by Cassie Mae
“All right, guys, thanks for doing this. We raised way over our goal thanks to a few of your moves.” She looks right at me. I give her a tiny encore before she chuckles and heads back out. Those of us who’re fully dressed follow right after her.
The bar is still buzzing, and a few of the patrons are up on the bachelor stage dancing. Looks like fun. A month ago I would’ve found Theresa and pulled her up there to do our routine, which was bound to get us a couple of laughs. I’d be in a state of ignorant, pleasant bliss until we went our separate ways and I pulled my hair out trying to get some sleep. Friendship is so easy when I’m with her, and so hard when I’m not.
Tonight, however…tonight is about moving past it all. Jace is right—if it hasn’t happened by now, it’s not going to happen. If only I didn’t have to convince myself of that every few minutes.
A loud commotion turns my attention from the stage to the front door, where a well-built security staff member is escorting someone outside. I can’t even see the patron, only hear incoherent shouting that sounds a lot like Greek until I think I hear my name. But with the music and the dancers and drunk crowd, I’m pretty sure I’m just hearing things.
After the crowd by the door cheers at having the disruptive party crasher sent out, I head to the bar to try to find my winner. Girls are lined up with giant note cards with a number on it. My number is clutched in a very inked hand, connected to a very inked arm and up to an inked neck and playful smile. Her short purple hair drops over half her face, and she flips it back and gives me a once-over.
“Hey,” she says, and I think I recognize her, but I’m not sure. You’d think I’d remember purple hair.
“Hey.”
“Wanna get out of here?” She tilts her head toward the door, and almost subconsciously I let my eyes drift around the room once more to see if I can find Theresa. Ridiculous. I shake my head and silently laugh at myself.
“Yeah…but first, your name?” I ask with a lift of my eyebrow.
Her smoke-painted eyes widen, and her shoulders jerk with the small burst of laughter that escapes her. “You don’t know who I am?”
Shit. Do I know her?
Another laugh pops from her dark lips, and she smacks a hand on my shoulder. “Your dumbfounded look is refreshing. And cute.” Her fingers curl into my collar. “Come on. I’ve got a few ideas of what I want to do with you.”
She’s strong for such a tiny girl. I like the aggression, though. It’s stoking the fire of adrenaline running through my veins. It reminds me of the way I feel around Theresa. It’s a high I can’t find by myself. Alone, things are calm, steady, like a blue sky with no clouds in sight. But when I’m around a beautiful, strong woman, the clouds gather and electricity crackles and lights up the sky. It just makes me want to match that intensity. It’s why I always thought Theresa and I would be good together.
Damn…there I go again.
“Give me yours and I’ll give you mine,” she says, dropping my collar and hopping onto the street. Her boots smack the pavement and echo through the small alleyway.
“My name?” I ask, and she nods. “Alec.”
“I know an Alex. She used to be my roommate.”
“Alec,” I correct with a half smile. “With a c.”
“All right, Calex,” she says with a teasing wink. I don’t find it too funny, but I widen my grin to humor her. “You see that over there?” She points a bright red fingernail at the brick wall over my left shoulder. The whole thing is covered in graffiti art, but the centerpiece is a picture of the New York skyline before 9/11.
“That’s one of mine,” she says. “I thought it’d be gone the day after I did it, but it’s been here ten years now.”
“Rian,” I say, reaching out to touch her tag. I suppose some of those bachelors have a few brain cells. Rian’s so famous that she doesn’t need a last name, so I don’t know it. I’m not asking either. “Ten years?”
She steps up next to me. “Yep. I look at this one and cringe.”
“Why? It’s amazing.”
“It’s dark.” She snorts. “And I should’ve used a different color on the Empire State Building. It’s faded so much now.”
I stroke the lines she indicated. The black spray paint has blurred into the brick, making the picture look as if it was seen through frosted glass. Even with the imperfection, it’s a thing of beauty. Like other things, other people, I’m familiar with.
“Why not touch it up?” I ask, letting my hand fall.
