by Knight, JJ
“Show him he can’t hurt you.”
“But he can. It’s like what Amanda says. You can’t make your heart love, or stop loving someone.”
She fidgets with her straw in her drink, splashing iced tea onto the white tablecloth.
“If you still love him, then you have to see him,” she says.
I check the time on my phone. “Too late.”
“Just go. I’ll pay and get your lunch to go.”
I give her a cross look. “I’m hungry.”
“You are so stubborn, Jessica. And you always have to be so perfect. Yes, you were the top of your class. Yes, you’re the youngest executive at Morris. But don’t let it go to your head. None of us is perfect in love. It’s messy and ugly, and sometimes you have to crawl around in the mud.”
“Like you and Bryce? How’s that working out for you?”
As soon as I say the words, I regret them. But it’s too late. My insult goes flying across the table like poison arrows.
Riley hunches her shoulders, flinching at my words.
She and Bryce dated, on and off again, for a few months. He was a dick to her most of the time. He could be sweet, but his ego was so fragile. He’d get hurt feelings over nothing. And when something happened that boosted his ego, he thought he was a god, and we were all like ants in the dirt below him.
They finally split up for good a month ago, and she swore off all musicians. Her relationship with Bryce is probably the main reason I don’t have any fantasies about a future with Dylan. I feel like I got to see my potential future, through Riley and Bryce.
Fame isn’t pretty.
I’ll stick to my career, which I love, then eventually date someone nice. Someone normal. Like the cute waiter who keeps coming by to refill my glass.
Riley doesn’t fight back with me. The longer she sits staring at her iced tea, the worse I feel.
“Musicians are dicks,” I say. “I’m sorry I mentioned Bryce. He’s dead to me. I’m going to put really ugly art on his next cover, and rename his album something stupid.”
She cracks a smile. “Don’t do that,” she says.
“No more musicians.”
I reach across the table to offer her a handshake to seal the deal.
“No more musicians,” she says.
She shakes my hand, smiling to hold back the tears.
Our salads show up, and we start off picking from each other’s plates.
“I saw your friend Nick the other day,” she says.
“He’s not my friend.”
“Well, I didn’t see him in person. It was an article, on a food blog. He and his mother are opening up that music-themed restaurant.”
I shake my head. “That is so weird. It was their cover story, and they’re actually doing it.” A chill goes through me as I think about Q, David Ambler. I never heard from the guy again, after his text message. He’d better stay far away from me.
Riley must be reading my mind. “It’s just the two of them,” she says. “No creepy guy with thick glasses in any of the photos, and no mention of that Ambler loser in the article.”
“That’s too bad. I’d like to go to their grand opening and get myself arrested.”
Riley chuckles. “Oh, Jess. I’m glad you’re on my side.”
“Thanks.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to go see Dylan at that meeting?”
I look down at my plate and stab a cherry tomato with my fork. “No. I’m hungry.”
Chapter 17
People are staring at me.
I’m on the tenth floor, walking past the open-air meeting space on the way to my office. I’ve just come back from a late lunch. It’s not unusual for me to take a late lunch, but I still feel eyes on me.
Chet was right about the rain. The sky over Los Angeles rumbled while I was at lunch. It started to rain while I was walking back.
I smooth down my damp hair. Why is everyone staring at me? I’m not that wet.
I wave at the people gathered around some printed reports. They quickly look away.
People can probably tell I had a couple drinks at lunch. I just wanted to calm my nerves after talking about Dylan.
I look down at my feet and focus on not walking like I’m tipsy.
There’s someone in my office, sitting in my chair.
He turns around in the chair.
WTF.
It’s Dylan Wolf.
I stop in my tracks and grab onto the doorframe to steady myself.
I start peppering him with questions. “What’s going on? Isn’t your meeting over? Why are you in my chair?”
He gets up from my chair and offers it to me. He doesn’t say a word. He makes his way around my desk and sits in a guest chair.
I smooth down my rain-damp hair and take back my chair. It’s still warm from his body.
I glance over at him, then quickly pull my eyes away. He’s really here, in my office. I can’t change the radio station and make him go away.
Now he’s staring.
“It’s raining,” I say.
He leans to the side in his chair and rests his chin on his fist. His nearly-black hair is cut in a different style now. It’s shorter, but still messy. His dark brown eyes don’t give away his thoughts, but they do make me feel like I’m falling.
I want to look away, but I can’t. He’s captivating. Even more in person than on a tiny screen. No wonder interviewers get tongue-tied around him.
“How was your meeting?” I ask.
He shrugs.
“You’re not talking to me? Great. Just show up in my office, uninvited. That’s your style, isn’t it?”
His eyebrows raise, but he still doesn’t say anything.
I let him have it.
“You broke me, Dylan. I thought I was tough, but you let me out on that street corner, and you broke me. I will never be the same. At first I blamed myself. I’m truly, truly sorry I kept things from you. But what you did to me in return was cruel. You broke me.”
