In Helen’s Hands

by Nanisi Barrett D'Arnuk

  Mickey dreams of becoming a jazz pianist but instead spends her days arranging and transcribing other people’s music. When her idol, world-renowned jazz great Helen Robins, offers her a job, Mickey goes out of her way to prove she’s capable. But there’s more to Helen than meets the eye, and Mickey soon discovers a whole new world of erotic submission.

  The agreement: As her mistress, Helen pushes Mickey to her sensual limits, delivering the pleasure only a BDSM lifestyle can provide her. As Helen's submissive, Mickey serves her in any way she requires. Drawn into a seduction she never knew she needed, Mickey discovers her true identity in the thrill of passion and the test of pain. For Mickey, being in Helen’s hands is everything, but when desire gives way to something deeper, their bond is tested to the breaking point.

  In Helen’s Hands

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  In Helen’s Hands

  © 2020 By Nanisi Barrett D’Arnuk. All Rights Reserved.

  ISBN 13: 978-1-63555-640-7

  This Electronic Original Is Published By

  Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  P.O. Box 249

  Valley Falls, NY 12185

  First Edition: January 2020

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

  Credits

  Editor: Barbara Ann Wright

  Production Design: Stacia Seaman

  Cover Design by Tammy Seidick

  For Ti, with love

  Chapter One

  Most times a moment just passes me by, unnoticed, but when I look back, it’s that one instant that changed my life forever. I could have said that it was when I first unwrapped a Christmas present and heard her magnificent music for the first time, or maybe it was when I saw her, standing there backstage, beside the nine-foot Baldwin grand. But I prefer to think of it as the one flash in my life when that beautiful ebony hand reached out, took the glass from the bartender, and handed me my drink. I’ll remember that moment for as long as I live. It was as if I’d been seared with an electric probe, and it was instantly etched in my mind.

  The after-concert party at the arts center was in full swing, and everyone was in a great mood. There’d been other parties, other concerts, but this was very special. Helen Robins, one of the best and hottest jazz pianists of the century, was making a national tour to sell her latest album, and she’d been getting rave reviews throughout the country. There was a rumor that she was also going to Asia and then back to Europe. Also, this one-night concert in Boston was supposed to be the last stop before she went home to New York to write the music for her next album.

  I’d felt blessed to be among the fifteen-piece pit orchestra that had backed her final number in this concert, the world premiere of a twenty-minute jazz cantata with singers, Helen’s finest work to date. The art center’s professional singers, four men and three women, had been working on the music for weeks. I knew because I’d played piano for every rehearsal and Ann, my current lover, was one of the singers.

  I’d have thought I’d be jaded because we did a guest artist concert three or four times a year. I could add some of the best names in the business to my resume. But this concert was Helen Robins. There was no comparison. My childhood piano teacher had given me one of her records while I was still in high school, and I remember playing it until the grooves were almost worn through. She’d been my idol since I began playing serious jazz piano several years before. I couldn’t believe I’d actually played on the same program as her, even if I was only an unseen piano player in the pit. It was so exciting!

  When I’d first seen her from the wings, Helen had seemed engrossed in a discussion with Jack, who directed the pit orchestra. She’d had on a dark red silk pantsuit that caught the light with shimmers of black and showed off her dark skin and trim figure. Her shoes had a very stylish low heel. Her makeup was absolutely stunning. Although she wasn’t tall next to Jack, I could tell she was a couple inches taller than me. Every move she made was graceful and flowing like her music.

  As I’d watched Helen, my mind couldn’t help but imagine what it might be like to feel those hands on my skin, her lips against mine, the feel of those arms wrapping around me…

  And there she’d been, no more than twenty feet away, going over music. I’d heard so much about her, about her music and her style, and I’d listened to her recordings so many times that I felt as if I already knew her. But the reality of seeing her standing there, leaning casually against the piano, was something I hadn’t expected. It took my breath away. I’d felt a hand on my shoulder. It was the lead sax player.

  “You ready, Mickey?” he’d asked.

  “Always have to be.”

  “Good. See you out there.” He’d walked away. I’d taken a deep breath and followed.

  And the concert had been breathtaking. The cantata had gotten a standing ovation, and the audience hadn’t let her off the stage until she’d played three encores. Now at the party, she was ensconced in the far corner of the room with my boss, Andrew, as he played host/devoted lackey as person after person paid homage, all those who’d paid the extra couple hundred dollars or more to get “sponsor tickets” so they could sit close during the concert, go to this party, and drop her name at their next dinner party.

  She laughed and talked amicably, sharing asides with Andrew, sipping from a champagne glass, and waving a long brown cigarette.

  The cigarettes were a trademark. I’d read somewhere that they were made especially for her in New York: Shermans, seven or eight inches long of natural tobacco, mild and filtered. In her hands, a shorter cigarette, even one hundred millimeters, would look dwarfed. She wielded it like a conductor’s baton, the length only enhancing her graceful hands. I was mesmerized by the way she manipulated it.

