by Vic Tyler
I could still see her big, brown eyes framed by her long, black lashes to the rosy blush in her cheeks and her heart–shaped face framed by tendrils of her midnight curls. The soft curves of her neck and her shoulders and the contours of her smooth skin disappearing into that creamy dress. I could still hear her soft, tinkling laugh and the confident way she spoke, with brazen honesty and unapologetic insight. The faint aroma of rosewater on her skin, tinged with the Syrah we’d shared, still doused my lungs. The heat from her body still lingered warmly on my skin.
And as beautiful as she was, igniting all my senses on fire, she was equally charming, intriguing, sharp, witty, and kind. Before long, my head jumped before my heart, eager to hear her speak and see what other amusing stories and insights she had to share.
Like I had told her in the beginning, I was right. I really could not have enjoyed the company more.
But what really kept me awake, yanking me back from any possible drift of rest was what happened at the end of the night. The look on Michele’s face right before she turned and left haunted me.
At first, her expression had been full of… hope? Expectation? It just about made me forget everything and want to reassure her. I wanted to tell her that I would stay or that I’d be back as soon as I could.
I’d never felt so conflicted, each thought and urge hitting me at once.
The adrenaline rushing through my body to grab her hand, to wrap her in an embrace, to close the distance and finally kiss those ruby red lips that smiled at me all night. To let the words that had been on the tip of my tongue fly loose.
‘Wait.’
‘Don’t go.’
‘Stay with me.’
‘I’m crazy about you. I have been since the first time I saw you.’
But cold rationality froze me in place, barricading the words in my throat and barring my body from moving. I barely knew her. We had been in each other’s vicinities for less than seven hours. We had talked for less than four. Just because I’d just about obsessively researched her for nearly the past year didn’t mean I had any grounds for a relationship. If anything, it unnerved me far more than it might creep her out.
What was I hoping to accomplish? Was I really going to let infatuation keep me in New York when I had a job to do? Keep me away from my obligations, my projects, my music?
Sensibility coolly reined me back. Let her leave, say goodbye, don’t take this further when I knew I was leaving only hours later. I didn’t even know when I’d be returning to New York.
With each passing second that I internally struggled with my decision, Michele’s expression gradually fell as though she were slowly waking to a horrible reality. The blatant hurt in her face destroyed any logical, functioning excuse I built to explain why I was leaving. My heart ached, and my stomach twisted painfully. Disappointment had never hit me so hard before.
Looking at the numbered plaque on the door, I glanced down at the piece of paper with the scribbled address on it. I’d already memorized it. From the very second I had heard Jorge’s words on the phone and I scrawled it frantically on the hotel stationary. And with my nerves on edge, my eyes had dropped down to it every few minutes on my way here, just to double check. Just to make sure.
Michele Deveraux’s apartment.
My hands itched with the urge to knock. My feet fidgeted with the impulse to run.
I already ran away from her once yesterday.
For nearly the last year, both of us were nowhere close to one another. She was all over the country for her publicity showings, and I was all over the world for my performances. I’d desperately checked for any possibility where we could meet.
And then, finally, the New York Philharmonic Spring Gala. There had been other events that my peers and mentors had urged me to attend instead of this one, but with some casual prodding to Jorge, I found out Michele was expected to be in attendance, so I declined every other showing just so I could come back to New York.
The moment I saw her enter Avery Fisher Hall yesterday, my heart had soared. It took me some pacing back and forth until I gained the courage to introduce myself to her. It wouldn’t have been odd. After all, with her newfound celebrity status, I was sure that people approached her for one reason or another. When I finally came next to her, by some dumb stroke of luck, a drunken guest practically pushed her into my arms.
I had frozen in disbelief, my insides melting in overdrive as I tried registering what just happened. Then she turned to look at me, and all the confused turmoil in my body washed out. My mind went blank. All I could see was her.
I didn’t even know how long I just stood there, grasping her tightly to me, studying her. My eyes traced her lips, the desire to press mine against them overwhelming me. And as though I’m allergic to any strong emotional sensation, my surroundings whooshed back into reality.
My heart pounded furiously, and my skin went clammy as I realized how close we were. I lost all my nerve to talk to her, suddenly needing air and space to try to regain my thoughts, my senses, my sanity. There was no telling what I’d say or do if I stayed.
So I walked away.
And for the rest of the night, I couldn’t keep my thoughts off her. At one point shortly after my encounter with Michele, the Philharmonic’s executive director was talking to me about potential fundraising opportunities when he casually mentioned that Michele kept looking our way. He enthusiastically launched into praises about her amazing singing and her debut across the plaza at the Met and was about to call her over when I stopped him, desperately trying to change the subject before he had the opportunity to invite her.
Panic had shot through me, practically radiating off of me. Why would she be looking this way? Had I frightened her? Was she agitated by the way I held onto her? Suspicious about the way my eyes practically devoured her? I couldn’t imagine any of that being pleasant coming from a stranger.
But after the concert, Michele had seemed more than receptive to speak with me. My relief was unparalleled. I hadn’t scared her away.
