Deeper Than Dreams

by Jessica Topper

  Adrian’s laugh was lost to the night air as he opened the moonroof and leaned back. The neon dazzle of Times Square lit his eyes like a marquee on opening night.

  “I love you, Kat Lewis. You absolutely rock.”

  His lips lingered near my earlobe, adorning it with words so beautiful and polished, my glittering teardrop diamond earrings had competition. About how stunning I looked, not just now, but this morning, as I slept. And how he felt he could conquer the world with me on his arm and by his side. Not to mention he was thinking of violating me six ways to Sunday in my fancy dress. All delivered in that flowing, murmur of an accent; it was enough to make me want to scream “Home, James!” to our driver and let the gala tickets go to waste.

  “Promise me I can mess up your makeup later,” he breathed, his hand spanning from my chin to cheekbone with a barely there touch that left me straining to meet him. “After we’ve hobnobbed with the literary elite.”

  My own hands drifted, mingling with the long locks that rested against the peaked lapels of his tuxedo jacket. Under the grosgrain tailored threads and crisp, spotless shirt, a colorful wilderness awaited me that I longed to explore, leaving lipstick kisses along every path to mark my way. Or to lose myself completely. “I promise,” I whispered, and made a silent vow to myself to stop worrying.

  “Right, here we are, then.” The limo had glided past the cross-streets of 42nd and Fifth, the epicenter of Manhattan. “You ready for this, luv?”

  Never had a New York landmark been transformed before my eyes more than the 42nd Street building tonight. There had always been something deliciously mysterious about the library when merely walking past it after hours, but knowing we would be ushered into its lavish confines was beyond thrilling. The layers of marble and stone rose regally up, its twisted ivy veil showcased by the glowing spotlights and pops of camera flash. Tall pillar candles in hurricane vases lit the path up the majestic stairs.

  I hadn’t expected crowds . . . no, make that throngs of people on the sidewalk. I observed the necks craning and eyes straining to catch a glimpse through the tinted windows as we slid to the curb.

  “Think mermaid, be a mermaid.” Mindy’s mantra had stuck with me, but I felt more like a fish out of water as our driver stepped lively around to open my door.

  Adrian squeezed my hand. “I’m right behind you, Kat.”

  With my legs demurely pressed together, I swung them out first, high heels hitting the pavement. Like a regal footman, our driver claimed my hand and hoisted me up. Success.

  The chill in the air hit me first, before the night exploded around us. There may have indeed been a carpet, and it could very well have been red, but all I saw were the blinding white flashes of video and still cameras training across me and above me, seeking out their prize as he climbed out of the limo behind me.

  “Digger! How does it feel to perform again, after all these years?”

  “Tell us how the long-awaited reunion went last night!”

  A sea of arms reached out, some wielding cameras, some with microphones, others waving pens hopefully. It was hard to tell the professionals from the amateurs, but it was obvious; the lion’s share of people scattered across the glittering sidewalks were fans of Digger Graves.

  I waited for Adrian to correct their hopeful questions, to clarify that it had been a one-off gig. That it didn’t, as Rick had warned me during that first lonely phone call, spell instant reunion of the band.

  “It went off without a hitch,” Adrian called out. “It feels great to be back!”

  There was an excited murmur from the masses. A dozen flashes caught my face, frozen in time next to their money shot, as his sound bite echoed in my ears.

  Our pathway seemed to shrink as the crowd surged forward, and I felt one ankle wobble in my spike heels as I sidestepped to avoid a sign-waver. Luckily, Adrian quickly pressed himself to my opposite side, offering me the crook of his arm and keeping me snug against him as we started to make our way toward the building.

  “I fucking love you, Digger!” The sign woman practically blew out my eardrum, screeching the words that were written in glitter paint on her poster board, minus the expletive. She seemed out of place among the Pulitzer Prize–winning authors and MacArthur Geniuses who were filtering by us with less fanfare.

  “Are you performing tonight?” someone hollered, and a buzz of excited laughter followed.

