by Vic Tyler
Staring as he continued to speak with his small entourage of guests, my eyes scanned him from the top of his head to his shiny dress shoes, trying to find something off about him. Anything. But physically, he was fine.
I took another leisurely look at his handsome features and the firm, taut outline of his masculine body. Yes. He was very fine.
Besides, he was much too well–liked and seemed highly regarded within the audience here tonight, and he never so much as touched a hair on anyone else.
Then, my mind argued, perhaps he’s a rabid, obsessed, stalker fan of mine. After all, the number of disturbing letters and messages after my rise to fame was only increasing at an alarming rate.
And yet, Peter Lennox didn’t look my way even once after our meeting. Not even an accidental glance or during an absentminded search of the room.
I would know.
It was like a riddle he left behind. One that made no sense and had no clues.
It nagged my brain, making me itch with impatience and burning curiosity. I always hated riddles. Really, what was so wrong with having a straightforward answer?
“Want me to introduce you to him?” Jorge’s voice broke through my thoughts.
He stood next to me, smirking as he watched me watch Peter.
My teeth gnawed on the inside of my cheek, as I resisted the urge to bite my lip. After all, the night had only just begun, and I didn’t need my teeth stained with red lipstick.
It was tempting. If Jorge introduced us, maybe I could tease out the answer. Maybe I could even ask him outright.
But introduce me? To him?
The thought was a sobering nudge to my suddenly bruised pride.
Straightening my back and lifting my chin, I replied, “No, he should be the one you’re introducing to me.”
I snapped around on my heels and walked away. Suddenly, both those men felt too close for comfort. How had I inched my way over here when I was at the opposite end of the room not even half an hour ago?
It felt like there wasn’t enough distance between Jorge and me. Between Peter and me. Since the two of them were familiarly acquainted, it was too risky. The more I looked at Peter and questioned our interaction, the more I was tempted to ask Jorge about him, maybe even ask our mutual friend to strike up a conversation that I could slip into.
But that would be unbecoming of me. Men chased me, not the other way around. There was no man whose attention was worth groveling after.
No matter how intriguing I found him.
chapter two
Fall into Me – Brantley Gilbert
T he hall gradually quieted as the loud voice of the usher announced the doors were opening. The vast space started to empty as everyone funneled towards the grand double doors of the auditorium.
“Michele, over here!”
My best friend and her husband, Teresa and James Hill, stood to the side of the crowd as they waved me over. We walked in together to find our seats, slipping between the crowds of people slowly filling the velvety chairs spanning the huge theater.
As I took my seat near the front, my stomach fluttered with excitement. I sank into the soft, plush seat as I admired the auditorium.
The bright white lights above us shined down, illuminating the black chairs and music stands cleanly organized in rippling semicircles across the massive stage. The warm brown wooden paneling surrounding the stage framed the theater, each panel elegantly offset to reflect the full sounds of the music back to the audience. The buzzing murmur of the people sitting behind me only built my anticipation for the performance that was to come.
Even though this was a job, a requirement of my career, I loved every part of it. Sure, the parties, the dresses, the endless bottles of wine and champagne were divine. All the glitz, glam, and fashion were intoxicating.
But the music. It was the bread and butter of my life. That was the one thing that never changed. The power that music held to sway you to joy, sorrow, anger, relief, grief, and even to emotions you never knew you were capable of feeling. The stories in the melody, enhanced by the artistry of the lyrics, and each instrument contributing their voice to build a powerful piece that filled your ears and shook you down to your bones. It was the ultimate artform.
The buzz of voices dimmed along with the house lights, and the stage lights blared brightly, illuminating the black–suited orchestra members filing in and taking their seats on the wide stage.
The hall went silent, as the Philharmonic’s music director lifted his baton and all the instruments uniformly raised in preparation. With one swish of his baton, they dove into song. Even the very first sound made my chest swell and my eyes brim with delight.
Each and every piece was beautifully and masterfully played, the swells and dips of the divine music filling me from my ears down to my toes. I’d never heard anything so beautiful. It was the pinnacle of perfection. There was no way it could get better than this.
When the penultimate song finally ended, the music director bowed and walked off the stage.
Peter Lennox stepped out, the lights illuminating his handsome features, lightening his dark hair, and sliding off the sheen of his tuxedo lapel. Next to him was Andrea Botticelli.
I swallowed a scoff, coughing at the choked expulsion of air in my lungs.
Andrea waltzed across the stage, sparkling in her rhinestoned cherry red gown. Her shoulders swayed in large circles with the pouf of her dress dragging, like she was fighting to walk upstream against a violent rush of water. It was so distastefully loud and inappropriate for a black tie event, and I fought back a groan. She rivaled Jorge in the magnitude of her attention–grabbing but fell short of the tactful quality and natural showmanship of the art.
Andrea snatched Peter’s hand, grasping it tightly as they bowed and curtsied their introduction. My heart leapt into my mouth, ready to throw punches, and my eyes narrowed at the sight. His face had the same charming and polite smile as he regarded the audience, but his lip twitched downward ever so slightly.
