by Emily Reed
He looked over at her. "You're on the front lines," he told her. "By the time it really gets going, I'll probably be dead.” The nurse pulled the curtain between our beds. "The end!" he yelled through the curtain. "The end is coming!"
"All right, Mr. Combers," she said again, placing her fists on her ample hips. "That's enough."
A half-hearted grumble was the only response. She turned her attention to me and smiled. "How are you feeling?"
"Sore," I said with a smile. "And embarrassed."
She waved a hand at me. "Oh, sweetheart, don't worry about it. Everyone is affected differently."
“That’s never happened to me before—I’ve always come out of it feeling fine.”
I knew in the logical part of my brain it was impossible for Megan to be bending over me, her hair rich and lush like before she got sick, but in my heart I wanted to believe. Maybe it wasn't a hallucination.
"Things change," the nurse said. "Dr. Tor wants to keep you another night." She picked up the blood pressure cuff next to my bed and reached for me.
I shook my head. "No, I'm going home," I said. I can’t stay here.
"You're going to sign out against doctor's orders?" She pumped the cuff with one hand and put her stethoscope into her ears with the other, brows arched in disapproval.
"Yes," I said. She listened to my heart and looked at her watch. I waited until she released the pressure on the cuff. "Where are my clothes?" I asked. She sighed but gave them to me. I dressed quickly and checked myself out. Rushing onto the elevator, I felt a swell of relief that I'd gotten out of there. I wasn’t sure why, but I knew I had to go.
Chapter Seven
That night I warred with my sheets. The dream that had taunted me since Megan’s disappearance played over and over—and I always woke before I knew his name. Before I got what I needed.
One minute I was burning hot, throwing my blankets to the side, and the next chilled to the bone and pulling the covers up to my neck, sometimes even dipping my head under the folds.
Dreams came to me as whispers, and not sure if I was awake or asleep, I heard Megan saying my name in her singsong voice. It was the way she'd wake me after staying up all night writing—creeping into my room, planning on roping me into her arrangement. I felt her hand on my shoulder. "Come on," she said and laughed, a tinkling sound that made me smile.
"Just five more minutes," I mumbled, my lips hardly parting, my eyes staying closed, nothing but darkness across my vision.
"Be careful," she said, and I felt her breath right on my ear. My eyes popped open, and I flipped over, expecting to see her sitting there, but I was alone. The window was open, the curtains shifting in the breeze.
I crossed the room and looked out onto the back courtyard. It was early, the sun just peeking over the buildings, casting a gray-pink glow on the space below. I heard a rattle and then a cat bolted into the middle of the courtyard.
The feline's back was arched, its teeth bared at an unseen opponent. I strained to see into the darkness. What spooked it?
My heart caught in my throat when a figure appeared from the shadows. Sharp lines and elegant movements. He looked like a dancer, the crumby courtyard his stage.
Blue eyes flashed in the darkness up at me. The man I’d seen at the hospital and the parade.
The cat skittered away.
The man stared up at me—his eyes the blue of ice and of flame. I stepped closer to the window, my hands gripping the frame. A wind swept the curtains in front of me, billowing them out into the night, and when they fell again he was gone.
The humid air of the summer night wrapped around me, and I swallowed, my throat dry and aching. Who the hell was that?
I fell back into a fitful sleep and finally got out of bed around noon, realizing that sleep was over; there was no making up for the restlessness of my night.
I went out to my balcony and stood looking down at the street. Two musicians played on the corner, the notes from their string instruments blending with their voices. People walked in pairs and small groups. Laughter and bright conversation interplayed with the song.
Over the course of Megan's illness, I'd become hyperaware of my cellphone, knowing that a call could come from the hospital at any moment. So when I heard the phone vibrating where I'd left it with my keys, I hurried inside to answer it.
"Darling Price, this is Dr. Issa Tor."
"Hi.” My mind leaped to being half-naked on the floor, Dr. Tor trying to help me stand. Heat swept over my body. Such a fool!
"I was calling to check on you."
"I'm good," I said, brightening my voice so he would believe me.
