Was there anything more pathetic then a concert pianist who was terrified of performing? If so, I’d love to find out so I could feel slightly less like an enormous loser who had chosen the worst possible career path for herself. But I loved classical music and I loved the piano. I didn’t know how to do anything else. Even so, I was getting to the point if I didn’t win this competition—if I couldn’t prove to my parents, to Mark, to myself that I could make a living through my playing—then I would have to seriously reconsider what I was doing with my life. Either I’d conquer my panic attacks, or they’d conquer me. I had made it through the first few rounds of the competition and I wasn’t ready to admit defeat just yet.
Mark had cared about the music just as much as I did. It wasn’t his fault that we hadn’t worked out romantically. As he had explained, I was just too young. And undisciplined. And unfocused.
His talent had definitely been the thing that attracted him to me in the first place, though he was quite handsome as well. Tall and blonde, with classic good looks, he was known throughout San Francisco for his legions of female fans, as well as his talent as an instructor. “Greek statue” was his nickname, though I was starting to wonder if it was more in reference to his stoic personality rather than his attractive face.
Even though he was nearly ten years older than I was, we had connected over our love of music, and I had moved into his place soon after we started working together. But I had felt a strange relief when I ended things. I had found his touches and kisses enjoyable, but it always felt like there was something missing. Perhaps it was me. Mark certainly thought so and made sure to tell me that our age difference—namely my immaturity—was the real reason I couldn’t handle a relationship with him. Apparently my lack of sensuality in the bedroom was the reason it never would have worked out anyway. That wasn’t a surprise. It had been at the root of all my other break-ups. I was starting to believe that part of me was defective. Along with all the other defective parts of me. Too bad I didn’t come with a warranty. My libido would hardly be the only thing I would send back to be replaced.
But then I thought about one of my neighbors that we had passed on our way in. Tall and lean, he had been wearing a torn shirt and five o’clock shadow. Dark hair, thick and mussed like he had just rolled out of bed, and well-muscled arms that were decorated with tattoos. Normally I preferred my men clean-cut, with clothes that didn’t look like they had survived a natural disaster, but my entire body had gone hot at the sight of him. His brown eyes had caught mine for just a second and I was pretty sure that everything below my waist had melted in that moment. It was a startling sensation, but not entirely unpleasant. One that I definitely wasn’t too familiar with.
“Uh, Ella?” Mark said, bringing me out of my red-hot memory. I felt myself blush as if Mark could read my mind. He wouldn’t approve. “I’m going to leave now.”
“Oh, yes,” I said, shaking my head. “Thanks so much for your help, Mark.”
“Well, just repay me by getting the fifth stanza right next time,” the Greek statue said and left.
As the door closed behind him, I was suddenly aware of how quiet it was. Back at Mark’s place or at my parents’ house, there would be music—jazz or classical—emanating from every nook and cranny, whether it was my father listening to his favorite records in preparation for his class on music theory, or my mother blasting the latest album she had been sent to review, or my sister, Nina, playing the horn in her own room. It had never been silent.
I flopped down on my mattress that was shoved into the corner closest to the kitchen that I was sure I was never going to use. Cans of Campbell’s chicken noodle soup were what I lived off of. All I needed to survive was a can opener and microwave. Unless my life depended on me locating the box I had packed it in. Then I was a goner.
I surveyed my apartment. It was small, but it was mine. I got a thrill. I was on my own, truly on my own. And it was quiet.
Even though the thing I wanted to do the most at the moment was play, I knew that there was a good chance I’d get lost in it and lose track of time. I really needed to unpack, so that I wouldn’t be scrambling to look for my clothes and toothbrush and other necessary items in the morning. I also needed to figure out which bus I needed to take to get to the location for the upcoming round of the competition next week since I was so used to coming across the Bay from my parents’ place near Berkeley.
My excitement dipped as nervousness rose in my chest, squeezing my heart painfully. No, no, no. The last thing I needed right now was a panic attack. Taking a deep breath, I reminded myself that the next round of the competition wasn’t for another week. I had plenty of time to practice. And now I could practice on my own, without Mark or my parents interrupting to tell me what I was doing wrong. This move was a good thing, I told myself. It was going to help.
I set about distracting myself with my unpacking. I hadn’t brought much—unlike my sister with her closet overflowing with colorful clothes, I had a rather small, extremely versatile wardrobe. Black went with everything, after all. After I had hung everything up, I was pleased to see that I still had plenty of room in my closet. Despite not having anything else I needed to put in there, it was still nice to know I had space if I needed it.
The closet door had a full-length mirror, making it hard to avoid my reflection when it was closed. My hair had come loose during my unpacking, so I quickly smoothed it back into its usual bun—the most efficient way to style my long black hair. I also didn’t mind the way it made my eyes look bigger, though my dad always joked that I couldn’t change that no matter what.
