The Awakening of Dr. Brown

by Kathleen Creighton

  There was a pause, then… “You don’t say,” the piano man said. Phoenix heard his Camels-and-bourbon chuckle as the cage creaked slowly out of sight.

  Ethan stood in the shadowy main hall of the old warehouse, converted at who-knows-what-cost into a state-of-the-art studio, watching Phoenix and her band rehearse. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected-nothing magical, certainly, nothing like the adrenaline rush of a live concert performance with all the attendant hype and the contagious excitement of thousands of screaming fans. He felt rather like an explorer hiding in the jungle watching some mysterious pagan rite-utterly fascinated, maybe a little scared. Guilty as hell. He hadn’t expected to enjoy himself so much.

  Just watching her-that was the source of a good part of the enjoyment, and most of the guilt. He told himself he wasn’t supposed to be susceptible to the woman that way, that he was on his guard now, that he knew better. It was like telling himself he wouldn’t burn when the flames touched him.

  Watching her perform was like watching some incredible spectacle of nature, like an erupting volcano or a lightning storm, or a once-in-a-lifetime sunset. The breath catches, the heart beats faster, and it becomes impossible to look away. In the intervals, talking quietly with the band, she was simply poetry in white leather pants and a silver beaded tank, with her hair knotted loosely halfway down her back, swinging to and fro and now and then catching the light reflected off the silver beads in tiny flashes of blue fire. Her voice drifted to him in uneven ripples, sometimes a husky murmur that made him think of intimacies shared in tumbled sheets, sometimes a scratchy cackle that made the juices rise in the back of his throat as if in response to the smell of bacon frying on a Sunday morning. Then she’d begin to sing, and his heart would quicken and his skin prickle with goose bumps.

  The number they were rehearsing was one Ethan hadn’t heard before-which added considerably to his excitement, the incredible idea of being among the very first on the planet to hear a new Phoenix song. This one was classic Phoenix, performed with her trademark driving beat and throat-tearing passion-like all of her best stuff, a little bit sad-about entrances and exits, saying hello and saying goodbye. He would like to have heard the whole song, but he wasn’t to have that chance; she seemed dissatisfied with it and kept stopping and going back over the same phrase, trying new chords, variations in tempo. Her frustration was tangible; Ethan felt it like an unscratchable itch between his own shoulder blades.

  He wasn’t sure how long he watched before one of the members of the band noticed him standing there in the shadows and said something to Phoenix. She called an immediate halt to the rehearsal and motioned him over, striding out to meet him and greeting him like a lover, with an arm around his waist and a kiss on the mouth. A quick, proprietary kiss-he barely had time to register her warmth and her scent, the cushiony press of her breasts against his chest, the satin brush of her lips. To register a hot, bright stab of anger: What is this? What’s this for?

  But, of course, he knew. The anger passed as quickly as it had come, and was replaced with amusement. It was obvious to him that the purpose of the kiss had been to brand him-stake her claim and state her intentions-publically. A risky move, considering how little she knew him-or, maybe not. Perhaps to someone of her massive self-confidence it didn’t seem like a risk at all.

  “Hello, Doc,” she purred, “I see you found us.”

  “Wasn’t that hard,” Ethan said. “I had somebody call your business manager for directions.”

  “Well, I’m glad you made it.” A smile curled the corners of her mouth, for some reason reminding him of the way she’d looked yesterday in Kaufman’s office with that little cigar between her lips. She bobbed her head, looking behind him. “Where’s that tall, dark and handsome bodyguard of yours today?”

  “Tom’s off duty. Carl’s out in the car.”

  “Ah.” Her eyes sparked at him from beneath half-lowered lashes. “Well, come meet the band. Hey, guys, say hello to my friend Ethan. He’s a doctor.”

  “Hey, Doc.”

  “Ethan…”

  “Hey, how’s it goin’?”

  The conventional greetings tumbled from their lips as she called them off, like a roll call of rock music greats: Ed Cooley on drums; Dan Rowe, bass guitar; Bobby Stubble-field, lead guitar and backup vocals; Max Plotkin, guitar and vocals; and on keyboards, legendary piano man, Rupert Dove.