With everyone was facing forward, I openly rolled my eyes and scowled since no one could see and judge me. Or so I thought until I looked up and saw Peter’s eyes dart down and lock onto mine for the briefest moment before turning back up to the crowd. His smile tightened as he held back a quiet chuckle, his chest shaking imperceptibly.
Maybe.
Dear lord, the man had been on my mind all night. Maybe I was just imagining it and hoping for a sliver of his attention. The back of my neck warmed uncomfortably, crawling up to my face, and I used my hand to fan myself, both flustered and distressed by the possibility.
While the thought that he paid me special attention made my heart race, if it was actually just the product of my imagination… Well, I really didn’t want to fall into the stereotype of a diva going mad.
Andrea sashayed to the empty space right next to the conductor’s stand as Peter took his place. There wasn’t the tiniest sound or cough in the auditorium as Peter raised his hand and held the silence with the motionless point of his baton.
Then he started.
I drew a sharp breath. The tempo steadily picked up, taking my heartbeat along for the ride.
“Habanera” from Carmen. It was a song so familiar to me.
My brows furrowed inadvertently as the thought crossed my mind that it sounded… off.
The music sounded so unfamiliar.
Each note was played just slightly wrong. And yet the song felt so right.
Certain notes were held a fraction too long or a fraction too short, and then there were the big changes in the arrangement. Various sounds and instruments layered on when they should’ve rested, and everything coming together in one overpowering piece. The orchestra outright challenged but also harmonized with Andrea’s singing as though it were its own sentient being.
The song was completely different from the all the times I heard it played in the orchestra pit during the performances when I first debuted as Frasquita. The sound clashed with the memories of when
I sang it in one of the empty practice rooms, dreaming of when I’d one day play the title role.
This “Habanera” almost sounded like a completely different song. It was infinitely more intense and dark with an underlying… je ne sais quoi that even Andrea got across. Allow me to clarify – she didn’t nail it, but I would begrudgingly acknowledge her performance.
The explosion and sweep of sound resonated throughout the auditorium, and then the little mystery feeling of the song’s new interpretation crept up on me, slithering across my skin.
The song was supposed to be coy and promising, seductive even. But right now, it was radiating pure, latent lust. The air vibrated with a sexual electricity.
Love is a rebellious bird
That none can tame …
The one talks well, the other is silent,
And it's the other that I prefer
He said nothing, but he pleases me
It was such a strange song choice for the gala. Why, Peter Lennox? What were you hoping to display? To whom?
At the tightening of my chest, I inhaled sharply, suddenly doubting my ears. But no, I wasn’t wrong. This wasn’t a song to be played in front of an audience. This was a soundtrack to raw, carnal fucking. There was no seduction or making love. This was desperate, passionate, wild, and unrestrained.
If the heat pooling in my lower belly was any indication of how the rest of the audience felt, everyone would be going home and expecting babies in nine months time.
My eyes were glued to the handsome conductor’s broad, strong back rising and falling with each dip and swish of the baton. The discrepancy of the primal, heated music and the pristine orchestral set in their silky attire was jarring.
A jolt of excitement shot through my body to the emptiness between my thighs that I was increasingly growing aware of. The music played the soundtrack to my desire, fueling my hungry gaze on the man on stage. Was he as capable of pleasing a woman between her legs as he did from ear to ear?
A low moan escaped my lips before I could stop it, and I froze, clamping my mouth shut. My pulse pounded in my ears. But no one around me turned around or stiffened or reacted at all. I snuck a glance to my neighbors on either side, but their eyes were glazed as they too were completely absorbed in the performance on stage.
And then in one instant, the unthinkable happened.
The song was nearing the end. I knew the singer had to end it by holding a long note, flourished with a beautiful vibrato. Andrea had started off decently well. But for some reason, her voice shook.
The sound was warbling. A tremolo. A mistake that immediately shattered the spell in the room.
A gasp caught in my throat. Although most people may not be able to put their finger on what was happening – maybe a nagging feeling that something was off about the unpleasant, uncomfortable quality – anyone intimately familiar with music would be able to pinpoint the messy lapse in technique.
Her eyes widened into perfect circles, knowing she’d be unable to stop the sound. But as soon as the warble escaped her mouth, Peter immediately motioned for her to stop, clamping his fist towards her. Andrea froze, her voice cutting steeply into straight silence.
His hands dipped and flicked, speaking a private language that only the people on stage could respond to. Each section rose back to life, exploding with one last dramatic blast. Just as quickly as he stopped her, Peter glanced back to Andrea, nodding before his baton invited her back in. And she did, with more vigor than before, and the song hit an intensely huge end.
Everything happened in a split second, and before most people could figure out what happened, the song was finished. The concert ended with a bang, and there was a deafening standing ovation with whistles and usually unacceptable whooping and hollering from the crowd.
I was stunned. For anyone who didn’t know any better, it just could’ve been a new, modern interpretation of the ending to Georges Bizet’s “Habanera” from the opera Carmen. But for everyone else, the awe was directed towards the masterful conductor. The true star of the performance. Suddenly, all of Jorge’s praise made sense.
“Michele,” Teresa said, nudging me with her knee.