Although I couldn’t say the same about what might happen if she saw me standing in front of her apartment door when I was supposed to be leaving to go across the country.
Shuffling off to the side, I slid down the wall next to her door until I was hunched over, collapsing into myself. I’d already been standing out here for fifteen minutes. Each time I worked myself up to knock on her door, my conviction immediately dissolved into confused doubt the next second.
I groaned, banging my head against the wall in frustration.
What. The. Hell. Was. I. Doing.
A faint metallic click came from behind the wall.
Shit.
Her head poked out, glancing around before looking down and fixing on me in disbelief.
“Peter?” she gasped.
I scrambled to my feet and stared at her, lost for words. She had been devastatingly gorgeous last night in her full smokey makeup, strapless cream gown, and those long white gloves running up her arms. Now, her face was bare, and she was wearing a modest sweater and cotton shorts, baring long, smooth, peachy legs. And she was still devastatingly gorgeous.
“Michele,” was all I managed to get out.
Her eyes scanned me from head to toe. Then she leaned out to look behind me, turning to look at the whole hallway like other people were hiding somewhere.
“What are you doing here? What about your flight?” She frowned.
“It left,” I said, nervously raking my hand through my hair.
Even though I’d been ruminating about this all night, I was still at a loss for words.
“Did something happen?” she asked cautiously.
You. You happened.
I thought about all the things I could’ve said yesterday. And all the things I scripted before coming here. But none of those words seemed right. I took a breath and spoke what was on my mind.
“I couldn’t leave without seeing you again.”
She froze, her wide, incre
dulous eyes searching mine.
“Peter,” she breathed, her pink lips parting so invitingly.
“I called,” I said hastily. “Earlier. But you didn’t pick up. I begged Jorge to tell me where I could find you.” I scowled, remembering the glee in his smug voice as he toyed with me for fifteen minutes. “I’m sorry this is so sudden. I didn’t expect for him to give me your home address.”
She scowled too. “I’m going to hole punch his feet.”
“What?”
“Nothing,” she sighed as her head dropped. She glanced up at me. “I guess I’ll forgive him this time since it’s you.”
A burst of hope flooded my veins, warming me down to my fingers and toes.
“Are you busy?” I asked, my heart racing.
She bit her plump lip, and I suppressed the urge to reach out and touch it.
“Right now? Umm —”
“No,” I interrupted. “Over the next week.”
She gave a light, nervous giggle which faded when she saw I was serious.
“You’re staying for a week?” she asked, incredulously. “What about your work?”
I shifted uncomfortably. The same concern had been gnawing at me all morning.
“I readjusted my schedule,” I lied.
Not a lie, I reminded myself. Just a premature statement.
Michele’s face was frozen with a stunned look, and my heart sank with dread. Was I too forward? Was this all moving too fast? Was she freaked out?
“Hold on,” she mumbled.
Her head disappeared back into her apartment. Before the onset of shock and disappointment could set in, I heard loud thuds and crashes followed by groans and muttered ‘oww’s.
It was only seconds later that she flew out the door, her hair disheveled and a bruise forming on her shin.
“Five o’clock,” she said breathlessly. “I’m free at five today.”
Inexplicable happiness exploded inside of me, and my mouth stretched into a wide smile that threatened to make my cheeks sore.
“And for the rest of the week,” she added before biting her lip again. “Err, not quite, but I’ll… readjust my schedule.”
We stood mere inches from each, looking nervously at each other. She was so close I could smell her citrus shampoo. It suited her. Tangy and sweet. I was sorely tempted to reach out and squeeze her in my arms, feel her warm, lithe body against mine. But I already randomly appeared at her doorstep, practically demanding to spend time with her. I didn’t want to move too fast. I wanted to treasure every small step with her.
“Have dinner with me,” I blurted out. Heat flooded my face. “Tonight.”
She smiled, nodding her head. “Pick me up at seven.”
“Yes,” I breathed. I cleared my throat. “I’ll, uh, wait downstairs this time.”
Michele giggled. “Sure.”
We awkwardly shuffled. Handshake? Hug? Oh, god. What the hell was protocol for this sort of thing?
In the end, we just waved goodbye, and I made my way back to the elevator, glancing back every so often to find her watching me leave with a smile on her face.
As soon as the cool air outside hit my face, excitement unleashed throughout my body, all traces of exhaustion disappearing.
I ran a hand through my hair, looking down to try to contain the joy bursting out of me. My cheeks were starting to get sore from the huge smile splitting my face, but it wouldn’t go away. New York passerbys gave odd sidelong glances at the uncharacteristic friendliness polluting their streets.
Consequences of my impulses be damned. Whatever happened after this, I’d deal with it then.
There was no doubt in my mind. This had been the right thing to do.
She was worth it.
chapter four
These Foolish Things (Remind Me of You) – Billie Holiday
I spent the rest of the day making good on my premature statement that my schedule was free for the next week. The music director at the Los Angeles Philharmonic was stunned when I told him I needed a few extra days and that I would be there in a week’s time.
