I feel like I should thank him, but that would be weird, so I keep my mouth shut. His body fits against mine perfectly. I’m going to miss it.
Don’t think about the future.
His sigh coats my shoulder blade. “I’m leaving Boston for the next leg of the tour.”
“Atlantic city.” No point pretending I don’t know at this point. “I looked it up.”
He nods, idly palming my breast. “Atlantic city, then up to Montreal. Then LA.”
“You’re international, baby.”
I wonder if his smile is as weak as my joke. I know I’ll see him again now—in magazines, on billboards. When I least expect it, I’ll be ambushed by his presence in the tabloids or on the television. I’ll pick apart every song hoping for a glimpse of the time we spent together. It’ll be way too easy to obsess over who he’s dating. It’s going to be harder than it was before to be apart.
Even the concert hall has ghosts of him in it now.
I wrap my arms around his, wanting to stop time so we can live in this moment forever.
“At least your schedule’s pretty relaxed,” he says. “You’ve got time for a life outside of work.”
I laugh. “Oh, no. This is prelim. When the season starts, I’ll be playing a few times a week—not including practices. You caught me in the calm before the storm.”
“And you’re in my eye of the hurricane. Fitting.”
“Your tour is almost finished though, right?”
He sighs again, longer this time. “Then it’s right back into the studio. We’ve got a few things to tweak before the release. Then we’re probably going back on another mini-tour, this time Asia. We haven’t been there for a while, and the new album’s really taking off in Tokyo, I guess.” His voice is flat and low—there’s no way he wants this right now—and no wonder. He’s been on the road steadily for months already, and that was right after the insanity of the reality show.
“Do you get any time off before that?”
He props himself higher on his elbow, gaining space to look down at me more comfortably. “I’ll have a week, maybe two if we nail the tracks and get out of the studio quickly.” Slight bitterness tinges his tone. “Then it’s lather, rinse, repeat.”
“I’m sorry you don’t get more time for yourself.” I can practically see dark circles forming under his eyes, purple smudges of exhaustion. I know how he feels.
“We’ve got to work hard to maintain momentum at this stage. People have short memories. If you stop for too long, they forget.”
“No one could forget you—your music,” I try to cover my slip up. “I wonder if more people knew the work that goes into a dream coming true, if they’d give up and run in the opposite direction.” I kiss his forearm.
“Probably not. The grass is always greener.”
That’s true. “Busy can be good. It makes the time pass faster.”
“Really, it’s a good problem to have and I know I’m lucky to be getting paid for making music in this economy.”
“Me too.” And paid very well.
His gaze wanders over my features. “I appreciate it, but at the same time, I’m so sick of living out of a suitcase. I miss home.”
I pat the sheet. “Not that this one’s bad, but there’s nothing better than your own bed. Where’s home?”
He snuggles a little closer to me. “I’ve got a place in LA.”
It’s so far away. “You live there?”
He nods. “I bought a McMansion. I’m such a cliché—a rock star with a mansion in The Hills.”
“I bet it’s beautiful.”
“Yeah, though I’m starting to forget what it looks like. I wish I could have seen your place before I left.”
“It’s nothing special. An old house that’s been fixed up with a bit of polish and stainless steel.” And I’m glad he hasn’t been to my house. I need one place free from memories of him I can find sanctuary in.
“You know, I’ve got a big party in Hollywood on Friday. Lots of horrible industry types. A bunch of spoiled pop stars who use auto tune.”
“Sounds awful.” I shudder, shivering at how good that feels with him still inside me.
“It will be. You should be my date. We can make sure none of them take themselves too seriously.” His cock starts swelling inside me again—a new feeling that makes me gulp air into my lungs because this time he’s not just aroused by my body. He’s aroused by the thought of us.
“Would I even be allowed in? Maybe I should start practicing my duckface now.”
He grazes my nipple with the back of his fingers. “We’d roll up and remind them what real music is like—and it’s not about how you look. It’s how it makes you feel.”
I snort. “Yeah, because you’re really hard on the eyes, Dylan.”
“I like to think I’m more than a pretty face.”
“You are,” I say seriously. And you make me feel dangerous, breathtaking things.
He lies back down, wrapping his arms tightly around my torso. “What would it be like though, our lives if you came with me?”
How can I answer? I can’t allow myself to imagine this. “I’d have back problems from jealously tackling all the fans constantly throwing themselves at you.”
“Sure, but that would only take, like, three hours a day. Do you like swimming? I have a pool.”
“I do, as it happens.”
“It’s settled then. You’ll tell your conductor to go fuck himself, you’re having a vacation, and come with me. Emphasis on ‘come.’”
If only. I smile, but I have to be realistic, though. “I know you're joking. But even if you weren't, I have my own commitment on Friday.” And for the rest of my life after that. “It's the opening gala for the symphony where all these important supporters come to a cocktail party and the symphony players have to schmooze with the patrons.”
“Is that fun, at least?”
“Maybe for some people. I hate it. It makes me feel gross, like we’re charming people into giving us the money to continue playing music we’d be playing anyways. If the patrons want to donate, they should donate without the pomp and politics of it all.”