  The formalities taken care of, Phoenix stood back and watched him. Dr. Ethan Brown. She hadn’t had much chance to do that yesterday, she realized; she’d been too busy playing with him. He hadn’t seemed all that real to her then, just a pawn in her own little game.

  Now, strangely, he seemed to her the only person in the room who was real. Next to him the others-the members of her band, even Doveman, people she’d known for years-seemed like characters in a play, actors in costume, even cardboard cutouts, static and two-dimensional, while he moved among them in vital and full-fleshed 3-D.

  Watching him, she was conscious of an unfamiliar and nameless dissatisfaction-oh, she was too proud to call it longing, or admit that it shook her to her core. Deep in the sequestered recesses of her heart, just for an instant, a light had shown, as if somewhere someone had opened a door-just a crack, no more. And it was she who slammed it shut, trembling inside.

  Ah, but he is a darlin’ man, she thought. Too damned beautiful for words. Retreating into the familiar realm of the senses, she gathered the image of him and his smile and chocolate eyes into her mind, curling into it like a cat in a nest of sunshine. Yes, she wanted him, no doubt about it. Her body wanted to know the secrets of his body…all of its pleasure spots and imperfections. Her mind wanted to know everything there was to know about him-whether he wore briefs or boxers, whether he slept in the raw, whether he woke up grouchy or sunny. Those answers she’d have soon enough-the question was not if but when she’d seduce him…how soon she’d have him in her bed.

  Seduce. Such an old-fashioned word for a modern concept-the notion that a woman could call the shots, control the pace and decide the outcome of her relationships. Phoenix, of course, would have it no other way. But why, then, did she have this nagging dissatisfaction, this sense that something wasn’t right? It was the same thing with that damned song. She should have had it all down, the control was in her hands, and still it didn’t feel right. There was something missing, some obscure harmony, the perfect tempo… Ah, hell. Sooner or later she’d find it.

  This business with the Doc, though…something was missing there, too. She had a vague sense of things she wanted to know, but since she’d never wanted to know those things before, she didn’t even know the right questions to ask. She knew that she wanted Dr. Ethan Brown, and that she’d have him-of that she had no doubt at all. When it came to men, Phoenix always got what she wanted. What made her uneasy was the possibility that this time, maybe having wouldn’t be enough. That getting this man into bed on her terms might not be what she wanted after all. That maybe…

  No. It made no sense to her at all.

  “All right, guys, let’s call it a day.” She hooked the doc’s arm with hers and gave it a little squeeze as she made a “wrapping” motion with her free hand. Her heartbeat had quickened; she wondered if he could feel it. “Doc and I have some business to discuss. Everybody back here tomorrow morning, okay?”

  There was a nice but unexpected solidity to him, she realized as she allowed herself to lean, just lightly, against him-unexpected, perhaps, because there seemed to be no excess flesh on him anywhere. But his shoulders were broad, his bones long and strong-including the ones in his face. For all his beauty, there was nothing even remotely soft or pretty about him. He would be handsome, she thought, even when he was old.

  Never before in all her memory had she ever pictured a potential lover-or herself-that way. Old. And that thought surprised-even frightened-her.

  During the cage’s slow journey upward, noting the way his quiet eyes took in everything-curious but not awed- Phoenix
tried out various seduction scenarios in her mind. And dismissed them all out of hand-first because her instincts told her with a certainty that they weren’t going to work with this man, but more so because even the thought of trying one of her usual scenarios out on Dr. Ethan Brown filled her with an urge to burst out laughing. She would feel-and look-ridiculous, she thought, like a grown woman playing child’s games. Sliding her eyes sideways to study him under cover of her lashes, she thanked God for at least giving her the intuition to know that this man did not play-perhaps would not even understand-games.

  But, if that was true, she realized, then she was sailing in uncharted waters. None of the rules and guidelines she was accustomed to living by would apply. For the first time since childhood, Phoenix felt unsure of herself.