For some reason, he assumed the worst and urged me to take as much time as I needed before the actual performance date. It seemed a little too out of place to tell him that, actually, the most wonderful thing in my life had happened and that was why I needed to stay in New York.
As time inched closer to seven, I paced the floor, nervously sorting through my luggage. I hadn’t expected to stay longer than a few days, which was apparent by the limited wardrobe selection in my suitcase. Michele was no stranger to the finer things, and if she was indeed anything like Jorge mentioned, she’d probably enjoy the establishments that people of high society oft visited.
I generally avoided them, even taking my leave early from the formal dinners and receptions that came with performing. Last night was the first time I stayed so late at one of those functions of my own accord, and to my own surprise, I hadn’t wanted to leave at the end of the night.
As long as Michele was my companion, I could go anywhere. I’d endure the stiff shoes and the tuxedos, the heavy stainless silverware, the constant clinking of wine and champagne glasses, the boring pretentious conversations of people who are only acquainted for the night. I’d do it all if it meant she’d be by my side.
In my nervous anticipation, I arrived at Michele’s apartment building at 6:30 PM, pacing in front of the door in my suit. Right at 6:50 PM, she came downstairs wrapped in a long, warm coat, her dark hair neatly tucked into an updo. Her lips were the same tempting shade of ruby red as the night before.
“Wow,” I breathed, unable to wipe off the stupid grin that’d been plaguing my face all day.
Her cheeks were flushed with a rosy hue from the cold and reddened ever so slightly. Her chin dipped as she gave a flattered smile, even though she probably heard better compliments all the time.
“So where are we going?” she asked as I opened the door to my rental car, holding it out for her.
I flashed a secretive look. “To see a sea of stars.”
Michele raised her eyebrow. I knew she was dying to ask, the curiosity prodding at her. And yet the fact that she didn’t made me smile.
As I learned yesterday, she was a highly impatient person. But she had an incredible amount of restraint, and impressively, she was equally terrible at hiding it. She was one of those people who loved surprises but hated knowing of their existence.
I got in the car and drove to Rockefeller Center, handed the keys to the valet, and we took the elevator up to the top of the building.
Michele and I walked through the regal oak doors of The Rainbow Room, a restaurant on the sixty–fifth floor that overlooked New York City’s landscape. We stood at the edge of the wide but cozy circular space, tables lining the periphery next to windows that spanned from floor to ceiling.
In the center of the room was a circular space, cleared of any tables or feet, with an iconically–intricate patterned wooden floor. Twinkling proudly above it was a grand, crystalline chandelier, basking as the restaurant’s centerpiece and challenging the nightlife of the Big Apple outside the windows. A soft, pink glow of fluorescent light circled the ceiling, casting a rosy hue upon the chime of silverware and hushed conversations.
A waiter guided us through the dimly lit restaurant to a table next to one of the vast windows. People’s heads turned to stare at the beautiful woman I was with, and the room’s volume hiked up as they murmured in admiration and speculation, whispers of her name and Broadway speckling the conversations.
“Wow,” Michele breathed, her eyes widening as she gazed out the crystal–clear window.
At sixty–five floors up, New York was the picture of an urban landscape with rolling hills of buildings as far as the eye can see. Its reputation as The City That Never Sleeps is well–deserved. The sky was pitch–black, lit with a dome of illumination from each of the city’s buildings spotted with sparkling lights, glimmering in the dawning evening. Looking out the window felt
like standing at the cusp of a night sky, stars embedded in the fabric of velvety darkness.
While she soaked in the view, I was immersed with the beauty before me. Michele was dressed in a shimmery silver dress that clung to her curvy frame, her neckline dipping generously and accentuating the soft mounds in her cleavage. A few loose strands of hair at the back of her head curled against her long, smooth neck, guiding my eyes to the exposed skin that stretched all the way down to the small of her back.
She was a deliciously tempting sight, and as we had walked into and through the restaurant, more than one man had kept their gaze on her. Even though many people had been looking at her, I could tell the differences in the appreciative and wondrous looks versus the hungry stripping of their eyes.
She was a walking magnet for any visual creature. My own emotions were in restless strife, trying to identify and combat the unfamiliar feelings this woman ignited inside of me. The tidal rise of possessiveness and anxiety to hide her from everyone’s view versus the animalistic craving to taste the silky peach of her skin and peel off all the shiny fabric clothing the rest of her delectable body.
After the waiter brought a bottle of wine and left with our food order, Michele leaned her elbows into the table, resting her chin on her intertwined hands.
“I must admit I’ve been wondering since last night, and I couldn’t figure out an answer,” she asked, her long, thick lashes framing the alluring sparkle of her dark eyes. “Why did you choose “Habanera” as your performance piece for the Gala? It’s not a complicated piece for the orchestra itself, although your unique composition was fuller and more involved.”
I sipped the dry red wine, letting it seep into my tongue as I thought about how to answer.
“I wanted to hear you sing it,” I said simply. “To my own arrangement.”
Her eyes widened in surprise. “Me?”
“I was under the impression that the Philharmonic had asked you to sing,” I said, looking into the crimson liquid that reminded me of other red things that my lips would rather be touching.
