Prelude: Book One in The Interlude Duet

by Auden Dar

  Silence.

  Did he really just fuck her for over an hour? Could it be that they’re finally done? I pull the cover off and walk over to the useless wall space that shares the bedroom next door. Torturing myself because I really am a masochist, I place my right ear next to the wall trying to listen. Anything. The only thing I hear is the rapid beating of my heart. Not even music is playing. Instead of pillow talk, I hear the door open and voices out in the hallway.

  I rush to the door on my tiptoes and open it gently like a nosy neighbor.

  “Come on, baby, let me spend the night with you,” Shira begs. Her voice is hoarse and still so annoyingly whiny. I’m surprised she can talk after all that shouting.

  “I sleep alone. That’s never going to change. Leonard is waiting downstairs for you and will take you back to the hotel. I’ll be leaving tomorrow, and we’ll see each other in London. Good luck with the auditions. Thank you and good night.”

  “Thank you? That’s all you have to say? You know that was the best fuck you’ve ever had.” Her voice is a decimal louder than before. She’s obviously displeased with Julian’s brushoff.

  “Please keep your voice down. Shira, that was great. Yes, thank you and good night. I’m fucking tired.” Julian kisses her on the cheek and closes the door.

  Whaaaaat?

  Who knew that Julian could be such an asshole? Inside, I’m performing the happy dance.

  And just when I’m about to raise my hands in the air and swing my hips, she turns around and notices me. Oops. I don’t know who’s more embarrassed at this moment. Me or her? Shira’s long hair is messy, her lips are inflamed, and traces of her eye makeup remain, giving her that ‘Yeah, I just got fucked’ look. Of course, her cheeks are still flushed; the sexiest man I’ve ever met just banged her for over an hour.

  She doesn’t say anything.

  I remain mute.

  She cocks her head slightly, glaring at me. She purses her lips. And there it is−a slow, wicked smile forms along the corner of her swollen lips.

  Bitch.

  I quickly close the door and exhale.

  Although Shira just gave me the look that says I know you wish you could be me, I don’t want to be her. Julian banged her for over an hour but won’t allow her to spend the night.

  That’s so fucked up.

  And now, I’m the one smiling.

  Completely naked, I walk over to the mirror and study the reflection staring back. My breasts are tender and swollen. Touching them, I imagine that the man next door who just fucked another woman for over an hour is the one enjoying them. I turn around and make my way to the king-size bed. Pulling the covers over my naked body, I begin to slowly touch myself. I really should get a vibrator. My fingers would thank me, and the last thing I want is carpel tunnel syndrome. A few minutes ago, I was angry, hurt, and very jealous. The knowledge of Julian inside another woman infuriated me. As ridiculous as this may be, at this moment, I am unable to contain my excitement.

  I am aroused.

  I have never moaned or screamed like Shira did even while masturbating to porn. I wonder: would a certain Englishman be able to make me scream like that?

  The songs playing in the background while Julian banged Shira hits me. For a good part of their marathon session, tracks by Eminem, 50 Cent and Dr. Dre were in constant rotation−definitely not sweet lovemaking music.

  I am ridiculously wet just from imagining him as a lover. He’s definitely not gentle. His bed creaked. I bet he’s the kind of lover who would fuck me so hard I would forget my own name. A lover who would fuck me into such a stupor, it would feel like a 5.0 magnitude earthquake was happening. I chuckle, remembering that the floors shook. My breathing starts to quicken, and two of my fingers are working their magic.

  My fingers, slick with my juices, touch my sensitive clit. I rub small circles. My mouth slowly opens as I begin to murmur … only his name escaping my lips when I finally reach my climax.

  Damp hair. My body, revived, is covered with sweat. Sheets fall to the ground. Physical evidence suggesting I just had sex with someone. Well, the masturbation session was much more rigorous than my sex with Andrew a few nights ago. I pad over to the master bathroom and clean myself up. When my head hits the pillow, I close my eyes briefly and immediately see the image of Julian grinning. Ooh, that mischievous grin. Opening my eyes, I stare at the ceiling.

