“Subjectively or objectively?”
He cocks one eyebrow. “Both.”
My thighs squeeze together at the way he slides his fingers between mine, lacing our hands together. Focus is a struggle. “But they have sales and fame, so they must be successful.”
“Not all popular things are good, obviously. But rock is classic. It even says so in the name: Classic Rock.”
“Please.” My body isn’t mine tonight. I’m not used to being betrayed by something I’ve built a career by controlling. “No one will know who any of those people are in two hundred years.”
“You can’t tell me the Beatles will fade away like that. The Stones.” He strokes his thumb against the back of my hand and I want that thumb stroking me other places so badly it scares me.
I reclaim my hand and with it, a modicum of control over my galloping hormones. “There are exceptions to every rule. But for the most part? No one will know their names and you know why? Because the music people are playing is bubble gum. It tastes good for a minute or two, then the flavor of it fades from your memory and you move on to something else. It even says so in the name: Bubblegum Pop.”
He shakes his head. “Not to everyone. The music industry itself is chewing bands up and spitting them at consumers, seeing what sticks. But the fans, the true fans who get what the musicians are trying to do? They’re going to remember.”
“Fans die too. The real classics are forever.” I toy with the elastic on my hair. “Classics are referred to as Pop music, too, but they’re no longer topping mainstream radio charts. It’s all what you’re into.”
“I’m into Rock. It’s raw and real.”
“I figured as much, Dylan. You’ve definitely got the whole rocker-vibe going on.”
He stretches his arms along the top of the booth. “Something wrong with that?”
“No, I prefer it to the backwards hat and jeans so baggy you could fit another person inside them look, and the music that goes with it.”
“Not a fan of rap? They sample a lot of classical riffs.”
My blank stare must say it all.
“So you don’t like any new music?” He nods at the waiter, who’s brought me a new drink.
“Thank you.” I take a sip. “I didn’t say that. I like some. Granted, mostly it’s because I’m practicing for hours every day and don’t have a lot of time to venture into new musical territory—but the radio is so full of regurgitated soulless crap.”
“Things are a bit...rehashed now, fair enough. But there’s some great music out there if you care to dig.”
His earnestness makes me curious about his tastes. “Like what?”
A wicked grin lights his eyes up, and he digs into his pocket for a set of small, white earbuds he plugs into his phone. “Promise you’ll listen all the way through one song.”
His words eerily follow my promise to Alex, which is what makes me nod and play along. “Okay.”
He gently tucks the buds into my ears, tingles spreading up my spine when his fingers softly trace the delicate cartilage, and the din of the bar fades. Noise-canceling headphones.
“I value my hearing, so please don’t blast me with sound.”
He grins and gives me a thumbs up as the music begins, bold chromatic strikes in an ostinato, almost discordant, but...interesting. A bit percussion-heavy, but it drives along nicely. I adjust the buds and close my eyes to better feel the notes. By the time the singer starts, my fingers are itching for my cello to join in.
The singer’s voice is familiar, dreamy and scratchy, but his name eludes me. Brass cuts in then things change, zig zags of harmonies and oohs and a voice stalled by emotion, like everything was caught up in the singer’s mood and he sings of waste. Maybe not waste, but heat, and sand, and a dreamy emptiness. An unfamiliarity.
I drift between loving and hating his voice. It pierces and seduces and rasps and is too sharp but also perfect. It doesn’t know what it wants to be, but beneath that is the same beat, same pulse driving us along in the journey together. I can’t decide if it would be better with more singing or less, but when the song begins fading, I strain to hear more, to stay in the moment. I open my eyes. “It was good. Who was it?”
“That song? Is over eight minutes long.”
He watched me listen to a song for eight minutes? “It didn’t feel like it was that long.”
“The sign of a great song.” Somehow, he’s even cuter when smug. “If you’re curious, it was Kashmir.”
I remove the earbuds and hand them back to him. “I don’t know who they are, but they sound familiar.”
He grins and shakes his head, winding the cord and tucking the headphones back in his pocket. “It’s like you grew up under a musical rock, starved in contemporary and only fed the classics.”
“Are these guys new and huge?” They should be.
He drags his fingers through his hair. “Well. They’re not new, but they’re way fresher than Beethoven.”
I shrug, not feeling one bit deprived or bad for my musical tastes. “I love what I love.”
“What you learned to love. It’s self-preservation at this point too, I bet.”
“Care to elaborate?”
He takes a sip of beer before replying. “If you didn’t love the classics, you’d be out of a job.”
“I’d still have my cello and degree.”
“Really? I don’t see a lot of contemporary cellists.” He wipes his hand on his thigh.
I pretend not to notice how muscular it is. “They’re out there, and making a living doing what they love.”
He smirks. “So you admit that what they’re doing is real music too, classical music aside?”
Damn. My skin flushes and I lean closer so I don’t have to yell over the music that’s gotten louder with something auto-tuned and lifeless. “Real music is the stuff I play.”
Dylan’s expression loses all humor, and he brings his face closer to mine. Is he going to kiss me? I lick my lips, unable to exhale at the need that slams through me.