"No swelling, flu-like symptoms? You're sleeping okay? Eating?"
"I'm fine," I said again. "How is the patient?"
"She's doing great," he said, his voice soft. "You probably saved her life."
Tears welled in my eyes, and a lump formed in my throat. I couldn’t save Megan, but I did help others. It felt good. “I just provided the raw materials, but thank you.”
"Without 'raw materials' like yours I'd be lost." I couldn't help but hiccup a small laugh. "Do you have anyone looking after you?"
I looked around my empty living room. "Yes," I lied.
“Your boyfriend? I saw him drop you off.”
“He’s my bandmate.” I said it for myself as much as for Issa, so I'd remember it the next time I thought about Emmanuel's heartbeat vibrating through my entire body.
"Oh." Issa sounded disappointed. "So who is looking after you?"
"Someone else," I lied.
"Okay," he said, his tone unsure. "How did you sleep?"
"I'm fine," I said again.
"Please, Darling."
The word please surprised me. Out of all the doctors Megan and I dealt with, I couldn't remember any of them saying please. Especially not like that. "Please what?" I asked.
I could hear him breathing. "I'd like to come check on you. Would that be okay?"
"You want to come to my house?"
"I don't think you slept well last night. I think your body is hurting. I think you're in need of..." His voice faded for a moment but then he continued. "I want to check on you. Please."
It was the "please" that got me. I gave him the address.
His quiet but firm knock woke me thirty minutes later. I didn’t remember falling asleep. I wobbled on unsteady legs to the door. The smell of Chinese food wafted in when I opened it. Issa held up a brown paper bag. "Wonton soup," he said.
The door was the only thing holding me up. "Come in." My voice sounded weak and soft.
Issa stepped in, and I went to close the door, but instead I found myself falling with it and stumbling forward. Issa's hand shot out and caught my elbow. "Thank you." I tried to get my feet under me. "I'm fine," I said, even as the edges of my vision darkened.
I began to slide down the closed door. The paper bag of food thunked to the floor. Issa's hands pulled me up, wrapping me in an embrace. His face was right above mine. His eyes were sharp, looking at me hard. I’m so hungry I could die.
He picked me up, one arm under my knees, the other cradling my shoulders. My head lolled back, bouncing with his movements. When he lowered me onto the couch I blinked, my lids too heavy to hold open.
"Darling, can you hear me?" My eyes slid shut. His palm cradled my cheek, fingers dipping into the hair at the nape of my neck.
Darkness overwhelmed me, followed by a blinding, rushing, intense energy blasting into me. It echoed in my chest like a heartbeat. Thump–thump–thump…it pushed out into my limbs, tingling at the very tips of every digit.
I was grabbing onto hair at the back of a head and forcing my tongue into a mouth. Wet and hot and needy, the link between us radiated. This is familiar. This great burst of life exploding inside of me, draining out of him. This is how I killed my foster father. He came to me in the night and tried to force himself on me, but I took from him instead. We were both monsters.
Hands pushed at m
y shoulders. Issa’s tongue entwined with mine even as he fought me. I collapsed back, chest heaving, body tingling. Issa fell onto the coffee table but stood quickly, wobbled slightly, then took two steps away from me. "Holy shit," he said. "I'm sorry." His hair stood out in clumps, his eyes wide, mouth red and swollen.
My heart raced, my breath came in quick pants. I could feel everything—every vibrating atom in the whole universe sang the same song, and I could hear it.
Issa backed away from me, and I moved to the edge of the couch like a string between us pulled me to follow. He raised a hand to his swollen lips, lightly touching them with trembling fingers.
Stand up and take that mouth again! Take every part of him and beg him to take every part of you. But that would kill him…just like it killed my foster father. I balled my hands into fists, nails biting into skin, trying to gain control of myself. "You should go," I said through clenched teeth.
"I..." He paused. "I just never—it's not your fault."
"I need you to go." My voice wavered.
"Please—" He stepped forward.
"Go!" My voice echoed in the small space. He stumbled back from me. My voice became a force—a wind. “Run!”
He did.
