Sheet Music

by Tibby Armstrong

  She must have been three or four in the photograph. David’s mother held her clutched to her in a way that seemed fierce or determined. Protective energy radiated from the set of her fingertips on Jenny’s arms.

  Her fingers scrabbled across the keyboard, tripping over each other in her haste. He’d said she was here in New York. Two search strings later, she had Jenny’s photo in living color on the laptop’s LCD. Dark curls and brown eyes with gold flecks, a smattering of girlish freckles across her nose. Her features were pert, her eyes relaxed and filled with laughter as she posed for her graduation photo at New York University.

  The whir of the latte machine was the perfect background accompaniment to Kyra’s churning thoughts. The journalist in her was dying to talk to this woman. The sensitive lover in her knew contacting Jenny was out of the question. There was no way she could invade David’s privacy in that way and still respect herself.

  But what if he decides not to let us mention her in the article? Doesn’t Jenny have the right to know her brother?

  She slapped the insidious, rationalizing thought away. No. She was not going to meddle where she hadn’t been invited. These were David’s decisions to make, not hers.

  Her cell phone jangled on the table and she turned it over to look at the number. Her heart sank. Not David. Gil.

  “Hey.”

  He cut to the chase. “How’s the writing?”

  She sighed into the phone.

  “That good?”

  “I think I have zero objectivity on this.”

  “I need something for the editorial meeting tomorrow.”

  “He has to sign off on whatever I write, so I put together a puff piece as backup,” she said, dragging and dropping the file into an email message as she spoke.

  “Kyra, we need to fill a lot more space than that.” Gil’s tone was pleading.

  “I warned you. He’s really on edge about this.”

  She could almost see Gil running his hand through the bleached-blond spikes of his hair.

  “I know, and I tried to postpone it until the next issue. Is there any way you can show it to him tonight so I can have it for the meeting tomorrow?”

  Kyra glanced at her watch. It was 5:00 p.m. He’d only just landed at JFK around 2:00. It didn’t seem fair to shove this at him when he was so worn out. She knew she was being a horrible friend, but it was the thought of seeing David, not rescuing Gil, that compelled her.

  “I’ll be seeing him tonight, but you might have to wait until morning if there are changes or if he wants more time to look at it,” she said, feeling like a mama bear protecting her cub.

  “You’re right,” Gil snapped. “You have zero objectivity. This isn’t journalism, Kyra, it’s pandering.”

  “You want the article?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then we do it his way,” she snarled, then grimaced at her tone. “Look, I’m sorry. It’s just, I promised, and once you see this you’ll know why I had to. Can you trust me for a little while longer?”

  It was the closest she and Gil had ever come to having a fight, and she found she didn’t like the feeling at all. He was a good friend, as he’d proven by going to bat for her on this assignment.

  “Yes, but you really only have until tomorrow morning. If I have to use this other thing…”

  “I don’t think you will. I have to go if I’m going to get uptown in the rush. I’ll try to call you tonight,” she said, hoping to forestall another tongue lashing.

  “Go,” he said, and she thumbed the off button on her phone.

  Gathering up her things, she left to hail a taxi. They’d made it a block when it hit her that she was going to see David. Alone. Where he lived.

  A rush of sensation radiated from her solar plexus, giving her a giddy feeling of pleasure she had been missing for over seventy-two hours. Showing him the story could wait until after she gave him a proper homecoming.

  * * * * *

  David rolled over and slapped his palm on the alarm. When it didn’t stop screaming at him he tried again. On the third stroke he realized it was his phone and clutched the offending device to his ear.

  “What?” he snarled, and wondered if his head could feel any worse.

  “Mr. Tallis? You have a guest.”

  He pushed himself up on one elbow to look at the clock. 6:00 pm. He’d been asleep since 4:00. Two hours. Shit. He’d only intended to rest his eyes while he waited for Kyra. Now he’d be sleep-drugged when he saw her.

  “Is it Ms. Martin?” he asked, and rubbed a hand over his eyes.

  “Yes sir,” the co-op’s desk attendant said.

  He smiled through the haze. “Send her up.”

  The lights of the city to the south twinkled in the dusky light as he padded into the bathroom to rinse his face and brush his teeth.

  He couldn’t wait to kiss her, taste her, and he was hard already. Thinking he knew where their greeting was headed, he rolled on a condom under his pajama bottoms before making his way into the living room.

  It had only been a few days since they’d made love, yet each hour without her had grated. When they’d spoken last night the sound of her voice had made him ache for tonight when he could see her, touch her. Feel her beneath him.

  The door chimed and his heartbeat kicked up a notch. He scarcely cared that the sensation made him feel like a seventeen-year-old with a crush.

  Flinging open the door, he gathered her into his embrace before either of them had a chance to speak. The jeans and navy blue hoodie she wore were the most casual attire he’d seen on her, and he could only be grateful for the ease with which they came off.

  Her lips tasted like spiced fruit, and the darting exploration of her tongue into his mouth told him she’d been having coffee, but underneath it all was her honeyed sweetness, and he drank it in.

  The lace of her bra rubbed against his bare chest, making him acutely aware of the sensitive points of his nipples, and he tore off what remained of her clothing as she cupped him with her hand.

