by KC Enders
I do not need to face Nate after the show I put on. Dancing. Grinding. Sticking my tongue down his throat. For the love of fucks, what was I thinking?
You weren’t, Alex. You absolutely weren’t thinking.
As carefully as I can, I pull Nate’s hand from where it rests on my thigh. He grunts softly and stretches, his muscles bunching into hard peaks and deep valleys. He relaxes and slides his hand under the downy pillow, the pressure pushing his face into a sweet pout.
He’s beautiful. But this wasn’t supposed to happen.
I roll from his bed and tiptoe out of the room. With my head in my hands, I make my way down flights of stairs until the foyer comes into view. I grab my shoes and bag from where I dropped them in the kitchen last night, scoop my sweater from the floor, and slip out the door, thankful that it locks behind me. I shove my feet into my shoes and start my walk of shame.
My apartment isn’t far, but Brooklyn has an entirely different mood this early in the day, and it feels like it takes forever to cover the distance. Or maybe that’s just embarrassment.
At the top of my three-story walk-up, I shove my key into the lock and twist. Relief that the chain isn’t latched washes over me as I push through the door. I grab a glass of water, chugging it down before refilling it and stumbling to my room.
My shoes land in the corner, my bag by the door. I set my glass on the plant stand that serves as a nightstand and fall into bed. It’s not nearly as comfortable as where I woke up.
I cover my face with my hands, scrubbing roughly, smearing whatever makeup might have clung to my eyes after last night. Last night …
Flashes of memories assault me. My failed attempt at making my own cocktail. It wasn’t quite right, so I added bits and splashes until I basically just had a huge glass of whiskey.
The dinner that Nate had delivered—of course, he’d ordered my favorite—and I didn’t eat near enough.
The challenge to have fun. Fun. What’s more fun than an impromptu lap dance? One that’s poorly executed by a drunk and injured ballerina.
There is a special place in hell for when one wants to remain professional with the love of their life, who they cast off to follow their dreams but they’re still stupidly in love with.
I squeeze my eyes shut tightly, my head spinning with leftover alcohol and lust. Because, while I’m sure Nate’s had access to more professional performers while on tour—dancing like porn stars or whatever—the heat in his eyes as he watched me is all I can think about.
My fingers twisted in his hair. His palms gripping my hips, fingers digging into my ass. That kiss.
Not what you were after, Alex, I chastise myself, mentally clapping between the words.
• • •
“Girlfriend, if you don’t get your ass out to the living room, Lauryl is going to mount that man and keep him locked in her room.” Mia stands with her back against my closed door, her eyes bright and excited.
I reach for my phone, coming up empty. “Huh? What … what time is it?” I push myself up to sitting and rake my fingers through my hair. I need to find my phone and face the classical music in the practice studio.
“Four fifteen. What happened to you last night?” The rest of Mia’s words fade into the hazy buzz of panic.
“What?” I practically shriek, stumbling out of my bed. I grab chunks of hair and twist the mess into a braid. The ends, fuzzy and frayed, catch on each other, holding the braid intact for the most part. “I need to get changed and get gone. Fuck, I’m so late,” I groan in a flurry of motion.
“Yeah, that ship’s sailed,” Mia mutters with a laugh.
I whip my shrug and bra off, chucking them to the floor, and pull on fresh ones. I shuck off my skirt and thong, adding them to the pile as Mia waves her hand at me wildly.
“He’s here,” she hisses.
I pause with one foot through my leggings, the other hovering in the air. “He’s here? In our apartment?” I ask, shoving my foot into the charcoal-gray capris. I smooth them over my ass and turn. Eyes wide, heart hammering.
“He looks pissed, Lex. Upset really,” she amends. “But, sweet mother of fucks, he’s hotter in person than I—”
I push past Mia and skid to a stop at the sight of Nate leaning against the wall in our living room. White t-shirt stretched across his chest, peeking out of where his jacket gapes slightly. Black glasses rest on his nose, framing his soft green eyes.