“You look like one of the things in the Gremlins movies,” he would always say. “But the cute one.”
In the mirror, I noticed that my loose black shirt was covered in dirt, which I brushed away, making sure none had gotten on my black pants. Getting dressed was easy when everything matched, which was good, since I had a tendency to hit snooze on my alarm more than I should. My quick and easy morning routine was the only thing that kept me from being late for rehearsal every day.
There was a small dresser in the closet where I put my few foldable items, mostly pajamas and lingerie. It was the one piece of my wardrobe that had any color. I was a fan of pretty lacy things, just not of showing them off. Even when I had been with Mark, I had only shown him my more conservative bras and panties. Somehow, I had sensed that he wouldn’t have approved of the more…interesting items I had. Those, the thigh-high stockings, push-up bras, and silken thongs, were carefully arranged in my top drawer. It was a part of myself that I never felt like sharing. But a part that I really liked indulging. I had a hard time passing up La Perla or Agent Provocateur lingerie. My unofficial motto was: when in doubt, buy panties. I seemed to be buying a lot of panties these days.
I unloaded the box that held my meager collection of electronics—my phone charger, which I immediately plugged in right next to my bed to charge my phone, and my second-hand laptop, which I mostly used to watch classical performances. Next I took out the bedding, placed the extra set in the closet and made my bed, which at the moment consisted only of a mattress on the floor. There was no way a bedframe could possibly fit in this apartment. But I didn’t mind. I liked how cozy it all was. And how it was all mine. And if I wanted to sleep on a mattress on the floor, well, then I was going to sleep on a mattress on the floor.
The sun was beginning to set, so I took my first shower in my new apartment and was thrilled to find that the water pressure was strong and the water was steadily hot. The city outside was still awake, lights on in every house on the block across from mine, but I found I liked the darkness of my apartment—it made it feel even cozier. I put on my favorite silk cami and short set—a recent splurge—and sat down at my piano. The first notes echoed beautifully in the room and I soon lost myself in the music.
Keep reading for a special sneak peek at the opening chapters of PLAY ME by Katie McCoy!
Chapter 2
Jake
>
Beer, bed, babes. Beer, bed, babes. Beer, bed, babes. That was the chant in my head, each word accompanied by a slightly sloppy step. I had taken care of the first item on my list, and was on a path straight towards the second, but sadly, I didn’t think I was going to have any luck with the third. At least not tonight.
It was a damn shame, I thought, the city in a rare state of quiet around me. This was my favorite time of the day—when it was just me and the nighttime and the city lights. The less perfect parts of the world were hidden, cloaked in shadows or barely illuminated by streetlights.
As I reached my building, I didn’t see any lights on in any of the apartments, which made sense since it was after four in the morning. Not many people were up after I finished up at the restaurant, which is why item number three on my list was usually a difficult thing to find these days. Unfortunately, the same thing that kept me away from meeting women in the usual ways—my odd hours as a chef—was also the thing that usually got my adrenaline pumping and on a good night (and tonight had been a gooooooooood night), I usually came home totally riled up and completely horny.
Another night, another cold shower, I thought, gritting my teeth as I climbed the stairs. Not that I had any problems finding women to go home with me, but my hours didn’t allow for the traditional dinner and movie dates that started at seven p.m. Since I was seventeen, I had done pretty well for myself in that department. Women liked me and I liked them. I liked everything about them—the curve of their ass, the bounce of their breasts, the sway of their hips. But lately, I just hadn’t had the time, and one-night stands didn’t have the same appeal they used to. No, the most important thing right now was work, and a lot of women didn’t understand that.
I gave my shirt a sniff when I reached my apartment and found that it stunk, usually the case after a long day. But I couldn’t help grinning, thinking of how full the restaurant had been tonight. Only a few weeks with me as head chef and the reservations hadn’t even faltered. I knew the owner had panicked when the head chef, Patricia announced she was leaving—after all, she was the big name that had drawn people to the restaurant in the first place—and had loudly voiced her hesitation about me replacing her. And they weren’t any fears I hadn’t already had. But if I wanted to open up my own place by the time I was thirty (only three years away), I had to grab opportunity by the balls. And this opportunity had a big set of cojones for me to grasp onto.
I had worked my ass off to get this far, and even though it was true that I didn’t have as much experience as some of the other chefs Patricia had been considering, nobody could match me in sheer stubbornness and determination to succeed. I had done everything short of begging to convince my former boss to let me step into her very large, hard-to-fill shoes. Even after a few weeks, I was still waiting for someone to burst into the kitchen one night and shout “gotcha!” and reveal the whole thing was some messed up reality show. The soul-crushing version of Top Chef.
