by Zoe Lee
“Rather chivalrous,” she commented, “for a rock star.”
That surprised a huff of amusement from Seth before he denied, “I’m not a rock star.”
Suddenly leaning into his body, she tipped her head back onto his shoulders until her eyes met his. “But you could be, Seth,” she murmured, shaking her head, the bobby pins that had constructed her updo scraping his shoulder through his shirt. “In fact, you were one at Pitchfork,’” she went on, seemingly unaware that his body was freezing stiffly beneath her.
“No,” he denied sharply, old things clawing at his insides, insidious and oily. “That’s not me. I don’t fuck everyone who tosses themselves at me and drink all night and get onstage at stadiums in front of thousands of people like a god demanding adoration.”
“What a one-faceted way to see them,” Astrid whispered, shaking her head again and then rocking up to brush her dry lips over the tense line of his jaw before she carefully pushed upright and stepped up to the curb. She waited for her ride to pull up like a queen, tendrils of her hair escaping her updo from the wind and the way she’d leaned on him.
His heart ached, pierced through three times over by Astrid tonight, once by her beauty, twice by her questions and how happy they made her to ask, and a third time by her proclamation which had this dark shadow like a premonition hanging over it.
Seth gave in and shivered before he pivoted to go back inside once her ride had come.
When he got back to the bar, there were no free stools, but he went to the pass through, settled up and waited until Ambrose finished with a customer and came over.
“I’m headin’ out,” he said, kissing Ambrose lightly.
“Did she hurt you, Seth?” Ambrose whispered, his fingers touching Seth’s cheekbones for a moment, curving up just at the corners of his eyes where they were tight with tension.
There was a long moment of quiet, and then Seth shrugged fatalistically. “Not yet.”
Offering up a bittersweet smile, he escaped before something else could hurt him.
CHAPTER NINE
Astrid
Astrid’s eyes flew open, her chest heaving, her heels scraping along the mattress. Her hips torqued, twisting and curling left, with the aftershocks of an orgasm she’d dreamt.
Well. Thought she’d dreamt.
Stunned, she touched between her breasts daintily, feeling a light sheen of sweat cooling there and her heartbeat vibrating painfully against the tips of her fingers.
Pleasure and gratitude had been weighty and languorous. Seth Riveau, naked as she remembered him, pale on his torso and upper thighs where the sun didn’t warm up his skin, lean, graceful limbs and muscles, curls free and wild like a Celtic god’s, adoring her.
Adoring. There was no other word for how it had felt in the dream. As if he would take forever adoring her, because she was a goddess and immortal and had all the time in the universe for him to do so. As if he had no doubt that she was desirous and beautiful and expected she would remember it soon enough. Those gentle, all-seeing eyes and strong, careful hands. That powerful, gods-gifted voice pitched low and intimate, a quiet purr of praise and appreciation.
Everything else had been blurred or amorphous, or that was how she remembered it now that she was awake, but the sensations had been… vivid, but somehow delicate.
It was fanciful and preposterous.
Astrid shook it off, rolling out of bed and stomping into the bathroom to take a shower, shaving and washing with quick movements as she pushed the dream from her mind. Once she was wearing a cotton dress that swished around her knees, she swept her hair up and secured it with a big clip, then grabbed her purse and headed out of the hotel.
While she preferred the deliberately cute, subtly rich center of town where she lived over Chicago, she did like the riverwalk. So she headed there, clambering down the steps until she was on a level with the water. Heading east towards where the river flowed out of the lake, its direction reversed by science, she tapped her nails on her thighs. Her thoughts were jumbled and impatient, with bursts of irritation for overindulging a little with the bourbon from Ray Reynaud and dancing and flirting with Seth Riveau.
Unprofessional. Vulnerable, even if he hadn’t realized. Weak.
She’d touched him as if they were old friends, or in a romantic relationship, when neither of things could ever be true, when they’d only had a one-night stand.
But it was impossible to deny that there was a draw there, beyond the sex.
He intrigued her. The answers he’d offered up had only made the feeling stronger.
The fact of it unsettled her, made paranoid fears poke at her.
However, Astrid Sinclair was made of stern stuff and she knew with a quite wry amount of self-awareness that when she was intrigued like this, there was something there.
Not something personal, of course, that would be beyond ludicrous.
No, there was something professionally intriguing here, with Seth, this ex-bandmate, longtime songwriter, one-time guest musician who had gone to Juilliard and written a truly impressive number of songs for a fairly staggering range of artists, folk, punk, rock, indie, the odd dance anthem. Every time she’d prodded the members of Downbeat to speak about him, they came up with an endless supply of rockstar-level wild adventures which involved him, or which referenced his presence, without actually telling her a damn thing about him.
Intriguing.
What was beneath his mysterious, calm exterior, other than the thorough, generous lover she’d experienced? Why had he left Downbeat just as their climb to success had started to gather momentum? How had his departure not tripped their momentum so that they slid halfway back down the mountain? Why did it seem so important that they were still friends?
She’d known not to ask any of that last night, so she’d asked dozens of other things, and he’d answered, faithfully keeping the promise he made to a drunk woman in a club.