  “Goodness, no.” Adrian turned and smiled at me. My heels brought us to roughly the same height. “I’m just escorting my lady love on her busman’s holiday.”

  “Who are you wearing?” This time the question was directed at me, and posed by a showstopping blonde twig of a woman with a dazzling smile. Her own gown was expensively draped over her model’s figure, and a microphone boasting the logo of one of the new fashion channels dangled between her long, lacquered nails. “Is it a Chloe? A Stella?”

  “It’s an Ana,” I heard a calm, confident voice say, and I realized it was mine. “She’s an up-and-coming local designer.”

  The cameraman accompanying the woman made a whirlybird sign with his finger, and Adrian loosened his grip on me enough so I could give a quick twirl to the left to show off the clever layering and flow of the skirt.

  “Fabulous,” she raved, “simply fab-u-lous!”

  I grinned, thinking of Ana dancing at the nightclub last August to Los Fabulosos Cadillacs in her crazy-high heels.

  “Cameron Cook, Digger, from MTV. Can we have a minute of your time?”

  “When you start playing music again on your channel, I’m all yours.” Adrian allowed a smile in the direction of the news anchor, who didn’t appear old enough to have witnessed MTV’s original launch.

  “When you record new music, we will be sure to air an exclusive.” The reporter didn’t miss a beat. “Sources say the band is priming for a world tour?”

  “Argentina is lovely in spring.” Adrian winked, but kept us moving. “And fall.”

  “So are the rumors true?”

  My date paused.

  “You’re eyeing a three-sixty deal?” Cameron Cook prompted.

  Adrian’s jaw did a visible shift as he considered his response and obviously thought better of it. “If rumors were true, they’d be fact, mate. And the only fact I’m concerned with right now is being late for this gala if we don’t move on. Cheers.”

  There was more clamoring behind us, but he didn’t give another glance to the crowd. “Pay them no mind.” He reached for my elbow to steer me, but I pulled away.

  “How many people am I going to hear it from before you tell me yourself?” I snapped at him.

  “Come on, Kat. You heard me tell Kevin last night we were working on tour routing for the spring.”

  “I thought you meant a couple of club dates around town. Not . . . not . . . stadiums in South America,” I sputtered. “I also heard you tell a five-year-old girl this morning that you weren’t going anywhere, anytime soon. You can’t have it both ways, Adrian. You just . . . you just can’t. I’m sorry.”

  ***

  Like Cinderella in reverse, I broke from him and marched up the stairs on my own.

  “Kat! Katrina!” As nimbly as he had pursued me in Strawberry Fields, Adrian caught up and grabbed ahold of my arm. “Do you really want to do this here? In front of them?”

  I turned to look down at the sea of expectant people below us, then back at his pained expression. Years of carefully protected privacy were swirling down the drain, but who was to blame? Who was the one “feeling great” being back? But I had, after all, encouraged him. Because I loved him. Shame flooded my face. “Let’s get inside,” I managed.

  We ascended the steps of the library while Patience and Fortitude, the stone lions I had introduced Adrian to on our first real date, stood guard outside the doors.

  Names were murmured, tickets were flashed, and we were
ushered into the white-marble entrance of Astor Hall, its cocktail hour already in full swing. The space was just as regal as I remembered from my days of working for the library system, bathed in warm light for the evening’s events. Low cocktail tables of white birch awaited, merrily lit by candles and decorated for the season with mossy centerpieces. A trio of classical musicians added their brand of background music to the festivities. But the tension flowing between Adrian and me created a dissonance hard to ignore.

  He pulled me under an empty archway, pacing there like a caged beast. “I can have it both ways, Kat. You know why? Because I’ve thought long and hard about this, and I’ve paid my dues.” His cuff link caught the light as he slammed a fist to his chest. “And I’m going to do it the right way, on your schedule, with as little disruption to Abbey’s life as possible. You’ve got to trust me on this.”

