Kiss Me, Chloe

by Shéa R. MacLeod

  Musician Number Two

  YOU’D HAVE THOUGHT that after Damon and Dave, I’d have learned my lesson about artsy types. Apparently I was slow on the draw.

  Olivia and I had been working together for a couple of months when she invited me out with her and her friends. I immediately jumped at the chance to go out with some new people. I was still fairly new to London and really wanted to expand my social circle.

  We wound up at a nightclub in Chelsea. It was one of those upscale places where there’s a dress code and you have to be a member. Figured Olivia wouldn’t go to a regular nightclub like normal people.

  Inside, everything was white from the walls and floors to the plush leather furniture. The club was a warren of random rooms with bars and clusters of furniture with larger empty spaces for dancing. The sound system pulsed out a dance version of one of the latest top forty pop songs while the well-heeled clientele sipped exotic drinks out of fancy glassware. About half the people were crammed on the tiny dance floors, grooving and grinding, while the other half lounged around chatting or snogging. One doorway led to a long hallway containing about half a dozen openings with beaded curtains.

  “Private VIP rooms,” Olivia shouted in my ear. “Most people don’t like them because they’re away from all the action. Unless you’re looking for another kind of action, if you know what I mean.”

  I knew what she meant.

  Paul was there, slumped on one of the couches, nursing a beer and looking bored. A couple of Olivia’s friends were there, too, already out on the dance floor.

  “This is Efram,” Olivia said, introducing me to a tall drink of water with a devastating smile and dark bedroom eyes. I resisted the urge to fan myself ala Scarlett O’Hara.

  We exchanged a few pleasantries before he asked me to dance. The music had changed to something sultry and more than a little overtly sexual. The press of bodies forced us close together, and I felt myself growing warm, and not just from the heat of the crowd.

  We started dating after that. It was intense, the sex was amazing, and I thought we had a good thing. Even though he was a musician, like Paul, he paid his bills with it. Unlike Paul, he seemed uninterested in groupies. The only real downside was the weird hours he worked, usually busy on most evenings and weekends, which was, of course, when I was free. We ended up spending time together on Sundays and sometimes nights early in the week. It was different, but we made it work.

  “There’s something I should tell you,” he said one day.

  My heart sank. Oh, boy. That was never a good sign. “What?”

  Turned out he had twin boys by a woman he’d had a one-night stand with. “It was a mistake. I never do that sort of thing, but”—he shrugged—“it happened. I get to see them twice a week, which is why I’m a lot busier than I would be. I have to travel across the city to see them, which takes up a lot of time. That’s why I can’t see you on Tuesdays and Thursdays.”

  The fact that he’d had a one-night stand and gotten someone pregnant was kind of a red flag, except that lots of people made mistakes. You couldn’t blame a guy for his past as long as he made changes in the future. And at least he was taking responsibility. That was worth a lot in my book.

  “Thanks for telling me,” I said. “I totally get it. I think it’s great you’re making sure you’re part of their lives.”

  Everything went on as before for the next couple of months. I still hadn’t met the boys, but I knew things like that could be awkward, so I didn’t push. I was just enjoying what time we had and the fact that Efram was a dependable guy. Something rare in my experience. Then came bombshell number two.

  “We need to talk about something,” he said one day over morning coffee.

  My stomach gave a queasy heave. I hated those words. They never boded well. “All right.”

  “I need a commitment from you.”

  I blinked. “What sort of commitment?”

  He leaned forward, eyes focused on me. The intensity was not sexy. It was unnerving. “I need to take my music to the next level.”

  “Okay.” I really didn’t get where he was going with this.

  “The only way I can do that is by moving to the US.”

  I didn’t get it. “How is that going to help?”

  “If I move to L.A., I can get in with people in the industry.” He named a couple of extremely famous hip-hop stars. “They can really help my career.”

  Was he serious? The likelihood of even meeting those people, never mind “getting in” with them was slim to none. And they weren’t going to take some unknown artist from Britain under their wing and help him get famous. That was...well, nuts.