She makes a clicking sound with her tongue and reaches into her purse.
“You’ve just picked activity number one,” she says, pulling out a spray can. “Be my lookout, then we’ll get something to eat.”
It’s not exactly what I’d call a fun date, but she paid for it, so who am I to complain?
“Oh,” she says, uncapping the spray can, “you might want to cover your mouth. Don’t want you so high that you forget everything else we’re doing tonight.”
She gives me a grin before grabbing the hem of her shirt and pressing it over her nose and mouth. Her entire stomach is inked as well. I shoot my gaze somewhere else before I remember that I’m allowed to look. She’s obviously cool with it; it’s completely acceptable to check her out. But when I let my eyes drift back to her midriff I can’t help but feel a pang of guilt somewhere in my gut that I like the way she looks, and I’m curious about her tattoos, and I sort of want to touch them. This guilt comes from a part of me that I’ve buried deep, but it likes to make small appearances at the most inopportune times.
“So, your bio said you graduated in the arts.” She sprays a line across the bricks. I quickly look out into the street and scan the area. No one’s paying us any attention.
“Theater arts.”
“An actor, huh?”
A hopeful actor managing a store. I conveniently leave that part out.
I grin and lean against the opposite wall. “Broadway someday, I hope.”
“I heard you singing up there. And of course saw your dancing.” She lifts a curious eyebrow at me. “Got any other talents?”
The answer gets caught somewhere between my head and my tongue, sort of choking me. Yes, there is one that comes to mind, though I wouldn’t so much as call it a talent as something that I enjoy doing with a partner. A specific partner. When her hands graze mine as we let our fingers dance across a smooth black-and-white plane and we create music together, it’s always better than playing alone. It’s all kinds of music: enjoyable and lighthearted fortissimos and quiet and moving pianissimos. It perfectly fits us, me and my partner, in more ways than one.
Rian looks up at me, still awaiting my answer.
“Piano,” I tell her. The corners of her eyes crinkle with joy, and then she turns her focus back to her own talent. I watch with careful study, desperately trying to put her into my mind and Theresa out of it. But given all the things I’m passionate about including my best friend in some form or another, I start to wonder if that’s even possible.
18 MONTHS, 23 DAYS AGO: 10:11 A.M.
“Do you need accompaniment?” the director asks from the center of the small playhouse auditorium. My heart starts beating in my ears, and I glance at the empty seat behind the piano.
She said she’d be here, but that was before our conversation last night. That was before I made a fool of myself.
I could play, but I’ve always had difficulty playing and singing at the same time. I need more practice, and promised myself that I would master the craft, but whenever Theresa is around, I’d much rather hear her tickle the keys, or tickle them with her.
“Mr. Tucker?”
I shake my attention away from the piano and back onto the director. “Excuse me,” I apologize. My heart throbs in my ears and I can hardly hear myself. A sheen of sweat forms along my hairline, and all I can do is count the thumps, try to calm them, but the more I try the louder and faster they get.
“I—I have…I mean, I had”—thumpthumpthumpthump�
��“accompaniment.”
The director doesn’t look fazed by my nervous habits. Or perhaps he sees them all too often. I’ve always needed a character to slip into in order to relax onstage. The singing portion of the auditions is always when I crumble.
“Would you like us to provide it for you?” the director asks. “Or would you rather sing a capella?”
My eyes move slowly to the girl in the front row with a stack of music resting on her lap. She smiles encouragingly at me, as if pitying my lack of preparedness.
A capella, I decide. Nothing wrong with a capella. I’m better a capella, I’ve been told. So maybe this is fate’s way of helping me out.
I give the empty piano seat one more glance.
Thumpthumpthumpthump.
“A ca—”
“Sorry, sorry, sorry!” Theresa calls out, bursting through the side door adjacent to the stage. Her hair, wet from her morning shower, bounces around her face and drips onto her chest while she digs through her large purse for the sheet music. My nerves move from my stomach up into my throat, and I start wondering if I’ll be able to sing at all.
