by Vic Tyler
Instead, he was curious for my thoughts and opinions. He brushed aside Michele Deveraux, the star and celebrity, choosing instead to probe into the life of Michele, the singer, the musician, the artist, the woman.
Likewise, I wanted to know everything about him, eagerly asking just about anything that came to mind. We were both greedy in our mutual interest, tugging the conversation to learn more about one another. With each new tidbit I learned, a piece of the mystery that was Peter Lennox seemed like it was resolved, only to reveal two more pieces I was dying to fill the gaps with.
Dinner flew by quickly, plate after plate coming out, only momentarily pausing Peter’s and my conversation. My hunger wasn’t sated by whatever I ate, the food paling in comparison to the delicious way his lips curled into a smile. There was soft music playing in the background, but nothing sounded so sweet as the melodic hum of his voice and the timbre of his laugh, the deepness vibrating from my ears to every inch of my skin.
Long after the plates had been cleared off the tables, Peter and I were still talking and laughing. Our chairs were nearly glued to each other, our knees brushing under the table. In our little bubble of glowing candlelight, I could only see his face, everything and everyone else fading into the darkness around us. We were the only people in the world, time and space stretching infinitely.
“Michele.”
I turned to look at Teresa, who was already standing up with James. Jorge clasped Peter’s shoulder. The hall had emptied, each table deserted, and the few people that stayed lingered at the side, finishing their conversations while already garbed in their coats.
“It’s time to go,” Teresa said, almost apologetically.
James sighed. “Only paid the babysitter ‘til midnight.”
I nodded, my heart sinking as I rose from my chair. We all made our way downstairs and headed to the coat check. The attendant had a weary, plastered smile as he dumped the pile of jackets unceremoniously in front of us. Jorge was quick to grab his, roughly pushing himself into it as he headed straight for the door.
Peter grabbed my coat and held it out for me. I slipped my arms into it, and he gently set it over me. His hands glided on my shoulders, lingering down my arms. He pulled away to wear his own coat, and we all headed outside.
The night chill nipped at my nose and cheeks. Even though it was spring, it was too cold for anything less than a thick coat.
As James hailed down a passing cab, Teresa gave me a hug and told me she’d call tomorrow, pointedly glancing at Peter. Then, she and her husband said their goodbyes before climbing into the taxi to go home.
Jorge, Peter, and I stood together, watching the car leave.
Jorge turned to Peter.
“What time is your flight tomorrow?”
His words hung in the air.
My body temperature dropped rapidly with the icy plunge that harpooned straight through my stomach.
A few moments passed. Peter’s gaze was fixed on Jorge, his face expressionless as he shifted and adjusted his coat.
“Ten in the morning.”
Jorge looked at his watch and grunted, “Plenty of time to sleep and get to the airport.”
Peter didn’t look at me, and I sharply turned away.
It came with the job. We traveled often, domestically and internationally. Planes and hotel rooms were practically the second homes of performers. Even I was heading to Italy next week. It was part of the job, I reminded myself.
But I couldn’t help the disappointment and confusion, gradually feeling stupider by the second. He was leaving tomorrow? Why hadn’t he said anything? Was this all a ruse? A game for him? What had I been expecting?
“Wave down a cab for me, will you, darling?” I said to Jorge, avoiding Peter’s eyes.
I quickly strode next to my long–legged friend, my mind racing and my emotions in a whirlwind of confusion. In no time at all, a yellow taxi pulled over, and Jorge opened the door for me.
I turned to look at Peter one more time. It wouldn’t be the last time we met. I was sure of it. But who knew when? Or where? He was going to leave tomorrow. There was no point in hoping for more.
“It was a pleasure to meet you,” I said, raising my chin and giving him my most charming smile. “I enjoyed your company.”
Peter looked hesitant, his mouth parting as though he wanted to say something.
Even though I knew I shouldn’t, I waited, hoping for something. A word, a twitch, anything. But no sound left his lips. Jorge glanced at Peter and me, shifting uncomfortably from the tension but with a confused furrow to his brow. Seconds passed in silence.
And that was enough of a sign.
I pivoted and ducked my head as I slipped into the back seat. I reminded myself that I had nothing to be upset about. If anything, it reminded me that I needed to guard my heart more carefully.
Sitting with my back straight in the seat, I chanted silently to myself, willing the words to drown the growing devastation I couldn’t explain.
I am Michele Deveraux. New York’s rising star. The operatic singer who would take over the world.
Sure, I was going to need an extra glass or two of wine to unwind myself from the seductive clutches of my entrancing conversation partner tonight. And a few days for my emotions to settle out of this infatuation. But I would survive. There was no need for tears.
Right before Jorge closed the door, Peter’s voice traveled in that deliciously low tone, slipping into the car with me and lingering in my ears long after the door slammed shut, twisting my heart with each repetition.
“Goodbye, Michele.”
chapter three
Crazy Little Thing Called Love – Queen
Ten months earlier
Lunching at Alléchant
“Who is that?”
Jorge raised an eyebrow at me.
“Who?”