  “What I need from you,” he continued, “is a commitment.”

  “To do what exactly?”

  “The easiest way for me to get into the US is to marry an American citizen.”

  The lightbulb went off. He wanted a green card. Not something I expected from a British citizen; it was so random.

  “You want us to get married so you can live in the United States?” I said. Surely I’d just fallen into the Twilight Zone.

  “Yes!” he enthused. “We can get married, then we can move to L.A. It’ll be a convenience thing. You live your life. I’ll live mine. I’ll take care of everything because I’ll be making tons of money. I swear, it’ll be great. You won’t regret it.”

  It was official. He was nuts. Tons of money? In his dreams. I mean, he could get lucky, but the odds weren’t in his favor.

  “Listen, Efram. We’ve been dating four months. Four.”

  “So. Like I said. It’ll just be a convenience thing.”

  Because that made me feel all sorts of special. “What about your kids?”

  “What about them?”

  I blinked. “Won’t you, I don’t know, miss them?”

  He shrugged as if we were talking about potted house plants. “They’re young. They won’t even miss me. By the time they are old enough to visit, I’ll have everything set up. They can visit during the summers, have a great time with me, then come back here the rest of the time. This is better for them in the long run, you know. I can pay for them to go to a good university.”

  He was willing to throw away his kids for a career. Holy crickets. “My life is here. I live here. I don’t want to move back to the US.” Not at that precise moment, anyway.

  “I dated you for this reason.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I date only American women because I want to move to the US. If I wanted to live here, I’d date a British woman.”

  Was he hearing himself? “You only dated me because I’m American?”

  “Well, you’re pretty, too. But yes.”

  “That is nuts.”

  He stared at me blankly. “What are you saying?”

  “That I’m not marrying you, and I’m not moving to the US. That’s what I’m saying.”

  “Then we’re done here,” he said calmly.

  “Yeah. No kidding.” I stood up, grabbed my purse, and walked out of the flat. Just like that our relationship was over. Talk about a whole new level of crazy.

  Chapter 13

  "ARE YOU INSANE?"

  “I must be. I let you talk me into this,” I muttered, my face mushed into the yoga mat. All I’d wanted was to give him a quick debrief on the Bram situation. Maybe get some sympathy. Instead I found myself next to a hairy man who smelled like garlic, doing downward dog in an oversized T-shirt that kept riding up and flashing everybody.

  “Come on,” he’d begged. “It’ll be fun.”

  “I’ve never tried yoga before,” I’d mused. “You know me. I’m game to try anything once. As long as it’s not illegal or immoral.”

  “And even the morality is negotiable,” Kev had snorted.

  Thus I’d found myself in a somewhat odiferous yoga studio at seven o’clock on a Saturday morning, trying to find my inner Zen. I was pretty sure my inner Zen had run away from home.

  “No,” Kev hissed, twi
sting himself into some random pretzel shape I couldn’t even fathom. “I mean about Bram. You are crazy.”

  "Not that I know of," I said, trying to copy Kev’s position. I ended up toppling over and nearly taking out Garlic Guy. He gave me a dour look, and I apologized.

  “Focus on your breathing.” The whip-thin yoga teacher all but leapt to her feet and glared at me over the row of butts sticking in the air. She was surprisingly militant for a woman with green hair. I gave her a weak smile and managed to right myself.

  "It's just I have this thing about dating musicians,” I whispered. ‘And trust me, if you heard the horror stories I have about dating them, you’d understand."

  "Yes, yes. I know about your musician thing," Kev snapped. I could practically feel him rolling his eyes. Currently I couldn’t see them, as he was standing on his elbows with his legs curled up and back around him, nearly touching his head. I was more than a little impressed.

  “What the heck pose is that?”

  “Sayanasana. Scorpion pose variation.” He grunted a little as he carefully unwound from the pose.

  “Would you two keep it down?” Garlic Guy was irked.

  “Breathing!” Militant Yoga Teacher snapped from the front.