He swerves at the last second, bringing his mouth to my ear instead. “Real music is the stuff that makes you feel, Rachel. It transcends genre, musician, time, place, everything.” His words tickle my neck.
“Mmm.” I close my eyes, savoring his closeness and his words because they’re true. “The way a melody sweeps you away and you’re powerless to stop it.”
He grazes my neck with his lips and his next words come out in a deeper voice. “But you wouldn’t even if you could because it feels so damn perfect.”
My heart thunders in my chest. “How it builds and builds inside you.”
“Taking you higher, faster.”
“And then it bursts and floods you with everything.” Opening my eyes, I squeeze his hand, not knowing when I took it again. Maybe it’s the wine. Maybe it’s how far he is from my usual type, but I need to experience this kind of man once in my life.
Alex is right.
And even if she were wrong, I’d still be going home with this guy. My body buzzes with anticipation. Maybe I can’t keep up with this man, but I’m damn sure going to try. “It’s powerful. Undeniable.”
“It’s orgasmic,” he says.
I swallow hard, not moving away from him, not even wanting to. In fact, I want him a whole lot closer than he is right now. I’ve never felt connected to someone before who understands music—even if we don’t strictly agree—and also been so turned on by him at the same time.
Hell, I’ve never been this turned on. This connection is as primal as my reaction to Bach’s prelude if it was played by a thunderstorm. Music is our drug of choice and I want to ride this need with Dylan. Now.
“Hey, Rachel?” He feels this too, and he’s going to ask me to go home with him.
And when he does, my answer is going to be yes. “Yes?”
He leans back and traces my jaw with his thumb. “Wanna get out of here?”
CHAPTER THREE
“Yes.” The word com
es out breathy, but I’m too turned on to be embarrassed.
Those gorgeous lips that are going to be on mine soon pull into a smile. “Let me take care of my tab. Don’t move.”
“I should probably say goodbye to my friend while you’re doing that.”
He nods and heads to the bar.
My phone buzzes in my purse as I slide out of the booth. I’ll look at it after I talk to Alex...who’s already looking at me, holding her phone up and motioning for me to stop, so I pull my phone out and read her text.
Alex: Stop right there! You’re getting wicked glares from half the chicks in the bar. They want his D! Do not move from that spot. He’s yours! You have my blessing, go forth and fuck!
Me: You’re terrible. And possibly psychic.
Alex: I can read body language, baby. And you’re getting laid! Don’t worry, no one will ever know your dirty little secret.
I shake my head. Me: Love you. I’ll call you before Monday.
Alex: Damn right you will! I’m going to need DETAILS about this guy! Length, girth, how many time
“Ready?”
God, that was quick. I guiltily jerk and turn my phone off before reading the rest of Alex’s inappropriate message. If Dylan saw he’d be so embarrassed! Or, no, actually. He’s not like the refined guys I’m accustomed to dating who would cringe and be offended if they knew what I discussed with my best friend—or rather, what she tried to wheedle out of me for details. ‘The sex was adequate’ wasn’t quite the salaciousness she was hoping for with my last ex.
Dylan seems like he couldn’t care less about who talked about him, and I somehow doubt anything about him can be summed up by a mere ‘adequate.’
I nod, unable to squeak a word out as his hand splays across my lower back and gently but firmly guides me to the door and outside into the cool, night air.
“Did you drive?” he asks.
“No. I never had a car while going to school here—didn’t need one. Is your car parked nearby?”
“I cabbed it. Do you live close by?”
“Too far to comfortably walk there.”
A few people stare at us on their way into the bar. Do we look that ill-matched? They do say that opposites attract; I’m more conservative and he’s got that bad boy thing going on, but superficially, we’re both reasonably attractive.
Well. I’m reasonably attractive. Dylan’s smoking hot.
He steps forward and hails a cab, opening the door for me as soon as it stops. “After you.”
I duck in as fast as possible, hoping my ass looks good if he’s looking at it.
He slides in beside me, leg brushing against mine in a way that makes me wish we were alone right now.
“Where are we going?” the cabbie asks.
I turn to Dylan. “What’s your address?”
He plucks at the seam of my jeans on the inside of my knee. “How about your place? It’s probably closer.”
My bed’s one of the only things that hasn’t been packed up yet. “It’s a disaster right now with the packing.”
“That’s okay.”
If my place is closer than his that’s definitely an incentive to go there. And since I’m moving in a couple days, I don’t have to worry about a stranger knowing where I live. “If you’re sure you don’t mind boxes stacked everywhere.”
He presses his leg harder into mine, stealing my breath as he leans in and lowers his voice. “The boxes are not going to be what have my attention. I promise.”
I must tell the cab driver the address as we pull out and begin the longest cab ride of my life, but I can only focus on Dylan. Every jostle of the car rubs his leg against mine, causing heat in another place that would love to see some friction right about now.
He’s quiet, but I know he’s looking at me because my skin burns with awareness, waiting for his hands to touch me anywhere...everywhere. I want him to pounce, but not in front of the cab driver. Or anywhere else in public where people can see. Public Displays of Affection are embarrassing at the best of times, never mind with a stranger I just picked up in a bar.