  The cage clanked to a halt. She unlatched the chain-link gate and stepped out onto the loft, then held it for her guest. He followed without hurry, not warily, but looking around with an undisguised interest she found refreshing. But then, everything he did was like that, wasn’t it? Different, somehow. And it occurred to her that there was only a fine line between refreshing and disconcerting.

  “Would you care for something to drink?” she asked as she crossed the carpeted floor to the kitchen, which was separated from the rest of the loft only by a curving, granite-topped counter. How useful are these little conventions, she thought as she opened the refrigerator. The grease that eases us through awkward places… “I have…bottled water, diet soda or beer. Oh-and bourbon.”

  “Beer sounds good.” He’d stopped at the counter, she saw, not crowding her, conceding her the kitchen…as her personal space? she wondered. Or a woman’s place? Oh, yes, he was just possibly old-fashioned enough to think so.

  She hid her smile in the cool emptiness of the refrigerator. “Bottle or glass?”

  “Bottle’s fine.”

  She selected a bottle of imported beer for him and one for herself and set them on the countertop. The imported brand required an opener, and by the time she’d located one and successfully popped off the tops, her guest had left his post at the counter to go politely exploring. She followed him to where he stood beside the baby grand, gazing at and not quite touching the keys.

  “You play?” She held out a moisture-beaded bottle.

  His eyes lifted and bumped hers, and the force in them took her by surprise. Her breath caught audibly, the sound thankfully lost in rustles and clinks and a murmured “Thanks…” as he took the bottle from her hand. She had an idea, then, of touching her bottle to his-a tiny toast…a subtle enough promise, suggestive of either comradship or intimacy-but somehow with this man even that small gesture seemed contrived…silly. Instead, she lifted her own bottle to her lips and drank, shielding herself from his gaze with her lashes.

  “Not piano,” Ethan said, answering the question he barely remembered being asked. “Just a little guitar.”

  He drank some ice-cold beer that scorched his throat. In that one brief glimpse he’d had of her eyes before she’d dropped the familiar curtain across them, there’d been a sense of something eager and innocent, like a little girl offering a handful of just-picked wildflowers. His response to it had been instant and unnerving-a tightening in his throat, a stinging behind his eyelids. And in its aftermath, a pounding in his blood.

  “Really?” Her voice was husky and rich with interest. “Where’d you learn to play? Ever do any singing? Play with a band?”

  Laughing, he waved her enthusiasm down-shamelessly flattered even though he was well aware her intent was only to disarm him. “Lord, no-to your last question. To the second, only for my own enjoyment-or chagrin. No, wait-I take that back. I sang a solo once. It was ‘The Cheese Stands Alone’-you know, in ‘Farmer In The Dell’? For Parents’ Back-To-School Night. I was in first grade.” He took another sip of beer, shaking his head even now at the exquisite discomfort of the memory. “I’m definitely not a performer.”

  “But,” she said softly, “I think you like to sing. And, you play the guitar. Who taught you? Did you take lessons?”

  He shook his head. “Dixie taught me-my stepmom.”

  “Oh-of course.”

  “Not necessarily, actually. Believe it or not, my dad plays, too. And sings-or at least, he used to, when he was young. It was a family thing. He and his brother sang with my grandmother-for church and weddings and funerals, mostly. From what I’ve been told, they were pretty good. My dad stopped singing, though, when his mother-my grandmother-died. She was killed in an automobile accident, along with my grandfather, before I was born…” He stopped suddenly, frowning at his beer bottle, wondering what had possessed him to make such a speech. It wasn’t at all like him. “So,” he said in determined conclusion, “that’s it-my musical history in a nutshell. What about you?”

  She stared at him over the top of her bottle, her gaze guileless-and utterly false. “Beg your pardon?”

  “What started you-” he nodded in the general direction of the piano “-on the way to being…Phoenix?”

  “Doc, I was born singing,” she said. And she turned from him in sudden and complete withdrawal.