I didn’t have time to dissect what happened with Issa Tor and be on time for band practice. I chose punctuality.
I placed my bow against the strings. Emmanuel caught my eye and smiled at me, all friendly bandmate. I tried to smile back, but fear slipped up my spine and settled into my fingers. I couldn't do it.
Without Megan, I was nothing, and my fingers would prove it with every foible, every slip, every mistake.
I bore down on the violin, holding it tightly, knowing that was the wrong way to go but not able to stop. As the band began to play, I waited for my beat and then came in just a moment too early, eager and pathetic.
We did three songs, my performance off during each one. Michael began to throw looks at me. He should be mad. I was terrible. I gripped harder, my fingers crushing the strings and clutching the bow, wringing out any hint of fluidity.
Michael stopped singing, and Dre's sticks stilled against the drums. Emmanuel's steady bass faded. "Let's take a break," Michael said. He looked over at Emmanuel, jerking his chin at me as if to say, you deal with it.
Dre stood and stretched toward the ceiling. Pulling a pack of cigarettes out of his pants pocket, he headed out for a smoke. "I'm going to get some air," Michael said, following him.
I put my bow and fiddle back in their case and looked down at them. "Hey," Emmanuel said behind me. "You need to relax."
"I know." I stared at the glossy wood.
He took my shoulders and turned me around. "I'm going to kiss you now.”
"What?" My voice came out strangled.
His hands came to my hips and pulled me flush against the hard planes of his chest. “Is this okay?” he asked, his eyes locked on mine. It was way more than just okay. Zings of lust and need sparkled out of his hands, tingling over my body. I nodded.
He slowly lowered his mouth to mine, his breath reaching me a moment before his lips covered mine. Energy buzzed between us. It didn't feel dangerous—like I was stealing. It felt good. Really good.
One hand wrapped in my hair and moved my head where he wanted it, the sense of power increasing, as if he opened a faucet, letting just the right amount pour through.
My knees weakened and I moaned, my hands digging into his shirt, pressing hard muscles against my hands. The rich scent of honey wafted over me. A melody played in the distance, a song I’d never heard but somehow knew whispering over my skin. The universe singing again…
Emmanuel broke the kiss, but I leaned forward, reaching for him. He let me catch him and then bore down on me so that all my senses fuzzed except smell: the strong scent of sweet honey.
"There you are," he said, his lips brushing mine. I took a deep breath. He kissed me again. I clutched his curls with one hand and let the other wander down his neck, finding the pulse that beat there and laying my fingers over it, moaning softly at the beauty of that beat.
Emmanuel pulled away, bringing his thumb across my lips. "Let's play," he said. I blinked at him. Play what? Oh, right. Music.
I uncurled my fingers from his hair, a blush stealing me. I can’t believe that kiss.
Emmanuel smiled softly and reached between us to button the top of my blouse. I didn’t even realize it had come undone. That kiss might have melted part of my brain.
But I didn’t feel weak…I felt alive.
I heard the door open and turned away, letting my hair fall across my face so that Michael and Dre wouldn't see the bright red flush spreading across my chest, up my cheeks, straight to my hairline. Emmanuel walked over to his bass, his jeans hanging on his hips just so…
He bent over to pick up his base, the muscles of his back shifting under the thin material of his T-shirt. I wanted to rip it off him.
What is wrong with me?
I quickly bent down and picked up my violin. It felt different in my hand. The smooth wood, elegant neck, and taut bow fit better against me.
Instead of trying to play the song, I melted into it. My eyes closed, and the music washed over me. Michael's voice sang in my blood, the drum pounded in my stomach, and the bass, that low, controlled, never-fading bass, beat in my chest.
Chapter Eight
I held up a knee-length black dress in front of the mirror. It made me look like I was heading to a funeral.
On stage I liked to wear all black—Megan always fought me on it, insisting that I was hiding away, trying not to be seen. Yeah, she practically had a Ph.D. in Darling psychology. I missed her.
I had no one to talk to about what was happening.
I’d gone from a girl who barely tolerated being touched by anyone other than Megan to someone who needed to feel skin under me. In the past few days, I’d kissed three men. Three.