Still, even though I was grateful for my new position, I still wasn’t completely satisfied. I itched to try out my own menu. Marilyn, the owner, wanted me to keep cooking Patricia’s classics, at least for a few months, and while I understood the hesitance, I was still frustrated. I wanted to serve my own dishes—to make my mark and draw the attention of investors. Becoming head chef was a step in that direction and there was something invigorating about finally running my own kitchen, but I knew that I wouldn’t be satisfied until I owned my own place. Where I could control everything.
Lately satisfaction was a long time coming. Coming being the imperative term.
But by the time I reached my door, I was so exhausted, I barely had the energy to undress. I was pulling off my shirt and about to turn on my lights when I realized I had left the curtains open. Unless I wanted to be woken by the sun first thing in the morning—which I absolutely did not—I needed to shut them before I went to sleep.
I went over to the window, preparing to tug them closed, when I happened to glance down into the apartment that was one over and down.
And I saw her. All smooth satin and creamy skin, sitting on a piano bench. Her black hair obscured her face, as she furiously wrote in a journal. She hadn’t put up any curtains and the moon was on my side tonight, so I got a damn good look at my new neighbor. Hadn’t I seen her that morning, on my way to work?
Right. Yeah. She had been with a kind of serious looking blonde guy with a grimace on his face. Her boyfriend? I hadn’t had much time to think about it then, since I was already running late, but I did remember passing her in the hallway, that same shiny hair pulled tightly back, her thin frame swimming in black clothes, and her eyes. Those big, big eyes had caught mine and there had been a bit of a jolt. Enough that it took half a block for me to realize my heart was racing. I chalked it up to the steady pace I was keeping, but now, standing completely still, I didn’t have the same excuse for the same symptoms. Who knew I had a thing for pale brunettes with big eyes?
Then again, if I knew she had been hiding that body under those clothes, I would have stopped on the stairs and introduced myself, boyfriend be damned.
Suddenly, she stood, and I took a step back, but not far enough away that I couldn’t still see her walk in front of the window. I couldn’t see her eyes, but I could see a whole lot of everything else. There had been a lot she had been hiding under those baggy clothes. Long slim legs with a firm, round ass and shapely hips.
Fuck. I imagined myself there, in the room with her, sliding my hands over the slippery smooth lingerie before quickly stripping it away. Laying her down on the bench, kneeling down between her thighs with her gorgeous legs draped over my shoulders as she’d moan and shudder from my hands and mouth. She might be skilled with the piano keys, but a woman’s body was an instrument I was more than experienced with. After she’d cry out her pleasure, I’d pull her to her feet, crushing my mouth against hers, our tongues hot and wet, mine tasting intimately of her. Then I’d bend her over the smooth surface of the piano and…
Damn. I couldn’t remember the last time a fantasy had gotten me so riled up. I was as horny as a teen boy watching his first porno.
Did she know I could see her? A part of me wanted to believe that she could, but her lights were off and I had no doubt that she thought she was invisible in the dead of the night. So even though I ached to keep watching her and ached to take care of the very large problem I currently had in my pants, I stepped away from the window. Pulling the curtains closed, I stripped off the rest of my clothes. With my cock standing at attention, I headed towards my bathroom. My own hand was a poor substitute for what I craved—black satin and smooth skin—but if a fantasy was what I had, a fantasy was what I’d use.
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Don’t miss UNDER COVERS, a new romantic comedy from author Kayti McGee!
“Ridiculous, funny, and often ridiculously funny.” — Melanie Harlow
Halfway through her first year on the job, Melissa Montclair decides the best part of teaching is winter break.
And the best part of break is the Perfect Ten she meets in a bar on New Year’s Eve. Why not celebrate a semester under her belt with a Perfect Ten in her pants? The one night affair is all she hoped for, until she walks into school a week later and sees Mr. Ten is Student Twenty-nine on her roll call.
She should be mortified—and she is—but that doesn’t stop her from banging him again. And again.
And again.
So much for job security.
Posing as an exchange student at Hamilton High is finally the assignment Officer Spence Vega has been hoping for. Now he has a shot at getting to the bottom of the town’s recent molly epidemic. There’s only a couple of problems: first, history is taught by the curvy bombshell he banged on New Year’s. Second, his growing suspicion is that she’s the dealer he’s looking for.
The job was supposed to be an easy in-and-out, not the teacher.
If only they could stop getting under t
he covers, staying undercover would be so much easier.
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Table of Contents
Title
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Melanie Harlow
Sneak Peek of PLAY ME by Katie McCoy
UNDER COVERS by Kayti McGee
Table of Contents
Title
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Some Sort of Love: A Happy Crazy Love Novel Page 23