  Julian, Julian, Julian.

  He is the only thought I have before sleep takes over.

  Twenty-Seven

  The phone alarm next to my bed awakens me. It’s six in the morning and if I want to leave the Caine home unnoticed, I need to do it within the next twenty minutes. Twenty freakin’ minutes. I hurry to the en-suite bathroom and take a quick cold shower, forgoing makeup. Dressed in leggings and a white long sleeve t-shirt and black hoodie, I stuff everything in my carry-on bag. Inspecting the room one more time, I feel guilty for leaving so early without a proper goodbye. I need to get home to Andrew despite the fact he is actually not going to be home that much. My phone vibrates, and it is a text from Marcel’s driver.

  LEONARD: Good morning, Miss James. The car is out front.

  Once I see the parked Audi Q7 in front of the house, I am torn. Should I just stay for a few more hours?

  No Lina, just go home.

  You’ve masturbated more than once to dirty thoughts of your childhood friend.

  Even though I’m greeted with Leonard’s warm smile as he takes my bag, I know he must be exhausted. He had to drive the bitch to who knows where in the middle of the night. “Leonard, I’m sorry we’re leaving so early.”

  “It’s quite all right, Miss James.”

  “Leonard,” I lightly scold. “What’s up with the ‘Miss James’? It’s me, Lina.”

  I climb into the back seat of the SUV before turning to face the Caine home one more time.

  “Excuse me, Lina, we need to leave immediately if you want to catch the first flight out,” Leonard says while snapping me out of a trance.

  It’s a wonder in my drunken state last night that I actually remembered to ask Leonard to take me to the airport this morning.

  I don’t respond. Leonard voices his concern. “I feel uncomfortable not informing Julian.”

  Peeking up, I mutter, “I’m sorry. I’ll make sure he understands I begged you to take me to the airport at the last minute. Thank you.”

  “I appreciate that, but it won’t change a thing.” He studies the rearview mirror to see my expression. Leonard and I remain silent until we arrive at SFO.

  Pulling by the curb, Leonard slips out and retrieves the carry-on bag from the trunk. As he opens the back-seat door, I remain planted in the back passenger seat. Looking straight ahead, I’m not really sure what I’m doing. Yes, I’m going home, but it feels different this time. The past two days have made me realize the need to confront my situation with Andrew. My heart knows my fiancé, and I can’t continue living the way we have been the past few years. Maybe that’s why I’ve started to obsess over another man.

  “Excuse me, have you had a change of heart?” Leonard asks. “Would you like to return to the Caine residence?”

  The obnoxious sound of a car horn behind us startles me. “I’m sorry. No, no change of heart. I’ll be on my way, and thank you for the ride.” I take his hand and lean closer to give him a hug. “Again, thank you. If Julian has a problem with you taking me to the airport, please have him call me.”

  I remain by the curb and watch Leonard drive away.

  The plane descends onto the LAX tarmac, waking me up from a nap. I survey the plane cabin, noticing passengers who are excited to be landing. Some may be going home, and some are probably visiting family, conducting business, or going on a vacation. I take the mirror out of my bag, and I look a complete mess. Trying to catch the earliest flight didn’t leave me much time to fix myself. I pinch my cheeks and apply lip balm to help brighten my face.

  Once the pilot has given permission to turn on our cell
phones and other electronic devices, I immediately check my phone. I’ve missed several calls and texts from Julian. Opening the first text, it’s from the Englishman I can’t stop fantasizing about.

  JULIAN: Where are you?

  I scroll down, noticing he’s sent the same text on ten separate occasions. The last text he sent reads:

  JULIAN: Please call me once you have landed.

  Rather than call him, I send him a quick text:

  ME: Just landed. Thank you for a lovely time.