Intriguing.
Astrid’s cell blared out ‘Hey Good Lookin’ by Hank Williams, the ringtone Kerri had chosen as hers, and she smiled at the old song as she answered the call.
“Hello, darling,” she greeted her daughter.
“Hey,” Kerri chirped. “How’s being in the Windy City, not just near it?”
“Quite windy,” Astrid replied dryly. Now that she’d left the riverwalk and was near the lakeshore, she found a bench on the grass and sat, crossing her legs and idly bouncing her bottom foot. “But it helps with the humidity, good Lord.”
Kerri laughed and asked eagerly, “How’s the band?”
Growing up the child of a rockstar and a minor TV actor had given Kerri a very surreal childhood and a very hazy, wobbly perspective on the world, or so Astrid imagined. It still charmed the hell out of her that Kerri hadn’t batted an eye the year Barley had taken her with him to the Emmys, but when Astrid had told her that she was doing a piece on Downbeat, Kerri screeched and fangirled just like anybody else would have done.
“They’re good,” Astrid said with a light laugh, head tipped up to the sun.
“Glowing endorsement of your new subjects, Mom,” Kerri said sarcastically. “Come on, what gives? You were excited as fuck to see them at Pitchfork, now you’re just an icy Brit?”
Hesitating, Astrid’s fingers tapped again for a minute. “They did a few very cool things on a few songs during their set at the festival,” she offered as casually as possible, knowing that Kerri would probably catch her out at some point anyhow. “The musician who helped out, it turns out, was an early member of the band and is their main songwriter.”
“Re-e-ally?” Kerri almost squeaked, dragging the word out obnoxiously. “Is he cute?”
“Cute,” Astrid scoffed.
“Sexy, then,” Kerri gauged, totally smug about it. “Tell me everything.”
The jumbled thoughts came tumbling out, all out of order, and she was just grateful that Kerri was feeling magnanimous and didn’t make fun of her the entire time about it.
/> “I’m looking him up right now,” Kerri informed Astrid once she’d run out of steam. “You’re not kidding, he is sexy! Holy shit, look at his writing credits—I take it back, that’s way sexier than he is, oh my god. Have you looked at this list? Wait, there’s vids.”
One end of Astrid’s mouth curled up contentedly as Kerri burbled excitedly.
Astrid had still been on TV during the first two trimesters of her pregnancy, her expanding belly hidden by a hilarious usage of props, stunt doubles, and lucky timing because she hadn’t truly ballooned until after the season wrapped. She had walked and rocked Kerri nonstop while practicing her lines for the other two seasons. Barley’s mom and aunt had lived with them during that time, and Barley had been at his very best then. In all honesty, he’d always been a good father, no matter how it had been between Astrid and him. She had countless memories of dozing beside them, Kerri splayed out on his bare chest while he’d sung to her, rock songs sounding like a parent’s sweetest wish for their baby to grow up to be happy and healthy. With all those words in her early years, it had come as no surprise that Kerri was a talker, a beautiful contradiction of excitement and practicality.
So it was with amused, practiced patience that Astrid listened to her.
“Ooh, I found some footage of him,” she exclaimed, then snickered and explained, “I don’t know who this user is, but whoever posted these has the best hashtags.”
“Do they?” she asked rhetorically, idly.
“Wait, okay, I found one that’s gotten lots of hits since the festival.”
The song crackled to life behind the usual static of something recorded on a cell phone.
“She came down to me like a hammer from the sky
Like a fist thrown from on high
Lightning cracked from her lips to my bloodstream
Got nothing to lose, got nowhere to put her
Got nothing to give she wants
There’s only me, but she can’t want that
I’m used up and run down, oh Lord
Now she’s here, face hung above me like the full moon
Taking me in like a riptide claiming us
Unleashed and hungry
If she don’t wanna let go, I’ll stay here
Ain’t nowhere to go but inside her
Ain’t nowhere to be but beside her
When she’s—”
It stopped abruptly and Kerri declared, “This guy’s… brilliant. He’s the story.”
Blowing out a soft breath, Astrid whispered, “He is.”
“You have to call Kevin and tell him,” Kerri went on.
Her editor Kevin was a stoner with flawless instincts, the type who put bare feet up on his desk and wore concert tee shirts from the ‘70s and squinted at Astrid while she argued. He’d been doing this for forty years and hadn’t lost his comprehension of where the pulse of music was in all that time, and Astrid strongly believed it was because he’d never been a journalist himself. He’d never lost himself by spending time with artists and getting seduced by their charisma or that it thing that stars had. He just stayed in his office and listened to music nonstop, from every dot on the map and every genre there ever was, and only paid attention to news about the artists if it was about crimes or serious allegations.
“Why haven’t you called him already?” Kerri pressed her. “I don’t get it.”
Choosing her words carefully, Astrid replied, “He’s not in Downbeat. He’s not the band manager or with a label or a guest artist on a track. He’s not an up-and-comer who the band asked to join onstage to help him break out and get known. What’s the angle?”
Kerri groaned. “You like him. Fuck.”