Dylan kisses my shoulder. “I’m getting the feeling this isn’t only about the symphony.”
“My father used to parade me around things like this all the time. It made me feel like I was being pimped out, or something. A marionette dancing for dollars I didn’t care about. I just want to play music.”
“I know how you feel. Sometimes the sponsors act like they own us. I get tired of smiling for the cameras, posing with one stupid product or another I’ve never used in my life, and I’m suddenly paid to pretend I can’t live without it.”
“They pay you to be fake, and I only get paid if I can convince the stodgy patrons that our versions of the classics are the real deal.”
We both get quiet realizing how far apart our worlds really are, and yet in some ways, they’re exactly the same. We’re both cogs in machines much larger than ourselves.
“I believe I made you a promise.” The kisses he leaves on the back of my neck send spirals of pleasure straight to my clit. Apparently, the back of my neck is one of my hot spots.
“Oh?” I play dumb as tingles wind up my spine.
“I think you should get on top and use my cum as lube.”
“No woman would need lube with you, Dylan.”
“There are no other women.” He thrusts in and out twice before pulling out and flipping me onto my back again. His cum and mine run down my thighs like warm honey. The added slickness enables him to rub the top of his cock everywhere between my legs, sliding around, making my legs rubbery.
I smile. “But I’m beginning to see the benefits of your lubrication.”
He surges forward, taking a deep, rough kiss that makes my head spin. “Get on.”
More wetness coats my inner thighs when I spread wide to straddle him. He’s right, it’s fucking hot and I want it, want more of it. I lean forward, acciden
tally shoving my breasts in his face.
He pushes them together and though the nipples don’t touch, he licks back and forth, lavishing them with attention, making me ache for him again for a moment before realizing I can have both.
I reach between us, reposition him, and slide down every rigid inch until we’re sealed together again.
He lies back, grabbing my hips and grinding me on his cock. Every ab tightens and those long, luscious V muscles become more defined with every rotation of his hips.
I want to remember him like this. I’m on top, in the power position, but he’s effortlessly manhandling me toward another orgasm.
He sits up and bends his legs, reaching for my clit with one hand. The other, he works around my pussy, coating it with cum before raising his eyebrows with a wicked expression and reaching around to my ass.
Oh my God.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
My ears buzz with the din of a hundred conversations I can’t make out. To be honest, I don’t really care what’s being said. Most of it’s pretentious pedantry anyways, or conversations on repeat, the same things being rehashed. The arches of my feet throb as I walk over to the corner for a breather.
I’ve done nothing but charm affluent patrons the whole night. There’s a pun floating around here somewhere about patronizing patrons, but I’m too exhausted to fully exploit it for a cheap laugh—even to myself.
Everyone in the symphony is here, dressed to kill, because when beating around the bush about needing funding, you must look like you don’t need money. We work the patrons hard, flattering without being obvious, grateful without being obsequious, highlighting their contributions and import, trying to seem genuine when acting like they alone are keeping us going.
Their contributions are important and do mean something to me, but the altruism feels phony when flattery is part of the package.
We charm the potential patrons even harder, aiming to secure their new patronage by making the whole affair feel enticing and lavish while not-begging for their financial support. You can never outright ask for their help, making each conversation a complicated, drawn out affair. You can never relax your guard and simply talk to someone; every word must be measured and doled out in terms of what this person needs to hear to donate.
Multiply that by about fifty—the amount of people I’ve personally schmoozed, and I’m beyond ready to go home.
I wonder what Dylan’s doing right now.
His party is tonight, and is miles away from mine, both physically and in mood. Here, ladies drip diamonds with condescending sneers. The men wear tuxes and tails and lecherous smiles. I’ve caught more than one set of eyes snapping up from my chest.
His party will have money as well, but I bet the guests are more interesting and fun. Rappers, musicians, celebrities cutting loose instead of standing around trying to show off their knowledge of the classics and which symphony played it better.
Part of me is grateful more people don’t care about cellists—unlike individual pianists and violinists who more classical enthusiasts pay attention to, I’m able to escape drawn out conversations about my ‘rivals,’ or players of old. On the other hand, if one more person brings up Yo-Yo Ma, there’s a very real possibility I may run screaming from the room.
Dylan would be wild at a party. I bet he’d even perk this place up, stir up a little excitement. A reality star rocker at a fundraiser for the arts? Goodness gracious. He’d be the center of attention and get things going, making things happen. His party will be so different from this. I bet people aren’t forced into stiff suits and uncomfortable dresses unless they want to be in them.
If I was with him in California, I could be comfortable. I could wear sneakers and his old t-shirt, a pair of jeans. I’d be able to eat and drink and sit comfortably without the boning of a corset digging into my ribs. He’d hold my hand and we’d laugh and it would feel easy. He’d probably get me to do something crazy, like jumping into a pool fully clothed while rock stars and supermodels laughed and joined in.
Maybe that’s not my scene either, but at least I could relax and actually have fun.