  Chapter 6

  As often as possible, when he was in med school and during his internship, Ethan had sought refuge from the craziness of Los Angeles and the stresses of the hospital by driving up the coast. For someone raised in the heartland, the ocean was a source of endless mystery and fascination, and he’d found that the cold, damp wind and astrigent sea smell helped clear his head. At the same time, the terrifying vastness of it seemed to lend a certain perspective to the tragedy and suffering he witnessed on a daily basis, that might otherwise have become too great a burden to bear.

  He’d found pleasure in discovering secret places, stretches of coast as yet unspoiled by developers, where only the footprints of an occasional jogger or horseback rider marred the narrow ribbons of sand that separated the cliffs from the pounding surf and herons came to feed among the rocks at low tide. In the tide pools, he’d found the sea’s small miracles-tiny fish and hermit crabs, and sea anemones that looked like flowers but shrank into all but invisible mud balls when he touched them with a curious finger.

  Phoenix’s withdrawal reminded him of that-the shrinking, the sudden transformation from beauty into dull brown nothingness. He felt the same sharp sense of disappointment and, at the same time, fascination.

  What had he expected? That she would magically reveal to him things about herself that had been withheld from the rest of the world?

  There was, he’d discovered, a great deal about Phoenix the world didn’t know. He’d asked Mrs. Schmidt to find out what she could via the Internet through her computer-smart friend at city hall, but so far all that had netted him was information he could have read off the jacket of any one of her CDs. Phoenix’s existence, it seemed, had begun with the Academy Awards telecast when she’d performed Rupert Dove’s Oscar-nominated song, “Love Child,” from the movie of the same name when she was just fifteen. That song had eventually won her and its composer two Grammys apiece and made Phoenix a household word, but nobody seemed to know anything about her background. There was no mention anywhere of birthplace or family.

  Even this place…this loft, Ethan thought, turning from the piano and the shuttered eyes to wander in casual curiosity. Expensively furnished, comfortable enough, even elegant in a Spartan sort of way, but utterly without personality. There were no books or magazines, no photographs or knickknacks, not even a single article of clothing carelessly dropped on a chair. He realized that he was probably somewhat of a slob himself-domestically, at least-after years of bachelor-student living, on a schedule that by necessity put housekeeping far down on the list of priorities, but even so, he found this lack of clutter…lonely.

  “You lived here long?” he asked, and was faintly surprised when her husky laugh came from close behind him. After the suddenness and totality of her withdrawal, he hadn’t expected either the laughter or the nearness.

  “Becaus
e it looks like nobody does?” She moved up beside him, her eyes silvery with amusement. “I don’t live here, actually. This is just temporary, just until the album’s in the can. And the tour…” She left it hanging, her eyes going to the bank of windows that made up one whole side of the loft almost as if they’d been pulled there against her will.

  He thought about asking her where she did live, but the memory of that shrinking withdrawal kept the question locked inside his mind. Though he did let her see it in his eyes, knowing she was probably expecting him to ask, and held her gaze long enough to give her the chance to answer if she wanted to.

  When she didn’t, he turned away from her once more, picking up the thread she’d left dangling. “The tour-I’ve heard the rumor. Is it true that the reason you’re starting this tour here, in this city, is because it’s your hometown?”

  He waited for her to come beside him again. When she slid a look sideways at him, shook her head and murmured, “Rumors…” he recognized his own tactic and almost laughed out loud.

  Instead, he shook his head, saying nothing.

  “You’re doing it again,” Phoenix said, taking a sip of beer.

  “Doing what?”

  “Laughing at me.”

  He shrugged, not looking at her, watching the city turn from pink to purple and the lights wink on like stars in the dusk. “Like I said before, it’s not you I’m laughing at.”

  “You’re laughing at yourself.”

  “That’s right.”

  “You want to tell me why?” Her smile was sardonic. “No offense, Doc, but like I said, you’re not that funny.”

  He smiled down at his beer bottle. The huskiness in her voice…the growing dusk…her nearness-oh, he knew it wasn’t the beer that was making his head swim.

  “What you said…the way you said it-” and there was a burr in his voice he didn’t recognize “-I’ve said that, you know-done the exact same thing, when people ask for information I don’t want to give.”