He nods slowly.
I take a deep breath and let it out noisily.
“I feel better,” I say. “Closure feels good. Thank you for stopping by.” I turn to my computer and wiggle the mouse to turn on the screen. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do. I don’t get paid to be amazing and put in celebrity appearances when it suits my schedule.”
He moves, but not to leave my office. I hadn’t noticed when I walked in, but he has his guitar case with him. He opens up the case and takes out the guitar. It’s the same beat-up one he used to serenade me from below my window.
He plays a chord, then grimaces and tweaks the knobs to tune it.
I turn back to my computer screen, shaking my head.
“Great. You’re having a jam session in my office,” I mutter.
He strums the intro to a song. It’s nice, but not one of his regular melodies.
I get goosebumps up and down my arms. He’s going to sing, and my whole body is anticipating his gritty, soulful voice.
He sings the first line of the song.
His voice is so soft and low, I can’t hear the words.
He clears his throat and starts again.
“There are no words,
So I can’t say what she needs to hear.
The distance between us,
Is the space between never and now.
And all the normal people,
Can’t seem to understand.
That days pass by, and nights, and I keep breathing,
But I don’t know how.”
He looks up, and there’s pain in his eyes. It’s more than a performance. He wants something from me.
He keeps playing, leading into the chorus. He opens his mouth, but pauses.
I wait for the chorus, but it doesn’t come.
“Well?” I say.
“I’ve got nothing,” he says, speaking over the strumming. “There’s eventually going to be a chorus here.”
“You’ll think of some
thing.”
He stops playing and lays his palm flat on the strings to stop the notes.
“I shouldn’t have come,” he says.
“Dylan, what do you want from me?”
“I want you to hear me say I’m sorry.”
“Aren’t you getting enough attention from all your groupies? What are they called… the Wolf Clan?” I make a gagging face.
“Jess, I’m sorry.”
I get another chill that triggers more goosebumps.
“It’s a bit late,” I say.
He closes his eyes, like he regrets taking so long to talk to me. Good. I’m glad he feels bad. I wasn’t perfect to him, but he was cruel.
With his eyes still closed, he says, “I came here to apologize. That’s all.”
“Apology accepted,” I snap. “We’re good.”
He opens his eyes, and I’m snared by them. I’m sinking into darkness, and I want to let go.
I want to let go of the anger and the hurt.
I’m so close to letting go, but I can’t.
“Okay,” he says.
He leans forward and tucks the beat-up guitar back into the case. As he lifts the lid, a quarter falls out. The quarter must be from his busking days, maybe even from the day we met.
He picks up the guitar case, and walks out of my office.
I stare at the quarter on the floor.
I get up, walk around my desk, and pick up the quarter.
It’s just a perfectly normal quarter.
I flip it in the air and catch it.
When Carter Morris called me into his office to get my opinion on signing Dylan, he tossed a coin to help him decide.
I secretly hoped Dylan would lose the coin toss. I knew if he got a deal, it would be the end of us.
And now we’re not together.
All because of a coin toss. And because a man discovered Dylan at a talent show. And because Maggie Clark wanted to take over Morris Music. And because of a million things. A million choices made by fate and other people.
Not my choices.
Now Dylan has come back to me.
I pushed him away.
My choice.
I flip the coin high in the air.
I don’t stay to catch it.
I turn and run out of my office.
I run down the hall, to the elevator.
The doors are closing.
I launch myself at the narrow gap in the doors and jump into the elevator.
It’s just Dylan in the elevator. He looks at me with shock.
The elevator is still, waiting for us to press a button.
I take my eyes off his for just a second, to punch in the code for the basement.
Chapter 18
The elevator keeps moving down, past ten floors.
I want to throw myself into his arms, but I don’t. We stand, side by side, not looking at each other.
The doors open with a ding.
“What floor is this?” His voice is low and raspy, tearing down all my boundaries.
I nod for him follow me as I step out. He grabs his guitar case and follows.
“This must be the archives,” he says into the darkness. “This is where they had you working. It’s like a dungeon down here.”
All the lights are out except for a few safety lights.
“But it’s private,” I say. “We can talk down here.”
“Sure.”
He follows me over to my old desk. There’s no chair, so I sit on top of the desk. Without all the lights on, this level is almost cozy.
He stands in front of me.
“Let’s talk. How have you been?” he asks.
“I don’t know.”
He takes a spot sitting on the desk beside me.
“I’ve been a wreck,” he says. “But now that I’m here, with you, I feel good.” He leans his shoulder against mine in a friendly, casual way. “This feels good. Not much of a view, but I’ll take it.”
“I’m glad you wrote Where You Belong. People are going to remember that song forever.”
He chuckles, his warm laughter echoing through the dark basement floor. “They’ll remember it as this summer’s most overplayed song.”
My throat feels tight. “I’m sorry I hurt you so bad.”