  “Kyra,” he rasped and lifted her into his arms, intending to take her to the bedroom.

  They didn’t make it any farther than the dining room table before she wrapped her legs around him, her heated core teasing against the pajama bottoms that separated them. Despite the fabric barrier, she managed to nestle the tip of him inside her with her insistent writhing.

  The double constriction of his cock within her pussy and his garment had him flinging her back on the table with more force than a sane man would have used on a lady, but the act only seemed to drive her arousal higher. Lifting her legs, she rested her feet on his shoulders and worked him farther inside with a wriggle of her hips.

  With her hair fanned about her, features pale yet brushed with a flush of color that set off her green eyes, she looked up at him. Her expression was one of open passion that made him loath to leave her for the time it took to tear off his pants.

  Inch by exquisite inch he slid into her, gripping her hips to steady his sudden shaking and to guide his strokes. Whatever it was she did to him, it felt an awful lot like love, and the idea scared him to death.

  As he pushed his cock into her, he watched the pink-tipped crests of her breasts shimmy from the movement, the flat plane of her stomach clenching with her need when he bumped his root against her swollen lips.

  “So sweet,” he murmured and gasped when she tightened her muscles to milk him during his measured withdrawal.

  Holding his gaze, she swirled her fingers around her nipples, giving them a pinch that had her back arching and his cock jerking in response. Sliding her palm down the milky landscape of her belly, she found her clit. He watched as she rubbed the proud nub and felt a flutter of sensation grip him in the velvet glove of her flesh as she cried out her hurried orgasm.

  “Fuck me, David,” she gasped.

  In response to her plea, he harnessed her hips in earnest and rode her at a bone-jarring pace. In fascination he watched her breasts dance in time to
his movements, her head tossing back and forth on the glorious bed of her hair.

  The angle of her hips facilitated his entry, allowing her to clench him fully with each short, deep stroke. He couldn’t remember when a woman had fit him so well. He wanted to come with her. Feel her pulsing around him when he spilled. He drove her hard with a bump and grind that had her hands flailing up to her hair and fluttering to the table over her head.

  He was so close.

  One more bump and a series of slick strokes before he slid his hand around her hip to mold the heel of his palm to her clit. As he fucked her, the motion jostled his hand against her, and her keening response was enough to send him over the edge.

  He fought against closing his eyes, and a halo of light splintered his vision, surrounding her as he watched. She was so damn beautiful. He shuddered and pulled her legs around his waist, leaning over to help her up. She clung to him and he kissed her repeatedly.

  “I need you,” he heard himself say over and over again.

  She sobbed into his mouth in response, and he clutched her to him as if he could somehow meld them into one being.

  Carrying her into the bedroom, he withdrew from her to lay her down on the bed before discarding the condom. At her whimper of protest he smoothed her hair back from her forehead and smiled down at her.

  “Shh. Sleep.”

  “I have to show you the article. Editorial meeting tomorrow,” she protested without much conviction.

  Apparently she was as exhausted as he was. The dark circles under her eyes told him it was unlikely she’d slept much since they’d been apart.

  He smiled and climbed into bed behind her. “I don’t need to see it. I trust you. Sleep now.”

  When she tried to shift to face him, he spooned her against him more firmly and captured her legs with one of his own.

  “Shh, now,” he repeated, his eyes closing as if they were lined with lead weights.

  Drifting off, he smiled at the thought they had the whole day tomorrow to talk and make love. No obligations, no interviews, nothing but the opportunity to be two normal people doing normal things. It would be heaven on earth. Absolute bliss.

  Chapter Twelve

  David woke with a craving for waffles with a topping of berries. He voiced his request and Kyra kissed his nose as she bounded out of bed with more energy than he could summon.

  “I’ll get coffee and strawberries. You have flour and eggs and all that?” she asked from the living room where she had ostensibly gone to grab her clothes.

  “My P.A. hasn’t stocked the fridge yet,” he called groggily.

  “P.A.?” she asked, looking into the room as she zipped up her hoodie.

  “Personal assistant. She stocks my fridge so I don’t have to suffer the common hordes,” he teased, prompting Kyra to stick her tongue out at him.

  He laughed.

  “I’ll get what we need. Got any cash, moneybags?” she asked, flopping onto the edge of the bed.

  He rolled over and grabbed his wallet. With not a little chagrin, he handed her a hundred dollar bill. “Sorry.”

  Kyra rolled her eyes and laughed because he’d proven her point.

  Pulling her close, he lavished her with a kiss, ignoring morning etiquette. “Thanks for going out.”

  “Sure thing. I’ll be back…in a jiff,” she said, mimicking his accent.

  He smacked her ass in retaliation as she stood to leave, and had to laugh when she wagged it at him in response. Her frisky morning attitude was giving him a good idea of what he could do with any leftover whipped cream after breakfast.

  The foyer door shut and he rolled over, intending to sleep a little longer. He’d just begun to drift off when his cell phone rang in the bathroom, where he’d put it down last night. He had it set to an annoying jangle that made his jaw clench. He threw the pillow over his head. It would stop in a moment.