  Along with the text to Julian, I send one to Roger and Patti informing them that I’m back in LA. With my sunglasses on and my hair pulled back, I prepare myself mentally for Andrew.

  Twenty-Eight

  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. It’s a familiar sound I’ve heard 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 of? He remains in the same pose since falling 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.

  My own confused thoughts continue to weigh me down.

  My body is alive, but I am barely living. A part of me somehow died yesterday when I left him. The short time with Julian Caine changed my life. My own breathing slows down, and all I want to do is crawl under a rock. Imploring my body to succumb to sleep, I try to forget how alive he made me feel. Sexual excitement. Jealousy. Anger. Hurt. Happiness.

  Go to sleep. Count to one hundred. Take a deep breath. Get him out of your head.

  He will never be yours.

  You will never be his.

  At this realization, I will myself to sleep.

  It’s been almost twenty-four hours since I left San Francisco. I didn’t even have the courage to properly say goodbye to my hosts. Right before I boarded the plane, I left a message for Marcel and apologized for my sudden departure. I figured I could blame it on my need to return to Andrew but I know deep down inside that was a lie. I could blame it on work, but that didn’t need immediate attention either. Or I can be honest with myself. I was feeling something I never thought I would feel for someone else other than Andrew. I’ve actually never felt this intensity toward the man I’ve loved half of my life.

  The attraction I have for Julian is inexplicable. My body was on fire with him, but he’d never touched me sexually. His voice burned into me, yet he had never uttered ‘I want you.’ I feel him under my skin. With one look, with one smile, he set my heart racing. My nights have become troublesome and restless with only thoughts of a man I can’t stop obsessing over. I am living in a state of suspended desire, and at times, I wonder if I occupy his mind the way he does mine?

  Over the next few days, I become an emotional mess. Sexual scenarios constantly fill my head, and I’m unable to do anything. I imagine Julian with me, kissing me, on top of me, inside me. I can actually smell his scent in the room although he’s never been inside my house. Mundane things become something new when it features him. I prepare evening meals, and I picture what it would be like to feed him. When I shower, I imagine what it would feel like to have his naked body brushed up against mine with water pouring over us. I listen to music curious to know if the song is something he would like. Strolling through my neighborhood seems more interesting when I search for him and anticipate running into him, despite the fact he lives in another city. Even though Andrew is physically with me twenty-four hours a day, nursing a nasty cold, my thoughts are of another man.

  I was never jealous when it came to my fiancé. Beautiful and intelligent college girls flocked to him. Colleagues, like Janice, were infatuated with him. But with Julian, I became a person I never thought I would become. The thought of him with other women infuriated me and it wasn’t fair. He and I are old friends who recently reconnected.

  Five days have passed since I last saw Julian. I haven’t slept since I left San Francisco because all thoughts of this Englishman invade my dreams.

  Moreover, our time on the boat became a constant reminder of what I’m missing with Andrew. Julian was wonderful, sweet, and sexy. The dinner he arranged was romantic, but the notion of Julian trying to romance me was out of the question. We are old friends trying to reacquaint ourselves after more than a decade apart. When we last saw each other, we were still kids−well, at least he was. I was on the verge of becoming a woman.

  Stop thinking about him.

  We are not lovers. We were never lovers. He and I will never be lovers.

  He’s made contact via calls and texts, but with the exception of informing him that I landed in LA safely, I haven’t responded to any of them. I fool myself into believing that not responding to his calls and texts would help erase him from my thoughts. But the heart is a funny thing. It possesses what it yearns to cherish. Logic tells me to stop thinking of him, obsessing over him but my thoughts of him escalate.