“Jess, you didn’t hurt me. I hurt myself when I believed the words of an angry man whose business deal just fell through, over the words of the girl I loved.”
“But it was all true. I did take the money. And I didn’t tell you about the cameras, or what I knew.”
“Yes, but you were always on my side. I didn’t see that for a long time. Have you ever been to therapy?”
“No. Have you?”
He chuckles again. “Not officially. You know me. I’d rather go live by myself alone in a cabin for a year than see a therapist.”
“Did you go to the cabin again?”
“No, but I did talk about us. A lot. Every time I did an interview, I’d wind up telling them a story about a girl I knew. And the reporters would always say, ‘She sounds like a special girl.’ After a hundred or two hundred people told me you were special, it finally clicked in my head. You are special, and I was an idiot for doing what I did.”
I glance over at the light switches, wondering if I should have turned the lights on. It feels strange to sit in the dark with Dylan like this. I feel like time has hardly passed, like we’re back to being who we used to be.
“Maybe we can be friends,” I say.
“I thought about that,” he says. “But then I saw a fan-made video on YouTube. Someone took footage of you, from an interview you did.”
I start to laugh, embarrassed. “No! That video was terrible.”
He reaches over and takes my hand in his.
“It was beautiful, because you were in it. And what this fan did, was splice together clips of me talking about this girl I knew, along with slowed-down footage of you. That’s when I realized that all my songs have been about you, and every song in my future will be about you. You’ve burned yourself into my heart, and that’s where you are. Even when we’re not together.”
I look down at our hands as we lock fingers.
“You can write about other people,” I say softly.
“But I don’t want to. You’re the one, Jess. I want you.”
“I don’t know what to say. I’ve been trying so hard to get over you.”
“Then don’t say anything. Just kiss me. Even if it’s just for now, give me something good to hold onto.”
I take a breath and wait for him to lean over and kiss me.
He slides off the desk and turns to stand in front of me.
He pushes my legs apart and steps in close, leaning over until his lips brush against mine in the dark.
I put my hands on the desk behind me and lean back, drawing him closer.
We kiss.
Time disappears.
I haven’t been touched since the last time I saw him.
His lips taste like heaven. The heat of his hands stokes my flame so easily.
What comes next feels so natural, even after months apart. We keep kissing. I run my fingers through his hair.
He begins to undress me.
I’m like a house on fire as he unbuttons my blouse.
He pushes me onto my back on the desk. He unfastens my bra. His hot mouth closes over my nipple. My back arches, and I whimper with my need for him.
His hands grab me roughly, then gently, like he’s trying to slow down but can’t.
He pulls away from me and gently unzips my skirt and pulls it off. Next are my shoes, and my underwear.
I’m naked, lying back on my old desk.
He tears off his shirt and kneels down. He buries his face between my legs, and for an instant, I remember the crowd screaming his name. He finds my pleasure and soothes me while pushing me higher. I need him so bad.
I push my fingers into his dark hair, cradling the back of his head.
I want everythin
g.
“Dylan, I don’t want to get over you. I want to be with you.”
He looks up, then moves forward, kissing my stomach.
“I’m all yours,” he says. “Today and tonight, and for as long as you’ll have me.”
He moves up to kiss my mouth. His fingers find their way between my legs and push against me.
I moan and arch up to meet him.
He grinds against my leg.
“I’m on birth control now.” I reach down and unbutton his jeans.
He kisses his way down my body.
He flicks one nipple with his tongue. Electricity shoots through me, giving me goosebumps. He kisses my chest, all over, and then moves back down my stomach.
I hear something fall to the floor. I lean my head to the side and see it’s his jeans.
And then he’s between my legs, pushing into me, nothing between us.
I cry out.
He grabs my hips and slides me down the desk toward him.
I can barely breathe as he fills me. He’s bigger than I remember. My toes curl, and my breathing is quick and shallow.
He leans over me, one palm on the desk and one on my breast.
I lift my head up to meet his lips with mine.
He kisses me deeply as he drives himself deeper into me.
I’m gasping as I near my climax, but I hold on.
My eyelids open, and I’m looking up into his eyes. Our mouths are touching, but barely moving.
His body is so tense, all the beautiful muscles of his arms and shoulders defined.
With a grunt, he reaches his arms behind my back and lifts me from the desk.
I wrap my legs around him. I’m quivering, everywhere, as I climax.
He holds me tight as he stands up straight. He plunges into me, moaning and trembling as he comes.
Using my leg muscles, I hold on and keep moving, coaxing out the last waves of pleasure.
I’m only moving slowly when he lays me back down on the desk. My back is damp, and the desk is cool. I shiver, and clench down on him.
He groans and swears softly as he pumps me a few more times before collapsing on me.
I run my fingers through his hair. He rests his cheek against my shoulder.
I stare up at the basement ceiling, with all the dusty old pipes.
I can’t stop smiling, because everything is beautiful.