After knowing the man for nearly a decade, I found that the secret to keeping Jorge quiet was simple. Speak quietly and slowly, and he followed suit.
My old friend was blessed and cursed with his proclivity to the limelight. He was a natural at being dramatic, which meant he also didn’t realize the mechanics of fine–tuning his abilities to blend into quieter crowds. And with the question I had to ask him, I was lucky that we had been fraternizing in our reunion at the restaurant long enough that he had obliviously slipped into his ‘indoor voice.’
I cocked my head pointedly over his shoulder, my eyes glued to the slender woman following a waiter. She and her companions were being seated at a table down the row from us, far away enough that Jorge and I could cautiously observe and freely speak, especially with the impressive decibels of his ‘inside voice.’
To my surprise, I had recognized one of the men next to her as soon as I saw them gathering in the lobby. He was a seasoned agent by the name of Richard Treble. He’d racked up an impressive resume of successful clients in the music industry that he shot to stardom over decades of being in the business. Last I heard, he had kicked off his retirement in a quaint little house in southern France. Seeing him here in New York was a curious sight.
Fortunately for me, the world of classical musicians was wide but tight. As established conductors with wide berths of contacts, Jorge and I together just about knew everyone. Jorge being more social covered greater ground in that regard. If that woman knew Treble, it seemed likely that Jorge would know her.
Jorge shifted his large body delicately to peer over the back of the chair, an amusingly silly sight resembling a bear masquerading as a mouse.
“Michele?” he asked in a gruff tone, his head turning back to look at me over his shoulder. His eyebrows rose in confusion.
Relief and disbelief swept through me.
A name.
Even though I knew he was either already acquainted with her or likely would be soon, a slight sense of triumph fanfared inside of me. I had been dreading the possibility of having to go dig around on my own if Jorge didn’t know.
“Michele?�
�� I asked casually, reaching for my water glass.
“You mean the one with Treble? Yeah, that’s Michele Deveraux,” he said, sitting properly in his chair again.
“And who is she?”
“She’s a nobody,” Jorge said, shrugging. He raised his eyebrow. “For now.”
“For now?” I repeated after him once again.
“There’s a reason Treble hasn’t kicked the bucket on his career,” he said, glancing back around to look at them. “And she’s it.”
I frowned. “I haven’t heard the name before.”
“You wouldn’t have. She hasn’t appeared in anything notable, but she’s special. She’s got that touch of magic that you like to talk about. I never understood what you meant, thought it was crazy talk. But her? Yeah, I can see it in her, clear as day.”
I rubbed my chin absentmindedly, watching the film noir–esque woman speaking animatedly. Her pointy little nose was proudly raised in the air, and she held unwavering eye contact with the men she spoke to.
It was such a different image of her from when I’d seen her outside in the courtyard only a moment ago – a little silly, a little bossy, but full of energy with a kind, gentle look in her eyes.
The sides of my lips curled up as I watched her gaze combatively at the men across from her, daring them to say something that displeased her.
So this was her game face. Her battle armor. A lot of people might find her attitude impertinent for a ‘nobody.’ But if anything, it only fed into my intrigue for her.
“And you’re familiar with her?” I asked distractedly, watching her dark locks sashay against her small shoulders as she laughed.
Jorge hummed with the eagerness he radiated when he smelled juicy gossip.
“Why do you ask?” His eyes twinkled mischievously.
I shrugged nonchalantly. “You know everybody in the business.”
“That I do,” he said, leaning back in his chair and assessing me over his crossed arms. “But that has nothing to do with why you’re interested in her.”
I fought the urge to fidget in my seat. He could be persistent when he wanted to be.
“I saw her waiting outside, and she caught my eye.”
Jorge raised his brow as though asking whether that was the whole story, but considering the short time I had slipped off to the bathroom, I guess he figured there wasn’t anything worth probing into.
He scratched his thick, black beard, eyeing me closely as he said, “We had dinner together.”
My eyes shot back to him, narrowing. Dinner?
Jorge threw back his head and roared with laughter, the sound exploding over the buzz of the restaurant. I cursed as I ducked my head down, grimacing. There was no controlling that thunderous sound.
His laughter decrescendo–ed, and he rubbed his stomach with contentment.
“Lennox, are you interested in a woman?” He was beyond amused.
I scowled. “Is there something wrong with that?”
“The last time you were so curious in the fairer sex was when you badgered poor, pregnant Professor Jules about her conducting stint at the Royal Concertgebouw,” Jorge chuckled at the memory. “Of course hearing about the most prestigious orchestra in the world gets you off faster than any woman could.”
I grunted, sipping my water again, unable to deny that I had been much more excited to hear about what the Royal Concertgebouw was like than I ever had been about taking a woman out to dinner.
Relationships had never appealed to me. Most women I’d met didn’t understand my dedication to my career. To my music. Eventually they all left, and if anything, I had always felt relieved afterwards. Music never made me choose what was more important in my life. In the end, people come and go, but passion is what sustains you.