Now that had Astrid snapping upright on the bench, the vertebrae in her spine locking, and denying hotly, “No, I don’t. I’m just tired.”
“O-okay, Mom,” Kerri laughed, “don’t freak out. Whatever. I should go now anyway.”
“Great,” Astrid said brusquely.
“Love you,” Kerri said.
“I love you too,” Astrid said, the brusqueness melting into warmth.
The call ended and Astrid leapt up off the bench, pacing through the grass and across a jogging path towards the lakeshore, breathing in agitated little puffs of humid air.
If she shifted the focus to Seth, she could talk to him more, without it being personal.
She dialed Kevin before she could talk herself into or out of anything.
“Hey, Astrid,” Kevin answered. “You got something good?”
With a renewed set of purpose, Astrid squared her shoulders and told Kevin, “I think so. I don’t know if it’s a new angle for the Downbeat piece, or if it’s a second piece.”
She gave him her impressions of Downbeat and what she had to work with that could make a piece, and then she shared the intriguing tidbits she’d heard and seen about Seth Riveau. She’d barely wrapped up her observations when he told her to run with both.
“Downbeat’s great and I’m pulling for them, so let’s do an article that helps them. With Seth Riveau, write that for another reason, for a different audience. There are lots of unsung heroes in the arts,” he reminded her earnestly. “So many people who have all the brilliance and abilities in the world, but for some reason, they don’t believe in themselves or don’t pursue their dream or they just don’t have the presence to break in. Which thing happened or is happening with this guy? What lessons can we learn? How can it inspire us, Astrid?”
He really was a wonderful editor, still thoughtful and optimistic despite everything.
“Let me find out,” she promised him.
“Darren’s got something that’s about to break, so I’ll put it in this month’s edition instead of yours. Yours goes in next month’s. But get it done by then, Astrid,” he told her.
She promised again and then turned around and made her way back to the hotel at a fast walk, her mind already trying to sort out the puzzle of Seth Riveau so she’d know what to do next. She knew she’d scare him off if she told him what she was doing, and she knew Downbeat would protect him and not say a word if she told them. It wasn’t her preference to sneak around or play fast and loose with the truth, but… Seth’s story would be valuable too.
And if she imagined him with her again that night, another orgasm twisting her hips and convulsing her from clit to womb, well, it was her problem and she’d manage it.
CHAPTER TEN
Seth
“Well, this is a bad idea,” Seth mumbled aloud to himself as he circled the coffee shop.
But it hadn’t stopped him from agreeing to it when Kayla had called to ask him, and it hadn’t stopped him from spending fifteen damn minutes picking out an outfit before he left.
How could it, when it was about Astrid Sinclair?
There she was, sitting in an overstuffed corduroy armchair like it was a throne.
As he drew closer, she stood up politely and said, “Hello, Seth. Can I get you a coffee?”
It was purely professional, nothing of the affection or hungry curiosity of their time together on the roof of Local Beats showing in her today. He missed it fiercely, but it made it easier for him to settle into his own professional demeanor and reply evenly, “No, thank you. I’ll go get what I want, but I wanted to tell you I’m here first. I’ll be right back.”
He went back to the counter, tossing an easy smile over at a skinny guy who hip-checked him by accident as he was trying to avoid a display stand of protein bars. They flirted lazily while the line crawled forwards, and Seth bought his soy latte in apology for not being able to join him at his table and for not living in Chicago either.
The guy sashayed away and Seth smiled a little as he went back to Astrid.
“You make friends wherever you go,” she observed.
From plenty of people, especially around where he’d grown up and in Nashville, the friends might have been delivered in metaphorical air quotes with a sniff of disapproval. From someone he’d slept with very recentl
y, it could have been bitter or jealous or catty.
But she was simply making an observation—this wasn’t a date, it was an interview because she wanted to hear his perspective on Downbeat. They weren’t here because they’d slept together and she’d tried to get to know him better on the roof. If he wanted to talk to her about what had happened between them, he would have to wait until a better time.
So he took the big armchair next to hers, propping one foot up on a footstool and angling his body at her, and conceded. “I get along pretty well with most folks.”
She narrowed her eyes a little when he took the first taste of his iced mocha through the biodegradable straw, and he had the sense it was like she was concentrating on figuring him out, more than she had before.
“Thank you for agreeing to be interviewed,” she said, with a tiny furrow of her brows.
“Thank you for giving me the opportunity to help you see Downbeat the way I do,” he returned neatly, avoiding responsibility and sidestepping the praise like always.
“Now I don’t use second-hand sources unless I trust them,” she explained, crisp and confident, and he thought she would’ve made a very good professor of literature or something like that, bringing an immediacy and clarity to something that could otherwise be ethereal. “So, if you can manage it, I’d like to learn a little about your perspective.”
“So you can decide if I’m a reliable narrator?” he drawled, using a literary term because it made him smile to himself.
“Precisely,” she agreed with a pleased twitch of her lips.
Then it seemed like she was trying to wait him out, but he couldn’t guess what it was she was hoping for him to blurt out, as if he were the type to blurt anything out.