Everyone was standing up except for me. I was frozen to my seat, my eyes glued to the man elevated on the conductor’s stand.
Amazing.
I knew I’d be boiling in jealousy once the shock wore off, wishing that I could’ve been on that stage instead. But all I could feel in that moment was reverence. Admiration. Wonder. Desire.
Echoes for an encore rang throughout the theater that I was tempted to join. But Peter stepped off the stand with finality, his cheeks lightly flushed and glowing as he bowed and gingerly offered his hand to Andrea, whose face was still pale, her lips trembling with relief.
With encouragement from the audience, he took another bow, bending at the waist. And his eyes dipped back down to me. I held my breath as I stared back.
No, I wasn’t imagining it.
His eyebrow cocked up the slightest bit as though questioning, and his smile widened. And just as quickly as it happened, he straightened back up and made his exit.
The deafening roar of applause soon died down as the everyone on stage stood up and marched off stage in stride. Teresa tugged on my arm, pulling me from my daze.
“Let’s head upstairs and get a table,” she said.
Right. The post–concert dinner.
I jumped to my feet, startling Teresa. My heart was racing, my blood swimming laps throughout my body.
Would I be able to find Peter and ask him to sit with me?
Damn it all, I needed to meet him.
That song. That performance. How could I pass the opportunity to meet such an artist? The way he saw the music, heard it, and brought it to life. I needed to know. I needed to talk to him.
For some reason, I felt it deep in my soul. This was going to change the rest of my life. I just didn’t know how.
But how was I going to meet him?
I whipped around, scanning the crowd.
Jorge.
But my tall, black–haired, buoyant Chilean was nowhere in sight.
He said they were friends. Would he still introduce me to Peter? He could laugh and snicker as much as he wanted. Right now, I’d beg him for the opportunity.
After all, he was right. I was a downright fool for not knowing Peter’s name before. Peter Lennox. My mouth wrapped his name around my tongue over and over again, even though I wasn’t ever going to forget it.
I had gotten so wrapped up with my own work, drunk off the attention and more pleased with myself than I should’ve been, basking in the glitzy perks that accompanied fame. For someone just out of her debut, I had been impertinent. There was so much to learn, and I already felt the eagerness bubbling deep in my core to practice and train.
Today, for whatever reason, Andrea was chosen to sing at tonight’s gala. And for the first time since I heard the news, I was okay with that.
Because sorry to say, she wouldn’t ever get another chance. Every opportunity from here on out will be mine. I will rise straight to the top. I will be the best. No one else will claim that stage or any stage for that matter. My singing will be unprecedented and unrivaled. There is only one name that people will consider from here on out: Michele Deveraux.
Teresa and James trailed along as I jumped up the stairs, two at a time, in my stilettos to the Grand Promenade. As soon as my foot hit the top step, my eyes skimmed the faces and figures of each guest for the familiar countenance of my confidante or his friend whom I was dying to meet. In all the time I’d known him, I’d never been more eager to see Jorge.
Round tables were grandly set with intricate floral centerpieces, and shiny, polished silverware littered the darkened surfaces, the bright candles casting a romantic glow over the white tablecloths. The glass windows shot up from the ground to the ceiling, stretched from wall to wall, displaying a mural of shining stars against the dark, beautiful night sky.
Fina
lly, I spotted Jorge standing by the far wall, away from the tables, as he talked with a few patrons. I sprinted towards him, which must’ve been an unsightly and frantic sight as I teetered and almost stumbled from my floor–length gown getting tangled in my legs. But everyone was still excitedly wrapped up in their discussions of the performances tonight that they hardly noticed me.
When I saw who was standing next to Jorge, I froze in my tracks, a chill frosting over my body.
Peter Lennox was standing straight ahead of me, looking calm and cool as though he hadn’t been on stage just minutes ago. A mental tug–o’–war raged inside of me – the urge to run up to them and the instinct to turn heel and run away were splitting my emotions in opposite directions. Looking flustered and out–of–sorts was not how I wanted him to see me. But I couldn’t risk the chance of losing him to someone else if I turned away now.
The two conductors were speaking to an elderly lady whom I recognized as being one of the loyal patrons here. I slowed my walking speed, taking the time to calm myself down.
Seeing the two of them next to each other was an interesting sight. Jorge wore a splitting grin on his face as he talked and laughed with the spirit of a firecracker, his large body vibrating with energy. I could hear every word that came from his mouth clearly as though he were next to me. And next to him, Peter stood absolutely still, his back straight and tall, with a soft, charming smile on his face, his voice indistinguishable over the low murmur of the crowd in the room.
After a few last words, the elderly lady patted their arms before turning to head back towards the tables. Goosebumps crawled up my spine, and my chest tightened. I shook off my nerves, straightening my back as I approached them.
Stay calm. Keep my cool. I took a deep breath.
“Jorge,” I called out.
Both men turned to look at me as I walked up to them. Jorge greeted me, and Peter’s posture straightened. I don’t know if I imagined it, but his face seemed to soften slightly from the usual smile he wore.
“Our table is over there,” I said, pointing towards the direction I saw Teresa and James go.