  I hung back, nursing my rum and ginger ale, observing her out of the corner of my eye. She’d changed from the long black gown she’d performed in and was now clad in that astonishing, form-fitting, red silk suit she’d worn before the concert. I had to concentrate to keep from staring. My heart seemed to be bumping out the rhythm to the cantata, and I didn’t want to make a starstruck fool of myself in front of her.

  I tried making small talk with the other musicians from the orchestra or staff from the center, but I was always aware of her and doing my best to appear above it all.

  Stephen, the sax player, had already asked me to go home with him. We’d been flirting and teasing all night, our usual habit. He asked me every time we played in the same show, but I’d coquettishly deferred tonight. He was fun to flirt with, and the one time I had gone home with him after an all-night recording session, it had been wonderful fun sex, but I hadn’t been able to sit comfortably for two days after.

  Tonight, I wasn’t in the mood for Stephen even though Ann had already disappeared to God-knew-where. I shrugged. Ann and I weren’t communicating all that well, and she’d probably gone off with one of the guys or gals in the crew. I knew she’d been spending a lot of time backstage, flirting with the two new lighting technicians.

  I was about to reach over the bar for my third rum and ginger when a long, graceful arm took my drink from the bartender and held it out to me.


  “Andrew tells me you do transcriptions.”

  I slowly turned, my eyes glued to the graceful, dark-skinned hand holding my drink, my heart beating a quick gallop. I hoped my hand wasn’t shaking so badly that I’d splash the syrupy blend all over the place.

  “Thank you,” I said as I took the drink. Then I looked up into Helen’s clear, beautiful face. The dark eyes seemed to bore through me, capturing me in an invisible web.

  “Yes. I transcribe and arrange some,” I mumbled.

  “Do you get to New York often?” she asked as she reached for a glass of champagne.

  I could have melted into the warmth of her voice, and the light smell of her jasmine perfume started my head spinning. Was I starting to sweat? “I can.”

  “Good. I’m writing an opera, and I hate taking the time to write music when it’s so much easier to record my thoughts and have someone else write them down. I do have to let the singers know what they’re supposed to sing.” She chuckled, a dark contralto breath, then sipped her drink and gave me a warm smile as her eyes traveled the length of my body. “I’ll send you a tape. Call me.” And with that, she turned and walked away.

  I just stood there holding my drink for I’m not sure how long.

  “Something else, isn’t she?”

  The voice startled me. I’d been so engrossed in watching Helen I hadn’t heard Frank come up behind me.

  I turned and smiled. “I’m not sure how to take all of this,” I whispered, not sure there was anything else happening in the room.

  “Just take what’s offered and say thank you.” He chuckled, a big smile across his face.

  I shook my head. He knew me too well and had the nerve to call me on it. He knew my secret thoughts and was privy to all the indiscretions I’d had with both men and women while Ann was busy elsewhere. Too bad he was gay. He would have made an interesting lover.

  “She asked for information on all the musicians in the orchestra tonight,” Frank said. I nodded. Helen was known for taking a personal interest in everyone she shared a stage with. I’d read a quote she made: “Making music is like having sex: When it’s good and the music climaxes, it’s nice to know who you came with.”

  I laughed. “Who’d she ask?”

  “Andrew.”

  “Shit.” I frowned. Andrew was my boss, but more importantly, he was also Ann’s protective cousin who didn’t approve of our relationship. Not that he was anti-gay, far from it. He’d been known to make his own little forays on both sides of the track. He just didn’t like me playing around in his family. There was respect between us but also a certain distance. I’d never have used him as a reference.

  “Well? What did she say to you? Does she want your body or your mind? Are you going home with her? Does Ann know?”

  I turned to him as I took a long gulp of my drink.

  “I think she may have just offered me a job.”

  “I know she grilled Andrew about you,” Frank whispered.

  “How do you always hear these things?”

  “I am the proverbial fly on the wall, my dear.” He smiled smugly. “And I have twenty-twenty hearing.”

  “Then what else did you hear?”

  “She liked the way Stephen plays sax. She may write something for him to play on her next album. And”—he hesitated—“she wanted to know what your commitments are.”

  I scowled. “And Andrew said I have none.”

  “He said he could spare you for a few weeks and that you were completely free.”

  I wondered if that was wishful thinking on Andrew’s part or if he knew something I didn’t. Ann and I would have to talk one of these days, the sooner the better.

  Maybe New York was what I needed. Besides, a few days away from Boston seemed like a nice diversion. It was early April, and my teaching schedule for the summer was still up in the air. A few extra days in the Big Apple could give me the perspective I needed to get back to work. I’d neglected my own composing and playing in the past few months, letting Ann and my work at the center push everything else aside. Maybe I needed this step back to get my creative juices flowing again.