  Andrew returned to work yesterday, and I spend my day and night idly. Nothing’s changed. I’m still consumed by my childhood friend. I force myself to come back to reality. It’s late Thursday afternoon, and Andrew returned early from work only to spend time in his home office. The vegan lasagna we are having for dinner is in the oven, and I am once again binge-watching AMC’s Walking Dead. I must be on my fifth episode today, and I only have three left on my DVR. I lie on the couch, barely watching the show. I almost fall asleep when the doorbell rings. It’s such an unfamiliar sound that I ignore it. It’s not until it rings for the second time that I finally tear myself away from the couch. While rubbing my eyes, I haphazardly trip on one of Andrew’s brown leather shoes in the entryway. “Ouch,” I yell and rather than look through the peephole, I open the door hastily.

  Julian Caine.

  Fuck Me.

  No.

  Fuck.

  Me.

  He is standing in front of me.

  The Englishman I can’t stop obsessing over. The man I fantasized about last night while Andrew made love to me. The man I masturbated to this morning.

  Dumbfounded. I glare at him, and it’s quite obvious that he caught me off guard.

  “Hello, there,” he greets me warmly with that devilish smile of his.

  Nothing comes out of my mouth. The dreams I’ve had of him the past few nights pale in comparison to the man in front of me. The view is a spectacular one. His black hair is gloriously disheveled and has that just fucked look. Dammit, did he just fuck someone? His grin is so bright that it blinds me. His large hands remain in his pockets. Oh, how I long to feel them on me, in me, everywhere.

  “Are you going to let me in?” He studies my face before planting a kiss on my cheek.

  “Julian, what are you doing here?” I am still by the door, his smile and kiss distracting me. His body. His presence. And definitely the dirty, filthy images I had of him earlier.

  “Let me in and I’ll explain. It’s getting a bit chilly out here.” And although it’s almost seventy-five degrees out there, he brings both of his hands to his mouth and pretends to warm them with his lips.

  How cute.

  How about warming me up?

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Yes, please come in. My place is a mess.” My head is a mess. Somehow, I manage to be an idiot and not open the door wide enough to allow him to come in freely. Moving by me, Julian’s arm brushes against my breast and my nipples instantly erect. I inhale his scent, and my eyes roll to the back of my head.

  Breathe, Lina. Breathe.

  Twenty-
Nine

  We’re in the middle of my living room, unaware of our face-off. I try to hide my erect nipples by crossing my arms over my chest. Andrew remains in his home office, unaware that a visitor has arrived. I don’t bother to get him. He’ll come out of his cave sooner or later. Inching closer to me, my guest hesitates a second before cupping my chin with his large hand. “I was worried about you,” Julian utters. “You left without a goodbye and my calls and emails have gone unanswered. I figured that it was best for me to come here myself.”

  I am so surprised by his presence and moreover by his touch that I can barely manage to say anything. He remains reticent, waiting for a response. My eyes cast downward, fixed on the dark wooden floors. “I left a message for your father. I needed to get home because of Andrew.”

  “Well, where is this fiancé of yours?” His eyes wander before noticing the old couch with stacked pillows and a huge blanket. “Was I interrupting something?” He raises an eyebrow.

  “No, I was just binge-watching The Walking Dead. Andrew is in his office working.”

  Julian stands in the center of my living room, his large figure imposing. Assessing his surroundings, he doesn’t hesitate to voice his opinion. “This doesn’t seem like you.”

  “What do you mean it doesn’t seem like me?”

  “Oh, this house.” He waves his hand in the air. “It’s so … what’s the term? Shabby chic?” He pauses for a brief second. His next words surprise me. “Not chic. Just shabby.”

  Did he just insult my house décor?

  “What the fuck, Julian? This is my home. You just dissed my home.” I look around. He’s dead-on. The décor doesn’t reflect my personality in any way. For one, the house itself is a Victorian-style bungalow, with tiny, dark rooms. It wouldn’t be so bad if the house didn’t look like a place where Norman Bates lived. Andrew’s mother, Jeannette, decorated the house. There are doilies on most of the surfaces. I don’t like doilies, but I didn’t want to hurt my future mother in-law’s feelings. Andrew had to move to California a few months earlier and had asked her to buy furniture for the house.