The director waves Theresa over to the piano, impatiently tapping his foot on the seat in front of him. Theresa catches my eye before she settles onto the piano bench, her mouth pulled to the side slightly. Though I’m okay singing a capella, I’m grateful she’s here.
I hear her nail tap the first key before the notes are played, and I push my nerves back into my stomach. My eyelids drift shut, and I take a deep breath, blow it out, run over the first line in my head, the first note, and try to forget about the girl behind the piano…the girl who plays flawlessly, like it’s in her blood. The notes are tattooed into her skin, right down to the bone. I’m so enraptured by the way she’s playing that I miss my cue. I miss it and don’t realize until she’s halfway through the first verse.
I cut a side glance at her, smirking a little about having screwed up before even opening my mouth. Her shoulders shake with suppressed laughter, and she brings the notes back into the intro seamlessly.
“Love Changes Everything.” That’s the song I’m singing.
Lizzie picked it—she always requests the love songs. I rip my eyes from the gorgeous woman behind the piano and look at the director with the artsy goatee. I sing to him the words that tasted weird on my tongue when I rehearsed but suddenly taste honest. I feel them rock me where I stand—an earthquake localized right under my feet, and I’m the only one who feels its destructive force.
I know I said it wouldn’t, but it has. I feel it when I let the last note out and my eyes connect with Theresa’s again.
Love changes everything.
Chapter 4
PRESENT DAY
“Better?” Rian asks, stepping back from her graffiti art. I push away from my lookout spot against the wall. The only sketchy person I saw was a woman across the street in a bright pink winter coat, her face hidden by the hood. For a long minute I thought she was staring straight at me, and I squinted through the night to see if I recognized her, but couldn’t get any facial features. Then more people started walking down the street and she became distracted, and so did I.
I step up next to Rian and tilt my head to the side. It does look better.
“It’s fantastic,” I say, amping up to flatter her. “You’re really talented.” I say that because it’s the truth.
“All right,” she says, plopping the empty spray can into the trash. “You hungry?”
“Lead the way.”
She gives me a cute little wink, lifting her shoulder enough to touch her chin. Then she tucks her arm in mine and leads us out of the alley and into the street. As we walk she occasionally asks me a question or two. I try to fill the silence with drawn-out answers to make myself seem more interesting. My attempts to create chemistry with a girl I’ve just met are coming out a bit rusty. I don’t want her four grand to be a bust, but I also have my own agenda here. So during the sporadic silences, I try to brainstorm ways to build sexual tension. Though the constant buzzing of my phone isn’t helping anything. Whoever’s calling is going to have to wait a bit.
“This good?” she asks, stopping in front of a place. I can see through the window that it’s jam-packed inside, with people waiting, so we’d have to eat on the outside patio. I’m not a fan of eating outdoors, especially since the wind is currently blowing so hard it whips her short hair into a tall bouffant. I know this February has been exceptionally warm for New York, but by no means is it comfortable. I’d have to leave my jacket on, and I don’t like eating in anything long-sleeved, let alone the $500 jacket Jace lent me.
But she’s in charge, so I go with it.
We get seated by a railing and a bunch of hedges. We’re close to the sidewalk but the shrubbery makes it easy to have a private conversation. Not that we’re talking anyway.
The waiter brings us our menus and glasses of water, takes our drink orders (we order the same brand of beer, so maybe this’ll turn out better than it started), then leaves us alone. I pick up the menu and glance over the choices.
“Wait,” Rian says, putting her hand over my menu. “You up for a game?”
Finally, an opening. I breathe out a sigh of relief. Here’s my chance to be witty, charismatic, maybe romantic, and get something happening between us.
I set the menu down. “I believe you’re calling the shots tonight.”
“How about I order you my favorite dish, and you order me yours?” Her eyes smile. “You allergic to anything?”
“Tomatoes,” I lie. But there’s no way I’m eating anything made with them or on them or around them or touching them.