“I’m sorry. I overslept,” I say on a rush. “I know this is one of the nonnegotiables, but I fell asleep before I plugged my phone in …” I scan the small space and look toward where my bag is visible just inside the door to my room. I lunge for the bag, realizing I don’t remember when I saw my phone last. I had it on the walk to Nate’s brownstone, queued music when I danced in his kitchen—or was that his phone?—and then it all goes fuzzy. Did I leave it there in my panicked escape?
“I, uh …”
I turn to face him, wishing more than anything that I didn’t have two overly interested roommates watching us, one practically drooling over Nate.
He pulls my phone from his pocket and holds it out. Offering it to me but not crossing the space between us.
I take one step closer. Two. Electricity crackles, anticipation heavy in the air. As I reach out to take my phone, Nate pulls it closer to him, just out of my reach, drawing me to him.
“I brought it up to my room last night. Charged it with mine while we slept.”
Lauryl gasps, and Mia snickers behind me.
“Thank you.” I reach out again, but Nate doesn’t let go of the navy-and-white-striped case.
Nate hums, “Mmhmm.”
“How did you know where to find me?” I ask.
He rolls his bottom lip between his teeth and pops his left brow high. “Figured I’d see you at the studio.”
“Right.” I shift my weight.
“You didn’t show up,” he says simply.
Still tethered by my phone, I shift again. “I’m sorry—”
“I waited. For over an hour.”
“I know. I’m really sorry. I didn’t have my phone.”
“Because you crept out of my bed before the sun was up.”
Silence hangs, charged and heavy.
“I had to ask the chick at the arts center if she had your address. She takes her job very seriously, by the way, and wouldn’t give me what I asked for.”
My skin tightens at the low timbre of his voice.
“Charles—or Charlie to you—was a different story. He cracked with almost no pressure and gave up your address, so here we are.” Nate finally releases my phone, the weight of it far heavier in my hand.
My shoulders lift and lower with my exhale, and I rotate my head to relieve some tension. The resulting crack, realigning my neck, reverberates through the room and feels absolutely amazing.
Nate does a full-body shudder, cringing at the sound. It was one of the few things about dancing that bothered him. He never flinched at the abuse my feet showed—bruises, blisters, lost toenails. The really gross stuff. It was always joints cracking that got to him. The louder the crack, the worse he reacted.
“Sorry. Still gets to you?” I mumble.
“You have no idea.”
All too quickly, unease builds in me. Not skipping out on our time was a hard limit when we agreed to work together. Awkward and embarrassed and a ball of stress are not feelings I enjoy.
“Did I ruin it?” I ask.
Nate purses his lips and slowly shakes his head. “I’ll give you a pass today. But only because I know you had a rough night.”
Lauryl’s eyes narrow at his implication. “How rude are we? Can I get you a drink, Nate?” she offers.
The differences between Nate’s spacious and private brownstone and the scant thousand feet I share with two other people are glaringly obvious as Lauryl squeezes past Nate, latching on to his arm as she goes.
“Thank you, but no,” he says, moving out of her touch. “I have a meeting with my manager
, so I need to go. Will I see you tomorrow, Alex?” The effect of his brow raised high above those dark frames gives Nate an evil air.
Evil in all the best ways.
“You will. I promise.” I walk him to the door. “Thank you for bringing my phone to me.”
He stares at me, silent, almost brooding. “Not a problem. I just owe you a dance or something, and then we’ll be even.” And with a smirk on his face, Nate backs across the landing before turning and bounding down the stairs.
“And now, you’re going to tell us some bullshit about how you’re not fucking him,” Lauryl’s voice whines behind me.
The door clicks shut as I step into the apartment. I snag a protein bar and a bottle of water and plop down on the couch, tucking my feet up under me. “I’m not,” I say simply.
“Hmm. But he wants to.” Mia burrows into the corner of the couch, her feet extended across the cushions.
The wrapper foil crinkles as I peel it back, replying softly, “Not discussed.”
Mia taps her toes against my knee, waiting for me to meet her gaze. “But you want to,” she says barely above a whisper.
Sincerity softens her eyes, and I just shrug.
Sometimes, no response is a good response.
Lauryl saunters in from the kitchen with a fishbowl-sized glass of wine, claiming, “She already did.” A protest dies on my lips as she mumbles, “And she just pissed that away too. Another shot at fame gone. Bet you’re kicking yourself on that one about now.”