And two of them didn’t give consent, that I could remember. I’d accosted them. With Michael I could tell myself we’d been drugged. He even agreed. But with Dr. Tor…what was that about? Maybe he kissed me. He was on top. But he had to force me away from him.
And then there was Emmanuel. I sat on my bed, clutching the black dress to my chest, wistfully staring out the window but seeing his eyes, feeling his hands, and luxuriating in the memory of that kiss.
A shimmer of gold in the closet caught my eye. Megan’s gold shorts. She'd worn them the night we got our record contract. I pulled them out of the closet. That night the music was perfect; we were in sync—as though a force field grew between us, making my fiddle and her voice into one instrument. People said they'd never heard anything like it.
Two months later, days before we were set to begin recording our album, Megan coughed up blood. An expression of abject terror twisted her always-brave face. She knew what it meant before I did.
Turning to the mirror, I held the small gold shorts to my waist. They'd fit.
I nodded at my reflection and headed into the bathroom to finish getting ready for the show. I owed it to my bandmates and myself to rock tonight. Megan's little gold shorts were just the thing to help me.
Before leaving the house, I dabbed Gilt onto each of my wrists, behind both ears, and once right between my breasts. "For luck," I said as I replaced the bottle on Megan's dresser. Then with a last look around, I picked up my violin and hit the street.
As I walked over to the venue, I felt eyes on me. Despite the black raincoat I wore, which fell respectably close to my knees, the people I passed dragged their gazes over me. Black stockings and low-heeled black ankle boots, even without seeing the gold shorts, communicated something.
"You look great," Michael said when I walked into the green room. "I like what you did with your hair."
I'd pinned it away from my face, but it flowed in loose, broad curls down my back. "Thanks," I said, nervous about shedding my coat.
Emmanuel sat on a battered couch, his fingers straying over his bass,
forearms tensing and relaxing as he watched me cross the room. Turning my back on them, I shrugged out of my coat, exposing the shorts and open back of my shirt. I hung up the coat and turned around.
Both men were staring at me. Michael's jaw looked loose, his eyes fixed on my cleavage. Emmanuel's fingers stilled, his gaze heated. My top was low cut, tight, and black, with the edge of Megan's lacy black bra poking over the top.
Michael whistled under his breath, a soft and appreciative sound. "You look incredible."
"Lovely, as always,” Emmanuel said, his voice low and rough. He began to strum again, looking down at the instrument.
Are we going back to just being bandmates?
I headed to the refreshment table, picking up a bottle of water and cracking the lid.
Fingers trailed down my spine, and I shivered. Turning, I found Emmanuel's gaze on me—his brown eyes, usually so warm and calm, were dark and sparkling.
"Can we have a minute?" he asked Michael, without taking his eyes off me.
"Sure, yeah." Michael headed for the door.
Emmanuel stood up slowly, placing his bass gently on the couch. He walked over to the door, his stride lazy. The click of the lock jolted through me.
My heartbeat pulsed through my body. Emmanuel approached slowly, his movements liquid and dead sexy. I bumped up against the table, feeling the edge hit my butt. Putting the bottle of water down behind me, I tried to break from Emmanuel's gaze but couldn't. I literally could not take my eyes off his slow approach.
He stopped inches from me—his breath on my face, his scent swirling around me. Electric vibrations made it feel like we were already touching. I meant to speak, to tell him not to kiss me, but I didn’t. We needed to talk, right? That’s what people do after they kiss and before they kiss again…
His hands came up and cupped my face, pulling me up to meet his mouth, and there was nothing in the world but him and me and the spark we made. A tornado of passion unleashed, tearing at me, threatening to destroy us both.
Emmanuel pulled away, his lips still close, and I tried to go after them, but he held me in place, fingers dug deep in my hair, controlling my head. "Stay still." His chest heaved with each breath, and his body shook—like it was taking intense effort to stay still. He groaned and closed his eyes, leaning his forehead against mine. "Darling." He whispered my name, and it sounded almost like a prayer. It sounded too damn good.