  Kev lowered his voice again. "Sweetie, you can’t just kick a guy to the curb because he plays the sax. In fact, that's the best reason I've ever heard to kick a guy into your bed, not out of it. You know those guys have the best rhythm." He launched himself into yet another ridiculous pose, this time with his chest pressed against the mat and his feet up over his head. It looked painful, but he seemed blissfully relaxed.

  I snorted, remaining comfortably in child’s pose. "Please. Every musician I've ever met has been a total disaster on some level or other. I don't have time to waste dating guys with no future."

  "And exactly what do you consider a future?"

  I sighed, pressing my forehead against the mat. My underwear was currently riding up my nether regions. I’d be lucky to find it later. "You know, a good job. Something that pays the bills."

  "Lots of musicians can pay the bills. They might not be famous, but they're not homeless.” He unwound, did a regular old downward dog, and then collapsed gracefully into child’s pose. Too bad he was gay. The way he looked in yoga pants was enough to give a girl some serious fantasies.

  "I'm talking about something a little more reliable. Secure. Most musicians I know live in hovels and eat Ramen."

  "Girl, you need to meet some different musicians."

  “And now let us relax a few minutes,” Militant Yoga Teacher bellowed from the front.

  "I may love music, Kev,” I all but whispered, not wanting to get bawled out again, “but I need someone who is more than that."

  There was a pause. "You're looking for a provider? Isn't that a little archaic?"

  "Don't be ridiculous," I said. "I don't need a provider. I can take care of myself. But I need someone who can pull his own weight. Be an equal. I don't want to be the provider. I don't want to have to bail someone out because their electricity is gonna get shut off or something." My legs were going to sleep. I might never get off this floor. “Partners are supposed to help and support each other. I’m just tired of being the only one doing any supporting in a relationship.”

  “All right. Thank you everyone. See some of you next time.” Militant Yoga Teacher gave me a pointed glare. Apparently I was not invited back. Garlic Guy gathered up his mat and water bottle, and dripped his way across the floor. Ew. Didn’t the guy believe in towels?

  "Fair enough,” Kev said as we rolled up our mats and tucked them into Kev’s carrier. His was hot pink. He’d loaned me his aqua blue one. “But how do you know this Bram person isn’t financially secure? How do you know he's a flaky musician? Maybe he’s an investment banker on the side."

  "It isn’t just about money.” I slipped on flip-flops and a red hoodie. Thank goodness it wasn’t raining today. “There are the groupies, which usually leads to a lack of fidelity. And the gigs and traveling, which leads to lack of time and commitment.” There were so many problems with dating a musician, I couldn’t even name them all.

  “Not all men cheat, you know,” he said, holding the door for me.

  “I know,” I agreed as we stepped outside into rare morning sunshine. “But musicians seem to have a higher incidence of it. At least in my experience.”

  He shook his head, the sunlight picking out the gold in his strawberry blond hair. "I think you're totally nuts. That man is dishy."

  "Did you just use the word dishy?"

  He laughed. "Well, if the shoe fits."

  The shoe definitely fit. Bram was, in a word, dishy. In fact, he made me want to give up my moratorium on musicians. But that wasn't something I was prepared to do. I’d paid that price once already—more than once actually, and it had been a very steep price indeed.

  But somewhere deep inside, I had to admit it wasn't quite so easy to walk away from Bram. He was different than the others. Just the way he was. He was well-spoken, he didn't seem lazy, and the way he looked at me... Nobody had looked at me that way since Damon. Heck, not even Damon’s sexy smolder came close to what I felt when Bram looked at me.

  But I knew from experience that looks faded. Sincerity could be deceiving. No, I was never again going to date a musician.

  THURSDAY. BAND NIGHT. I’d sworn I’d stay away from the Purple Note, but my need to sing was stronger than my need to avoid Bram.

  Who was I kidding? I wanted desperately to see him again. I was such an idiot. I’d turned him down already. He wasn’t going to ask me out again, and if he did, I’d just say no anyway. Probably.