Sometimes, that lack of a response is the best response.
“Could’ve been riding his coattails and his cock if you hadn’t blown him off. Ooh … you have blown him though, right? Is he big? I bet he’s big … probably grooms his garden too. God, I love a smooth man. Slather him up with coconut oil and just slide all over him.”
I shift my gaze to Mia. Her overly round eyes seem to be asking if I’m hearing the same shit she is.
“Wow, Lauryl. That’s just … wow. Beyond rude.”
Lauryl screws her face into an ugly sneer. “What? I’m just saying—”
“Got it. I get what you’re saying. Thanks for the detailed description of the scary place your brain is. I think I could have gone a lifetime without that. Kindly fuck right off.”
And sometimes, a good fuck you is the only response to get the job done.
Mia and I do great as roommates. Mia and Lauryl do fine as roommates. But Lauryl and I, not so much.
Lauryl pushes herself from where she was perched on the arm of a chair and stomps—she stomps like a toddler throwing a fit—to her bedroom and slams the door.
My huffed laugh clashes with Mia’s mothering. “She’ll dig her claws in if you don’t make some kind of a claim on him.”
“Don’t kid yourself. She’ll dig in regardless, and he’s not mine to claim. We’re just helping each other out.”
“But you want to,” she repeats, enunciating each word for emphasis.
I stare at the door for a minute, as if Nate were still right there. His words ring in my head—a little bit bossy, maybe a touch dirty or possessive.
“I very much do.”
11
A DAY TO REMEMBER
NATE
“Tell me again why we didn’t just go up to Gavin’s place? Do this shit in his studio?” Ian asks from behind his practice pads.
I get it. He prefers playing on his full kit as opposed to the slimmed-down, stripped-down drumming pads. But for the first time on a touring break, I have something to do. Somewhere to be and someone I don’t want to miss out on seeing.
“You heard Rand last night. We need to start running at the next set of songs. He wants us in LA, working with Danny. And the next month or so is going to disappear if we don’t get our shit straight.”
He bobs his head as he messes with his lip ring, flicking it back and forth with his tongue. “Sure. ’Kay. Then, why are we doing this so fucking early?” He lifts his insulated cup to his lips and chugs back the rest of his ridiculously fussy coffee. Not fussy in the sugary-sweet and frou-frou sense, but the method in which he brews it—the ritual behind his caffeine jolt.
“It’s almost noon,” I mumble as I play with lyrics in my notebook. I don’t normally try to write songs, but Rand said we need to shake things up. That Gavin’s too happy in his domestic bliss to write heartache and angsty hits. “And I have shit to do this afternoon.”
“How’s that going?”
“For who?”
A low chuckle grunts from him. “Either of you. Both of you. You gettin’ anywhere?”
I drop my pen and notebook to the floor and lean back in the leather club chair. “She’s improved a lot. Her strength is unreal. And her determination? It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen, even when we were younger, man. She’s so fucking driven.” I pluck at my bass, lyrics swirling in the back of my mind.
“Driving you fucking mad, is what she’s doing.”
Footsteps pound up the stairs, the rattle of bottles clanking against each other, announcing Gavin well before he busts through the door. “Who’s driving you crazy, Nathaniel?”
I accept a bottle and uncap it, letting the cold, hoppy brew slide down my throat in lieu of answering him.
“Alex.” Ian mumbles, “Thanks,” as he trades his coffee for a beer and pops the top.
Gavin grabs one of the guitars hanging on my wall and falls into the club chair facing mine. “Alex who?” He twists his hair at the back of his head, securing it in place as he looks back and forth between Ian and me.
More than happy to not discuss shit I’m not sure I want to even think about, I lift my bottle to my lips and roll my eyes to Ian.