What am I even doing? I shouldn’t be doing this.
His hand squeezes my thigh and begins sliding up.
I’m so glad I’m doing this.
I lean closer, and he puts his arm around me. Being wrapped in his strong arms feels so damned good.
He takes my hand and strokes the sensitive flesh of the inside of my wrist.
This fling could jeopardize my future in so many ways.
His slow smile erases any doubts.
Somewhere after pulling up to my building and taking his hand as we get out of the cab, my courage starts draining out of me, awkwardness slowly replacing the certainty. My buzz has also faded and now I feel a lot more like myself. I’m still very into him, but how the hell do I do this? I’ve never had a one-night-stand before. What’s the protocol?
Dropping his hand, I slide the key into the lock and lead him up the three flights of stairs in silence. I wish I was more of a vamp, I have no idea how this is supposed to work. Do I sort of pounce on him as soon as we’re inside? Do I talk about it first, let him know what I want? ‘Hey, baby, I want you to...’ ugh, no. Talking about it makes it feel more like a business transaction and sucks all the sexy spontaneity out of it.
By the time I unlock my door I’m so keyed up all I want to do is lay my forehead against the cool metal and stand still for a few minutes to formulate a plan, but I push it open and head inside.
I dodge the box I know is there and flip on the light just as he bangs his shin on it and swears. “I’m sorry! I’m so used to stepping around the cardboard landmines around here, I didn’t even think to warn you.”
He laughs. “It’s fine. You going to give me the tour?”
“Sure. Wait.” I throw my hand out for him to stop.
“What?”
I kick off my heels. “Shoes off. I want my damage deposit back.”
He tilts his head with a funny little smirk on his lips, but does what I say.
I push open the door to the spare room. “I used this as the library/storage room, hence the mountain of boxes.”
“You a big reader or are they all school-related?”
“Bit of both? But most of these are records.”
His eyes light up. “You’re a vinyl hound too?”
“If that means do I like records, then yes.”
“I’m impressed, Cello Chick. Then again, the music you like probably isn’t popular enough yet to be made into CDs.”
I bite the inside of my cheek to suppress my grin. “Though I do hear that they’re working on 8 tracks for next year.” I flick off the light switch and step past him into the hallway. “Living room’s this way.”
“That you know what 8 tracks are is so sexy.”
I want him so much it stuns me into silence and I can’t react to his words, can’t stop walking to the living room, turning lights on as I go because I don’t know what to say. I’ve been trapped inside the rules of appropriate behavior for so long I’m frozen solid inside myself, but still moving. I head for the windows and look down at the street.
Dylan walks to stand beside me. “Hell of a view.”
I nod, tracing the windowsill. “My neighbors all have personal soundtracks that only I can hear. I sit by these windows, day after day, and look down at them and play their songs.”
“What do they sound like?”
“Different every day. It changes with the weather, with how fast they walk, with the things they’re carrying. With the stories I imagine their lives to be.”
He edges closer. “What would my soundtrack sound like?”
I close my eyes to feel the crashing notes. Bold, bright but sustained. It would sound like passion unrestrained. My breathing grows shallow, and I can taste the invitation to my bedroom on my lips, but I swallow the words. Chickening out, I turn right and stride forward into the little galley kitchen, flipping on the light. “Do you want something to drin
k?”
“Rachel?” His voice comes from right behind me, and I startle forward, pulse racing, focusing on the fridge.
“Not much, unfortunately.” I open the door between us, stalling. “Water or juice. A soda?”
He pushes the door closed and turns me to face him. “I’m more hungry than thirsty, anyways.”
“Oh. In that case, I’ve got—”
His hands land on my hips and press me backwards, slapping my ass against the counter. Oh. Yes.
He steps into my personal space. “Rachel, are you a good girl?”
I nod. “But tonight, I’m not going to be.” The words make me feel like an idiot, but I reach for my scarf and he grabs my hand.
“Leave it.”
“Why?”
His eyes are nearly all pupil and flash with something wicked. “Because I said so. I think it’s about time you showed me your bedroom.”
He removes his hands but stays in my space, making me slide out from between him and the counter. He hooks a finger in one of the loops of my jeans, keeping me close as I pull him toward my bedroom with my hips. He shuts the door behind us closing us in the dark and I use the opportunity to break away, weave between some stacks of boxes, and slip beneath the blanket on my bed.
“There’s a box—a few actually, so be careful on your way over here. Follow my voice.”
He flips the light on and my lids try to squeeze shut in protest. “Are you actually hiding under the covers?” He makes his way through the stacks like a jungle cat weaving through trees and peels the blanket back, exposing me to the harsh overhead light.
Damn it, I need to pull it together. I invited this man to my apartment for one reason. Smoking hot sex. I can do this—it’s not like I’m ever going to see him again after tonight. I don’t have to worry about what he thinks of me. I go for what I hope is a casual shrug. “Maybe I was cold.” Never mind the fact I’m still fully dressed.
His big hands peel off my jeans and toss them across the room, then slowly drag their way up my calves to my knees. “I’ll warm you up. Unless you want me to go. Do you want me to leave?”
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