“That’s total bullshit,” she says with an accusatory point of her finger. “That is a bullshit face.” She smiles down at her menu. “But I’ll avoid tomatoes if you want. Is tomato sauce okay?”
“Does your favorite dish have tomato sauce in it?”
Her eyes flick up to the night sky, and she plays with her bottom lip thoughtfully. “No…”
“Then it doesn’t matter, huh?” I laugh. “What about you?” I ask, looking back at the menu. “Allergic to anything?”
“Nope. And I like to try everything at least once.”
“Everything?”
She pauses while I glance over the entrées. I sense her leaning in closer.
“Anything,” she says.
The sexy twist her tone gives the word causes my gaze to lift from my menu to make sure I wasn’t imagining it. Her hooded, mischievous eyes tell me I’m definitely not in the realm of my imagination.
The reality that I’m about to embark on an evening with a woman who may spark the first step of moving on hits me hard in the guilt-ridden gut. She’s taken us from the friendly pleasantries into the flirty agendas with one word, and it’s been so long since I’ve played that role I find my mind reverting back to the tactics I used when I was a novice to the dating scene.
“You like games?” I ask, and she raises an eyebrow. “ ’Cause I have one for us.”
“You have my attention.”
“I want to know your bullshit face.” I grin playfully. “You said I have one.”
“You do.”
“I want to see yours.”
She tilts her head, an amused look in her eyes. “You want me to lie to you?”
“I’ll ask a question, you tell me the answer, and I’ll guess if it’s a lie or if it’s the truth.”
“Hmm,” she mutters thoughtfully, closing the menu with careful hands. “And this will work in reverse as well?”
“Sure.”
“Truth,” she says, the corner of her lip tilting upward. “So, Alex with a c, were you in a church group growing up?”
I attempt to keep my face as passive as possible. “No.”
“Bullshit.” She laughs, and I find myself automatically laughing with her. It’s a natural reaction I haven’t experienced during an evening like this, and it jolts the heart in my chest, if only for a moment.
She lifts a shoulder again, grazing her chin with the bulk of her jacket. “This game feels very community-group-esque.”
“Were you in a church group?”
“Yes,” she answers. I study her face for a moment, but I can’t tell if she’s for real or not.
“Truth?”
“Truth. Catholic school girl. I still have the uniform.”
I eye her teasing grin. “Bullshit.”
“Truth…I’ll even prove it, if you so desire.” She pauses for a second. “But let’s get something straight—I’m not exactly a practicing Catholic anymore.”
She taps her fingers against the cloth-covered table and grins, presumably at the thought running through her head. I grin at the action, then take a drink. Girl’s got a hell of a poker face.
The waiter comes and takes our orders. I get her the steak and she whispers her order to him.
“Should I be worried?” I ask when he leaves. Her shoulders lift the tiniest bit, flirting, teasing, and I feel as if I should be flattered and eating it up, but I still haven’t fully gotten there yet.
“No,” she answers.
“Bullshit.”
“Well, maybe a little worried.” She pinches her fingers together, then reaches for her beer. “Is steak really your favorite or were you just trying to see if I eat meat?”
“Steak is the best-tasting thing at this place.”
She eyes me up and down, then tilts her head with a smile. “Truth.”
I nod, confirming her guess. “You’re good at this,” I tell her. “What’s your secret?”
“I’ve been told I’m good at reading people.”
“Bullshit.”
“Hey, you got one right.” She smiles, and I’m not surprised I guessed correctly. That answer comes standard with that question, but it’s rarely the truth. “Truth is, you’re extremely transparent, Alex with a c.”
“Really?”
She nods, but doesn’t say anything more. I go to scratch the back of my neck but quickly stop my hand in case that’s some sort of tell. If I’m so transparent, does she know what I’m doing here, that I’m trying to move on from another woman? Can she see the unexplained guilt still lodged in my gut? Can she tell that my heart isn’t ready to be opened? If she can see all of that, she’s hiding it well. I might be transparent, but she’s a stone wall. Reading her is like trying to understand why the hell there are letters in math.