Knees bouncing—caffeine or gossip-fueled excitement, I don’t know—Ian spills the tea. “Thompson, from home. She’s still up here, right? Dancing with the ballet, and she fucked up her foot. Turns out, she’s close by—like, really close by—and they know some dude who hooked them up to practice, but they didn’t know who they’d be working with, and now, they meet up for a session every day for a couple of hours. I mean, every time I call our boy or text him to go out with me and grab some drinks or food, it’s all, ‘I’m working,’ or, ‘I’m meeting Alex.’ Fucking constantly, man. And has he invited me along even once? Just one time to say hey to my friend? No, he has not. Nate is being a selfish bastard.”
I’m actually stupid kinds of impressed with his inefficiency of words. With as reserved as he normally is, Ian seems super fucking giddy to talk about my shit.
Gavin turns to face me, eyes wide, brows high. “No shit?”
I just shrug because, honestly, what more can I add to Ian’s monologue?
“How’d this happen?” he asks, handing me another bottle of beer.
I set it, unopened, on the floor next to my chair and tilt my head back. “Charles asked a favor of me, suggested it could be mutually beneficial to help calm my mind and rehab my hand after the shit with Kane.”
Gavin stares at me until I drop my head and face him fully. “Is it working?”
“Maybe.” I give a half-assed shrug, not wanting to waste time talking about Kane. And maybe that’s part of my problem. If I got it out, talked shit through instead of pushing it down so hard, I might be able to deal with him better.
“You work through your shit with her?” He tunes the guitar and waits for Ian to start tapping a beat.
I nod along to Ian’s contribution and start plucking at my strings, laying in a bass line. A few adjustments as we repeat the measures, and I almost hear how the lyrics I was just messing with might fit. Maybe. Just maybe.
Attempting to write a song puts me way far outside my comfort zone. Beer might not be the right lube for that mental exercise, and it’s way too fucking early in the day for whiskey.
“This is good. I like it.” Gavin layers in guitar, my amps are turned way low so we don’t piss off the neighbors. “You got lyrics or …”
Today’s shitshow is brought to you by the word … “May
be.”
“Bullshit. Maybe, my ass.” Ian pounds out, each word punctuated by a drumbeat. “He’s got his pretty pink unicorn notebook of love and angst right there. Been scribbling all his secrets since I got here. And, no, he hasn’t worked shit out with Alex.”
“Hit me with what you got,” Gavin prods, ignoring the Alex situation in lieu of the hint of a song.
Grumbling does me no good in getting out of this, so I start murmuring lyrics—thoughts, nothing more.
“You stole my air. You stopped my heart and cast me off. There’s nothing to see. Nothing but me trying to breathe life into the corpse of broken love.”
My voice is merely dust and gravel compared to Gavin’s. Even worse when up against Kane’s. And as much as that bastard drives me batshit, I can almost hear the spin he’d put on it. The pitch, the dip, the shine—all of it.
We work for a couple of hours, hammering out lyrics, tightening up chords and bridges. By the time we’re done, our beer is long gone, and empty takeout boxes litter the floor.
“Damn, bitch. That is—” Ian stops mid-sentence and swipes at his phone for the thousandth time today.
We wait, but when it’s obvious that Ian’s not going to finish his thought, I pop the plug from my bass and stand to hang it on the wall.
Gavin does the same. He jerks his chin tightly, and I follow him out to the landing. We descend to the main floor, putting Ian well out of earshot.
“What’s with that?”
“Ian? No idea. I haven’t seen much of him lately,” I say, kicking the folded corner of the area rug flat. When I think back to the few times we’ve talked, he’s been pissy, kind of irritated and distant.
Gavin scrubs his hands over his face and then blows out a breath, frustration, worry—I’m not sure which—evident in the way he holds himself. “I have to get back upstate. Got a thing with Gracyn, so I can’t babysit him. Can you work on him tonight? See what’s up his ass?”
I nod. “Yeah, after I’m done with Alex.”
Jesus, I would like to just fucking get started with Alex. Enjoy the process and then be done with her. After doing her a handful of times or more.
Gavin huffs, a smirk hitching up the side of his face. “Yeah. Don’t think you’re getting out of unpacking that shit, man. I just don’t have time for whatever’s going on with you assholes here in the city.” He points up the stairs and adds, “That shit ain’t right though. Never seen him like that. Distracted and then talking a mile a minute. Anything other than chill and mellow is not our dude.”