“Michele and I are nothing more than friends,” he smirked. “You couldn’t pay me to kiss her, let alone anything else. We met at a function and got along. She’s a riot to be around. Feisty little thing. She wanted to know more about the Met.”
“Opera House?”
He nodded. “She’s a singer. Had an audition for Carmen. She didn’t get the title role, but it was close. She’s too green to be put on the bill outright, but they kept her on as an understudy. The girl playing Frasquita got sick, and Michele’s taking her place.”
“When’s the performance?”
“In a month’s time,” he said, amused. He looked pointedly at me. “But you’ll be in Vienna then.”
The calculations ran through my mind. How much time could I spare? I’d be in Vienna, but the performance was scheduled closer to a month and half away. Which meant I could make a quick trip back. Nevermind the monetary costs. It might be worth seeing her perform if she was as good as Jorge said. I had no reason to doubt his judgment. The issue was always time. There was never enough of it in a day.
I exhaled, running my hand through my hair. I’d make it work somehow. I wanted to see her again, even if it would just be on stage. Maybe especially because she’d be on stage. The curiosity to see what her silky voice could do with a full operatic song gnawed at me.
Jorge’s expression furrowed, and there was a tinge of concern in his next words.
“That woman is a serious pain in the ass, Lennox,” Jorge warned. “A downright vixen. If she makes it to the top, she’ll make one hell of a diva. She already is, despite being a no–name singer.”
Takes one to know one, I suppose.
“No matter,” I said, feeling the edge of my lips curve upwards. “I want her.”
Jorge’s expression was struggling between incredulous and amused.
“Never took you for a Don Juan,” he admitted, chuckling.
I raised a brow, and he looked pointedly at me.
If you asked me, the man across from me gave Don Juan a run for his money. Jorge was a lover of all women. With his dashing good looks and that Latino charm, there was no shortage of women at his beck and call. He claimed he was a connoisseur of the gentler sex, and he had no qualms about taste testing a variety.
While he was unabashedly awed with the international projects and extensive training I juggled, I was honestly baffled with how he managed to be one of the nation’s top conductors what with all the women that rotated in and out of his bed.
“I’m not sure if she’ll be your conquest or you’ll be hers,” Jorge mused.
I sipped my water, still staring at the black pearled beauty I had my eyes on.
Conquest?
The thought made me chuckle, but I didn’t feel like correcting him.
If I was to have her, it wouldn’t be for a fun night in my bed.
The memory of seeing her in the courtyard earlier flashed through my mind. She had more than just piqued my interest. After hearing her voice, I would’ve chased her anyways. But hearing that she was already a part of my world made it all the easier. I already had my doubts about women, but if she truly was everything I thought her to be, then I’d prove Jorge wrong.
Conquest?
Ha.
There was no way you’d be able to fuck a woman like that and leave her in the morning.
Present day
Morning after the Gala
And yet last night, I let her walk away from me.
We had spent one night together, sharing quiet conversation and secretive smiles.
Not a bed, not a kiss.
Not even a single touch – always separated by the thin satin of her dress, the leather of her gloves, the wool of her coat, the air between our lips.
But no matter how much I wanted to feel the peachy softness of her cheeks under my fingertips, I would’ve stayed in that room all night just to hear her voice. Her words had filled me with warmth. I had been bewitched by her bold honesty, her sharp wit, her coy charm, and her passionate insights.
She captivated me.
And now, the the thought of miles being between us, when even a few inches were unbearable, was unfathomable.
I glanced at the clock on the tax
i dashboard.
9:15 AM.
Turning around, I stared blankly out the window, my mind racing while my stomach turned into itself, churning with anxiety and disbelief.
What the hell was I doing?
My plane was leaving in 45 minutes. I was due in Los Angeles in seven hours. The performance with the Los Angeles Philharmonic was in three weeks, and I always arrived early to revise, practice, and refine with the orchestra with sufficient time to spare. There was no such thing as being too careful. There was only prepared and underprepared.
And right now, I was feeling the most underprepared in every aspect of my life for the first time ever.
“We’re here,” the cab driver informed me.
I nodded, handed him the fare, and told him to keep the change. After getting out and closing the door, I stood, planted to the ground and staring up at the sky–rise apartment building.
Seriously. What the hell was I doing?
I rubbed my face, brushing against the light stubble as I gritted my teeth. The joints in my jaw were tense, and the muscles in my face felt tight from all the sleep deprivation–induced adrenaline and cups of caffeine to keep me going.
Last night had been the most grueling night I’d spent in a long time. If ever. It was only a matter of time before exhaustion hit.
Time. So elusive. There was never enough of it.
Before now, if there wasn’t an instrument, score, or pen in my hands, I felt the stream of time slipping between my fingers. It would leave no trace as it disappeared into haunting regret. There was so much I still had left to accomplish, and I never thought anyone – be it man or woman, family or friend – was reason enough to hit the pause button on my goals.
Yet, here I was, standing outside an apartment building in Soho because of a woman I met last night.
I took a deep breath and walked inside.
Michele Deveraux filled my thoughts. I couldn’t manage a single wink of sleep last night as my mind replayed the reel of memories from the gala.