I take a glass of champagne from one of the waiters, but it’s a prop. I’ve already had one glass and despite the party-like atmosphere, I’m not here to unwind. One wrong verbal misstep could unravel hundreds of thousands of dollars of patronage.
Dylan said he had to do basically the same song and dance for the tour’s sponsors. Such different worlds with the same problems echoing through them.
I take another step backwards, trying not to wince at the shooting pain in my foot. When I get home, I’m throwing these shoes out. Shifting my weight reminds me of the stiffness in my legs. My thighs still ache from the last time I saw Dylan on Sunday.
We said goodbye with one more round of lovemaking, more frantic than tender, even though feelings were growing more complicated on both sides. We knew it was goodbye and that fact made every touch feel like not enough. I was desperate to make the most of it—I knew how quickly those memories can fade, and I wanted as many as I could stuff inside my body.
A grim acceptance was in the room with us; I didn’t ask him to stay, and he didn’t ask me to go with him.
If he had, I might have gone with him and damn the consequences.
I shake my head and force myself to focus on the party, hoping my pleasant smile doesn’t look too plastered on and insincere. This is where I’m supposed to be, right?
A dream come true.
So why do I wish I was on the other side of the country at someone else’s party?
The champagne is cold and delicious as I slug back another gulp despite my one-drink-rule. Blaine catches my eye and gives a subtle headshake.
Damn it. I nod, straighten, and set the glass down on a nearby table, relaxing when my Maestro gives me a half-smile before turning back to a woman with a crepe-y neck who’s had one too many face lifts. The season hasn’t even begun yet and I’m already tired of toeing the line.
And the biggest performance is yet to come.
For the first time, my choice weighs heavily on me, dragging my mediocre mood down into the glossy, tiled floor.
“Why do you get to stand by yourself in peace and quiet?” Paul keeps his voice low as he approaches, looking handsome in his suit, hair slicked back into his customary ponytail. He looks so happy to see me, I feel a little guilty about making fun of his car to Dylan the other day.
I smile and pick up my glass again. “I’m lubricating my voice.”
“I hear that,” Paul says, more rasp in his voice than usual. “Just be careful of having too much lube.”
I blink hard, biting my lips to avoid smiling.
Paul doesn’t even realize what he’s said. He rubs his watery eyes. “My allergies are acting up from all the perfume in here.”
“I’m not even allergic and it’s making my head spin.”
“Even the most expensive perfumes end up being overbearingly cloying when there’s this much of it in one space.”
“Too bad they can’t open a few windows. Turn some fans on.”
He laughs. “And mess up someone’s hair? You’re dreaming. But you’re new. This should still be shiny and wonderful. There’s no way you can be jaded yet.”
I shift my weight to my other foot, trying to ease the pressure, longing to kick my heels off and feel the cold tile against my soles. Maybe I can sneak away to the bathroom and do exactly that. “I used to do things like this with my father. I hate feeling like I’m selling myself. Promotion makes me gag—it’s the main reason I prefer ensembles to a solo career.”
“You’re not opposed to the spotlight?”
“I care about the music, not fame or glory. I don’t really care if I ever see my name up in lights.” In fact, that seems worse, having people want to know everything about you all the time. That kind of constant scrutiny would be exhausting. “But nights like this, I’d be cool with running away from it all.” I wonder how long I could reasonably
lock myself in a bathroom stall and hide out. Not long enough.
Paul grimaces and subtly pulls at his collar as though it’s choking him. “I hate these things, too. If one more person brings up Yo-Yo Ma when learning I’m a cellist—”
“Thank God I’m not the only one.”
“Don’t look so happy about it.” He sips his drink.
“Misery loves company, Paul.”
“I’ll literally pay you to fake an emergency so we can get out of here.”
I wish. “I’ve already put in two hours and seventeen minutes. Not that I’m counting. Might as well see it through to the bitter end.” Even if I were bleeding on the floor, I’d be required to stay the course.
Paul nods at someone across the room. “Yeah, these parties are ships we all have to go down with. At least Blaine joins us in the trenches.”
“He is really good about putting the work in. I like that he doesn’t act like he’s above anything.”
Paul nods. “Our last Maestro was a nightmare. He treated the entire ensemble like we were all his personal cross to bear, acted like he had no time for us—and he didn’t even have the excuse of directing as well.”
And somehow, Blaine manages everything with a modicum of grace, despite the sometimes surly demeanor. “Then I’m glad I missed him.”
Paul finishes the little bit of amber liquid in the bottom of his glass. “I’m glad there’s no weirdness between us.”
The sudden change in conversation takes me by surprise, but I’m pleased by it and answer honestly. “Me too.”
“And you can’t tell me who this guy is?”
“You’ll find out soon enough,” I hedge, unsure what to say.
“Well, whoever he is, he’s a lucky guy.”
“Thank you.” Discomfort creeps into me, heating my skin.
Paul’s smile turns ever so slightly brittle. “Oh, speak of the devil, he’s coming over.”
How does he know? “What?”
“Maestro. Must have heard us talking about him earlier. That, or we’ve been standing still too long, shirking our duties and we’ve become sitting ducks. Look lively.”
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