  Still, the need to see him burned a hole in my gut. I couldn’t stop thinking about him. I kept seeing the look of disappointment and determination on his face. I kept imagining what would have happened if I’d agreed to go out with him. It wasn’t like me to turn down opportunities, and the “what-ifs” were burning a hole in my gut. I was so distracted at work that even Olivia noticed, despite her wallowing over Paul.

  So there I was in the Purple Note wearing my sexy black dress and a string of pearls, like some jazz siren from the sixties. Except he wasn’t there. I wanted to ask the other musicians, but I didn’t want to appear too interested. I sat at a table as close to them as I could. During a break I heard the pianist ask the drummer, “You heard from Sax?”

  I knew he meant Bram. Who else?

  “Naw, man. Ask Pete. Maybe he has.”

  I felt smug, once again secure in my decision not to go out with Bram. See? I wanted to shout to the room at large. He is a flake, just like I thought. He can’t even show up on time.

  But I still couldn’t shake the hope that I was wrong. That he was more than that. I sighed as I drew my finger through the ring of icy water left by my chilled martini glass. If only. A sexy guy who could play a sax like Bram and had a decent job and was reliable? Might as well ask Santa for a dragon for Christmas. Bet he and the Tooth Fairy would get a laugh out of that one.

  Gabriel Tate climbed up onstage, his purple suit looking seven shades of snazzy. He adjusted his black cravat (the man actually wore cravats like a Jane Austen hero) and cleared his throat. “Chloe. I’ve got a special request from the band. They’d like you to sing with them tonight.”

  My eyes widened. So Bram really had told them. He’d kept his word. I begrudgingly added a point in his favor. Still, I hesitated.

  “Come on, Chloe girl,” the pianist said, leaning toward me, eyes sparkling. “Get your sweet self on this stage and sing your heart out. You know you want to.”

  I grinned. Time to face the music. Literally.

  I had thought long and hard about what to sing. I’d already sung out my anger over Geoff and my frustration with liars and cheats in general. Right now I was feeling... wistful. Wishing for something that didn’t exist. Wanting someone to prove me wrong. A very specific someone. Yeah, I should go with that.

  I whispered the title in the pi
anist’s ear. He nodded, and there was a mumbling among the musicians. The drummer started his intro, and the rest joined in. Then I began singing.

  It was an old song, not terribly well known. It was about a woman who’d felt much like I did in that moment. A woman who desperately wanted to believe there were good men left in the world, who longed for love but didn’t really believe she’d ever get it. It was a sad song but oddly hopeful.

  I was starting the second verse when a movement on the edge of the stage distracted me. Bram. He caught my eye, maintaining contact while he climbed onto the stage. After I finished the next line, he joined in with his sax, the mournful wail adding to the rich atmosphere of the song. Oh, heavens, could that man make love to a saxophone.

  We made music together, him and me. The rest of the world faded away, and it was just the two of us on that stage, telling each other our dreams, our fears, our longings. The look in his blue eyes was so powerful, my heart beat wildly and my voice grew breathless.

  Finally the song came to a close, though Bram’s eyes still lingered on mine. Then the wild clapping interrupted and someone let out a wolf whistle, shattering the moment. I smiled and waved and returned to my seat, but instead of sitting down, I grabbed my purse and jacket and slipped through the crowd and out the door.

  I told myself I wasn’t being a wuss. I lied.

  Chapter 14

  “CHLOE!”

  I whirled to find Bram sprinting down the street after me. Oh, great. There went my plan to avoid him. My heart, that traitorous organ, hammered with excitement.

  I swallowed. “What is it? Did I forget something?”

  He gave me a long, slow look that did funny things to my insides. “Yes. You forgot to say hello.”

  I cleared my throat. “Yeah, well—” I didn’t know what else to say. “I’m avoiding you” seemed a little rude. I cleared my throat again. “Think I might be coming down with something. Thought I should get home.”

  Bram gave me a look that told me clearly he didn’t buy a word of it. “I don’t know what your problem is with musicians, but I’m not giving up.”