over his ruggedly handsome face.

  Alistair shifts to face me. “I think we need to refill your glass.”

  I break out of my daze and study him. Alistair’s smile is perfect. Too perfect. His attention is now on Shira. “Who might you be?”

  The bitch’s smile is perfect as well. “Julian’s girl−”

  Julian coughs, interrupting his date.

  “Julian’s friend,” she corrects herself.

  The woman who Julian will be fucking tonight, I think to myself.

  After the awkward introduction, we stand in the corner of the ballroom, chatting among the four of us. The conversation moves to various topics, ranging anywhere from Trump to Brexit.

  Although the dinner party was intended to be casual, it is anything but informal. Suddenly, all the guests are being summoned to the dining room. Elegantly set, there are dinner place cards on every table. To my dismay, I find myself sharing the same table with Alistair, Julian, and his date. Joining us is an older couple who I have never met before.

  The swing music dies down, and the entire room becomes quiet. Marcel rises from his seat. “I would like to thank each and every one of you for h
elping me celebrate my fortieth birthday.” Everyone laughs. As the laughter ceases, Marcel stares ahead, and his eyes are fixed on his only surviving child. “I have missed you all terribly.” He pauses before realizing he is in the middle of a speech. Turning to his left, he glances down at Astrid and then proceeds to speak to his guests. “Excuse me; I’ve become an old fool. I’ll keep it short. I have to admit I really didn’t want a party, but my lovely wife insisted. And I am quite happy that, as always, I let her have her way.” In unison, all the glasses are raised as warm wishes are heard throughout the room.

  I scout the dining area and instantly recognize Marcel’s neighbor and close friend, Roan Emerson, who is seated next to his wife, Helena. Our eyes meet, both of us offering a smile of recognition. I remind myself to seek out the couple after dinner. In that instant, I am reminded of my many years with the Caines. I briefly close my eyes and take a deep breath.

  Enjoy the moment.

  The sound of clapping disturbs my thought. Laughter is in the air and everyone is in a celebratory mood. I open my eyes.

  Astrid is beaming, and at that moment, she smiles lovingly at her husband. Only someone looking closely would see the small tear that escapes the side of her left eye. I assume it’s a sign of happiness. Marcel leans down, kisses his wife on the cheek, and mouths, “I love you.”

  I continue to clap along with the others when I feel his eyes on me. I turn, and directly across the table, I am greeted with Julian’s beautiful eyes.

  The haunting eyes I dreamed of last night are studying me. The juicy lips I imagined kissing earlier today are slightly curving into a smile.

  A mischievous smile that has my heart beating a mile a minute.

  Everyone is still talking, but I am unable to make out the conversation. Voices start to move farther and farther away. It takes everything in me not to leave the table. Rather, I turn my gaze away, staring at my almost empty glass, allowing my forefinger to trace its rim. With trembling hands, I raise it to my lips and swallow what remains of my bourbon.