  Except it didn’t.

  The bloody thing stopped and started five times in three minutes, and it was set on loud so he could hear it in the airport. Why he hadn’t turned it down last night was beyond him.

  “Goddammit,” he muttered darkly and slid out of bed. Pulling on some pants, he went to find the offending piece of technology so he could shut it off.

  He brushed his fingertip over the button to deactivate the screen at the same moment it flashed an international number.

  London.

  He hesitated, but then decided it might be something important, and answered the call.

  “Go.” He used the cryptic greeting that allowed him to remain anonymous to unknown callers.

  “Can you comment on your reaction to the Kyra Martin sex video?”

  “Who is this?” he demanded.

  “Norton Truitt. Reporter for—”

  David thumbed the off button and regarded the device as if it had grown horns and bitten him.

  There must be some mistake. Kyra wasn’t involved in pornographic stories or risqué reporting.

  Thinking to Google the reporter’s name, he reactivated the touch screen and saw that his email box was full. Frank Ellis’ name appeared in the from field of several messages. How in the hell had that sorry excuse for pond scum gotten his address?

  More than irritated, he selected the first and scrolled through. Irritation turned to horror and then to bleak anger as he read choice tidbits about his life and his affair with Kyra. Betrayal clawed at him like a demon trying to free itself from his gut before he was finished reading.

  She had shattered him. Completely destroyed his faith. These were things only she would know. He should have guessed what she was up to when Frank had conveniently appeared at the pub, but he’d wanted to believe in her so badly. And this was where trust had gotten him.

  He opened the attachments. Six photos of him fucking Kyra in the boutique, plus a link that would take him to a video on the internet. He didn’t know how long he stood there, frozen in shock, but he was still staring at a photo of himself with his hands palming Kyra’s very naked breasts when his cell started ringing again.

  * * * * *

  David’s co-op was uptown in an area where the stall-like markets so common to the Village were few and far between. Kyra had walked a good twelve blocks before encountering a similar establishment.

  Flour, milk, eggs, butter, syrup, strawberries…whipped cream. The bag wasn’t light, but she needed the exercise, and the early summer day was coolly comfortable—just right for a walk. The sun was bright as she headed east, and she found herself regretting leaving her sunglasses in her bag.

  Remembering she had good news for Gil, she called him on her way back.

  “Are you okay?” he asked, not bothering to say hello when he picked up.

  The question gave her pause, but then she remembered she was supposed to check in with him last night.

  “Couldn’t be better! He’s letting it go to press.”

  “Really?”

  The incredulity in his tone had her mentally scratching her head. “Why do you sound so surprised?”

  “It’s just, given the article that came out in The Mirror today, I would have thought he was going to pull it.”

  Kyra’s blood went cold. “What story?”

  Had someone scooped them?

  There was a beat before Gil answered. “You really don’t know?”

  “I said, what story, Gil?”

  A couple walking ahead of her increased their pace at her tone.

  “The one about you and Tallis.”

  “I didn’t give an interview about our relationship,” she said defensively.

  While it was pretty much public knowledge after the awards ceremony, she had rejected quite a few requests to speak with her about the subject.

  His voice was soft, concerned when he replied. “You know that doesn’t mean anything.”

  “Who wrote it?”

  “Frank Ellis.”

  She blew out a breath. “Well, that’s something. After what David did to his camera ther
e won’t be a photo.”

  Silence greeted her statement.

  “He has a photo?”

  The couple crossed the street mid-block to get away from her.

  “Several.”

  Kyra closed her eyes and swallowed down the sick feeling threatening to overwhelm her. She knew very well that the British papers had fewer restrictions on nudity, and remembered with clarity what she and David had done after they’d left the pub—where she’d last seen Frank. Of course it could just be some candids of them talking or holding hands.

  “Is it bad?” Her voice came out a whisper.

  “Yeah.”

  “Oh, God.” Had he gotten into the boutique?

  “Kyra, do you want to come over to my place? Curt’s making pancakes. We could talk.”

  She shook her head and then realized he couldn’t see her.

  “No. Thanks. I have to get back to David.”

  “I thought you were with him.”

  “I was at the market.”

  “How are you going to tell him?” he asked.

  “God, he’s going to hate me forever. Do you think it’ll hit the American papers?” she asked, knowing things could get much worse.

  “Depends on how many it sells over there. My guess is that it’ll at least be in People, probably on ET.”

  “Fuck.” She knew that, but still, to hear it out loud. “I have to get back and warn him.”

  “Call if you need me,” he said.

  “Yeah. Thanks.”

  She ended the call and dialed the only person she could think of who could give her some insight on the situation.

  “Frank,” she said, stopping around the corner from David’s building.

  “Kyra.”

  How someone could fit so much smugness into one word she couldn’t fathom.

  “What am I looking at here?” she asked, gritting her teeth in an effort to keep her voice calm.

  “Want me to email you the story?”

  Frank’s response was not what she would have expected. She blinked. “Sure. That’d be useful.”

  There was some rustling in the background and the tapping of keys. Wondering if he was offering out of professional courtesy, she nearly laughed out loud. That would be a joke. He was doing it so he could gloat.