  “I do, but . . .”

  “I know it’s a crazy ride. But this time around, I’m calling the shots.” He placed his hands on my shoulders. “I’m controlling the roller coaster. Who gets a ride, and who gets off. It’s gonna go at my pace, all right?”

  “Once it picks up speed, it’s going to be hard to stop,” I whispered. “Even if you want to.”

  Adrian dipped his head down, searching out my eyes. “Okay. So are we going to close our eyes and fight it the whole way? Or are we going to let go and enjoy the thrill of it?”

  I placed my hands on his where they rested on my shoulders. He must not have seen an answer he liked in my eyes, because he broke away before I could speak. “I need a drink,” he muttered. “Do you want one?”

  I bit my lip, shaking my head. I could barely handle the carousel ride in Central Park. Could I sign myself on for this? Or Abbey?

  I stood and watched couple after well-dressed couple glide by me. Young ones, old ones. Lovers, friends, family. I thought about how I’d bandied about Corroded Corpse lyrics in conversation with my brother earlier. The song had been the aptly named “Trust in Me,” and another verse came to mind.

  Let’s live for today

  Think of the demons we’ll slay

  Plenty of stories for when we’re old and gray

  Could I throw all the worries and “what ifs” to the wind? Adrian and I had gotten this far without a plan, after all.

  “I don’t want to fight,” I told him when he returned. “But I need to understand. What’s a three-sixty deal?”

  Adrian downed his first drink of the night and drummed his fingers on the rough-hewn table in front of us. “That’s nothing. Totally unconfirmed.”

  “It’s something,” I said. “You were right next to me, and now you are a million miles away at the mere mention of it.”

  A gusty sigh escaped, causing the decorative votive in front of him to flicker. “Just considering the source of the rumor, that’s all.”

  “Something tells me a three-sixty is not even close to 398.2 on the Dewey Decimal number line.”

  My lame library joke brought a soft smile to Adrian’s face.

  “Say this is your band, your star power.” Reaching across the cocktail table, he centered the small, lit candle. “Then you’ve got all your music-related projects. Your studio recordings ”—he set down his whiskey glass at the midnight position—“your live shows”—my evening bag was plunked down at six o’clock—“and your merchandise, your TV ads, your movie soundtracks . . .”

  He systematically emptied his pockets of his wallet, loose change, and his ever-present guitar picks, assigning a place around the table to each item in turn, each representing a piece of the pie.

  “And depending on which devil you make your deal with, whether it’s the record label or the promoter”—he counted them off on his thumb and forefinger—“they take the rights to it all. And round and round it goes, until your bright star burns out.”

  To emphasize his point, he licked his thumb and pinched out the flame. “The end.” Unflinching, he took back custody of his whiskey glass and drained its dregs.

  Talk about your grim fairy tales, I thought. “That’s crazy.”

  “That’s the new music model,” came a voice from behind us. Rick picked up one of Adrian’s picks, inspected its gauge, and pocketed it. “But you forgot a piece.”

  “Ah, yes. The money grab. The band gets a cool five million—”

  “Ten,” Rick corrected. He handed Adrian back his wallet. “Up front.”

  “If we sell our soul to them for the next ten years.”

  “No, five.”

  Adrian swept the rest of the sundry items back into his hand. “Someone’s been negotiating.”

  “Someone’s been exploring the options.” Rick shook up the ice in his glass and consulted it, as if the cubes might take on a shape and tell his fortune, like tea leaves.

  “How about you take the night off, Magellan. No brave new world to discover here.”

  Rick frowned slightly. “Wasn’t planning on even bringing it up, mate. Until I heard you speak of it.”

  “Really.” The word fell flat from Adrian’s lips. Not so much a question but a testing statement. “You didn’t leak it to the music press, then?”

  “Sam,” Rick said instantly. “I warned you not to even tell him, Dig.”

  Adrian slowly shook his head. “And I didn’t.”

  I placed a hand on my date’s arm, which seemed to bring him back to his surroundings.