  “Helen did seem more than interested,” Frank added. “She lowered her voice so I couldn’t hear, but I think she asked some very personal questions. Andrew seemed more than willing to give her answers.”

  I glanced over to where Helen was next to Andrew, graciously accepting all the lavish praises heaped on her by people who’d paid big money. Before I could glance away, Andrew’s eyes met mine. A look of curious amusement crossed his face before he returned his attention to Helen.

  I decided it was time to go home whether I could find Ann or not.

  * * *

  Sunday afternoon after the concert, Andrew dropped by the apartment to pick Ann up for a family gathering and had brought a large manila envelope for me. I opened it and looked inside, but when I saw the monogram across the letterhead, I stopped and just held the envelope until Andrew and Ann had driven off.

  Inside was a brief note and a small reel of quarter-track tape. The letter, on heavy gray parchment with a flowing “H.R.” in the upper right-hand corner, was short and to the point.

  “Transcribe this. We can talk about it in New York in a few weeks. Call me when it’s finished.” Her address and phone number were embossed across the bottom.

  I looked at the tape in my hand, realizing for the first time what I held. This was music that no one else had heard before, music that Helen Robins had created and played. I was about to become one of the first, if not the first, person to hear Helen Robin’s work-in-progress. My hands shook as I threaded the tape through my tape deck and slipped the headphones over my ears. Sitting back, I pushed the “play” button. After a few seconds of white noise, the sound of her piano began.

  I couldn’t believe my ears. Her style was clear, but the passion and power of the music made the simplicity of the lilting melody seem like a feather floating amidst the rages of a thunderstorm. The work was gorgeous; her left-hand work breathtaking. Definitely her best work thus far.

  As I pushed the rewind button, it hit me…I was supposed to listen to this and then write it down, note for note, just as she’d played it. I closed my eyes. Yes, I’d transcribed music from tape before; choral or popular stuff mostly, even some of Andrew’s arrangements for the singers. And I’d orchestrated some of his work for the stage band, but this task was above and beyond anything I had ever conceived of doing. Would it have been easier if it had been a full orchestra? Then I could have listened, picked out separate instruments, and written each down separately. But this was just one pianist. Just. One. Pianist. One pianist with twenty-four fingers on each of her seventeen hands.

  I let my head fall forward into my hands.

  Was this something I could do? Was it something anyone could do? Damn, I so much wanted to impress her. I imagined those eyes smiling at me, telling me what a good job I’d done, how proud she was of me.

  Well, that was shot to shit.

  I turned off the tape deck and went out in search of some food and a good stiff drink.

  * * *

  I woke up and looked at the clock: 4:00 a.m. I got out of bed and headed for the bathroom. The fried chicken I’d gotten for dinner at a cute little restaurant still lay heavy in my stomach, and the taste of beer and cigarettes I’d had at the bar across the street from it had turned into a sour paste in my mouth.

  I made the mistake of looking in the mirror as I rinsed my hands and put the toothbrush back in its holder. The face there looked back at me accusingly. You’re chicken-shit, it seemed to be saying. You gave up without even trying.

  I stared back.

  Yes, I have. I hadn’t even listened a second time. How did I know I couldn’t do the transcription? Was this my big break? Would working with Helen Robins open new doors for me? Even just studying her music could help me. And above all that, I could get to know the woman I’d been admiring.

  I balanced the opportunities against
the risks.

  Oh, what the hell, I thought, what did I have to lose? I might even learn something.

  * * *

  The two weeks after the concert were very strange. Without really talking about why or what was happening, Ann left the bedroom we’d shared on the second floor of our apartment in the South End and turned the den into her bedroom. We were still talking as friends, but we both made it a point not to mention anything personal, and Ann was staying away from home many more evenings than she usually did. I heard her come in very late several times without dropping by my room to say good night. Many times, she didn’t come home until I was getting ready for work the next morning. I knew she was dating someone else, but I never asked who. I didn’t want to know.

  I guess I was too busy to actually think about it. Once I’d made the decision to try the transcriptions, I poured every waking moment into it. I’d listen to a few measures, write what I thought I heard, play it on the piano, listen again, and make corrections, then listen to some more. Many times, I had to listen again and again to make sure I had it correctly. I walked around in a daze, feeling as if my ears were bleeding. I became obsessed with the project and even raced home between classes and rehearsals to work some more. I missed meals and was functioning on about four hours of sleep.

  I hoped it would be worth it. The one thing that kept me going was that thought of Helen smiling at me. So I kept at it and finally had the five-minute segment from the tape down on paper.

  I couldn’t put it off any more, so with a prayer and my fingers crossed, I dialed the number on the stationary.

  A young voice answered the phone. I introduced myself and asked to speak to Helen. I could hear the sound of a hand covering the phone and the mumble of voices. Before I could take a breath, Helen’s beautiful voice was on the other end. My heart stopped. I was actually talking to Helen Robins, the Helen Robins, on my very own phone.