  “Enough, no matter.” He glanced around. “Are your in-laws here tonight?”

  “Out of the country. Hence the extra seats at this little slice of literary heaven. Kat,” Rick leaned to kiss my cheek. “You’re a vision.”

  “Thank you. For both the compliment, and the tickets.”

  After poring over all those old band pictures, I had to jolt myself back into reality as I stared up at this twenty-first-century version of Riff Rotten. Just a hint of stubble shadowed his scalp, where long, ebony locks once flowed. His features were classic Mediterranean, from heavy brow to strong nose, and even more striking without the mane of hair to hide behind. Facial hair was trimmed to a minimum, neatly surrounding his sculpted jaw and meeting in a dark point under a full bottom lip. One detail remained the same. His onyx eyes burned with the same hungry intensity.

  “Well now,” Adrian conceded, flicking Rick’s starched collar. “Aren’t you the dog’s dinner?”

  Like its guitarist, the band’s customarily shirtless and screaming front man was a different animal when attired in formalwear. Adrian may’ve held the title for Most Deliberately Rugged Tuxedo-Clad Male, but Rick? He wore a tuxedo like it was his job and calling. Like he was the James Bond of heavy metal.

  “Either way you slice it,” Rick deadpanned.

  “Slumming it solo tonight?” Adrian asked his best mate. There had been women to the left and right of the singer backstage the night before.

  He just gave a noncommittal shrug. “Guess I’m a free agent now. What are you two lovers drinking tonight?”

  Servers had been mingling with flutes of champagne on trays, but I wasn’t in the mood for the bubble and fizz. “I feel something classic calling, standing between you debonair gents. How about a martini? Dry and dirty.”

  Rick’s brow shot up, then he nodded his approval.

  “Basil Hayden. On the rocks.” Adrian handed Rick his empty glass.

  “Ah, behaving yourself. Noted.”

  Adrian turned to me, once Rick ambled toward the bar. “Dry and dirty, eh? ’Tis a pity we’ve given up showering together, luv. However will I get you wet . . . and clean?”

  A slow smile spread across my face, but desire moved like a wildfire across the desert plains within me. “You’ll just have to get creative, I guess.”

  Fingers ghosted the tiny pleats of material swathing my waist as Adrian claimed it. His touch was warm and welcoming. “First order of business when we
get home,” he said. “After I steal you away from the intellectually chic this evening.”

  It seemed I had successfully taken his mind off music business for now. But in my own mind, we still had some unfinished business of our own. The argument felt small and petty now, hanging high above our heads in the hallowed hall.

  ***

  Threading my bare arm through his jacket-clad one, I snuggled up against him and we turned to people-watch. Well-dressed socialites and philanthropists mixed and mingled, and it was fun to take in their clothing styles and try to decide whether they were famous or not. I thought I spotted Candice Bergen and Barbara Walters. Adrian pointed out an elegant woman and claimed she was a Jordanian princess. “I’ve heard she’s a big patron of the arts.”

  “What do you think people are saying about us?” I joked, squeezing tighter.

  “Hmmm . . . ‘There’s the prettiest librarian in the room, whatever does she see in that ruffian?’” Adrian was back to trilling each r like a dog wrestling with a chew toy, and he nuzzled his final word against my temple.

  “Oh, please!” I whipped to face him, and tested out the kissable factor of my lipstick. “You’re my diamond in the rough.”

  “Pardon me . . . I couldn’t help but overhear you say she was a librarian.” A slim gentleman approached, his business card extending from between two fingers. “Town & Country magazine. We’re running a feature on the gala next week. I’d be interested to hear your thoughts on the importance of tonight’s benefit, from a librarian’s perspective.”

  “Oh goodness,” I said hastily. “I haven’t worked for the library in several years, I don’t know if I—you see . . .”

  “Once a librarian, always a librarian.” Adrian stroked my arm fondly, and gave the man a winning smile. “I fell in love with her in a library.”