The Real Fling

by R. Silver

  ______________

  The Real Fling

  R. Silver

  ______________

  Copyright © 2012 by R. Silver

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted by the US Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written consent of the Author.

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

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  “I hear the notes, but I do not hear the music,” roared Victor. My mentor for the past three years, Victor Willis, was considered a piano virtuoso during his prime. Severe arthritis had ended his performance career but his keen understanding of music, virtuosity and technique made him one of the most sought-after teachers of our art. “You lie when you play these notes with perfect technique but no emotion! Tell me the truth about what the music makes you feel. Do the third section from the beginning – like you mean it.”

  How could I show how this specific piece of music made me feel? Every note that rolled out of the seven-foot concert grand sang a painful reminder of the day when my life changed forever. I married Michael when I was twenty-two and he was twenty-eight. Our families were overjoyed. Who could imagine such luck? Two Chinese-Americans meeting, falling in love and getting married. It was the stuff of every Chinese mother’s dreams. He was a budding thoracic surgeon and I had just finished my formal training at Juilliard in piano performance. Maybe it was destined to fail. Maybe we should have been trying to find our own happiness instead of making our families happy.

  We had been married three months and already I had my doubts. “I am on call. I cannot talk to you. Don’t you understand? This is not some silly piano practice. This is heart surgery,” he would rant to me when I asked him why he would not return my calls when he was away at night. Of course, he was overworked. One-hundred-hour-weeks and every third night on call were part of Michael’s training. Night after night when he was not on call and he did not come home to our apartment until the wee hours began to eat away at my trust.

  One of Michael’s professors learned of my musical background and asked us to attend a small cocktail party with the request that I perform for the guests. I cringe to remember how thrilled I was to be finally included in my husband’s world. For days, I practiced and planned the repertoire. Repeatedly, I quizzed Michael on the guests so that I would mention the appropriate topics. Just as I had tried to please my parents by marrying the right husband, I wanted to please my husband by saying the right thing.

  I can still hear the rustling of my dress on the piano bench as I sat and flexed my fingers. The last murmurs of the crowd hushed as I began to play. The Chopin Waltz was one of my favorites and I knew it would charm the audience. As always when I performed, I was in my own personal space that breathed and swayed with the cascade of notes that told volumes more than my words. Suddenly, a feminine laugh shattered my musical bubble. My fingers continued to play the notes as I lifted my gaze. Michael and a fellow doctor laughed together, oblivious of my music and of anyone but themselves. She flipped the blond tresses of her shoulder-length hair as she placed a proprietary hand on his shoulder. Michael gazed at her with a desire I had never seen from him. Years of practice carried me through the rest of the performance and no one knew that I was crumbling from shame and humiliation while gorgeous notes tumbled from the keyboard.

  My tears and questions afterwards were met with a wall of silence from Michael. Finally, Michael spoke with a steely voice, "You are my wife. I will provide you with a home and money. You should know how lucky you are to have me. What I do outside of our home is not your concern. Just think how disappointed your parents would be to know you were a bad wife.”

  For two more years, I never dared to find out if my parents would be disappointed. Every time I confronted Michael about his dalliances, he would remind me of the shame my parents would feel if the marriage failed. A good wife would support her husband and be loyal. I must not have been good enough and, hence, Michael had to look outside our marriage. Michael and I may have grown up in the United States but the traditional strictures and expectations of a Chinese marriage held us in a loveless bond. “If you divorce me now, you’re damaged goods,” Michael scoffed at me when I threatened to leave.

  Outwardly, I continued to live my life. I worked on my music and tried to get a foothold in the performing world. I carefully built a stone-clad wall around my heart to protect myself from the cold stares and dismissive air of my ever-more successful husband. Unfortunately, my music, the one thing that still belonged to just me as an individual, began to suffer. “Ms. Lin’s performance was technically brilliant and just as sterile,” read one review. “When Samantha Lin discovers that music is emotion carried on sound waves, she will transform from technician to musician,” another critic stated.

  One morning, I sat at my piano watching the morning sun dance on the dust motes. I am dying inside, shriveling up, rotting from the inside. I hate him. I hate this life. Nothing is real anymore. My marriage, my music, my life-it is all pretend. I stood up and stared out the window. The sky was a painful crisp blue and the street sounds echoed up to the apartment. The entire world was living and breathing and pulsing and I was standing still. Not anymore. I opened the front door and walked out. I left everything behind-my books, my piano, and Michael. I took the only thing that had any worth-myself.

  Chapter 1

  Slamming my gym locker, I checked the mirror one last time before leaving the locker room. Even at twenty-four years of age, I was surprised when I saw my reflection in the mirror. Slanted eyes, a small nose, high cheekbones, a full mouth and straight jet-black hair matched my name, Samantha Lin. Chinese on the outside, thoroughly American on the inside and always a disconnect between what the world expected of me and what I wanted. At a quarter to seven, I had fifteen minutes to walk to El Bistro. Grateful for the cool evening, I started towards my destination with a brisk walk that masked the unease I felt.

  I could hear my best friend, Claire, telling me, “Trust me. I would not set you up with just anyone. The divorce is behind you and the best thing is to move on." Clearly it had been a moment of weakness for me to agree to a blind date. I swung around the corner and my body smacked full force into a solid wall of biceps and chest. Strong hands grabbed at my waist catching me as I teetered backwards on my three-inch Jimmy Choo heels. His crisp dress shirt could not hide his lean physique and I could smell a delicious mixture of expensive cologne and smoky maleness.

  “Whoa! Slow down. Are you okay?” a deep voice paired with piercing grey eyes asked. Those strong hands pulled me upright and I stood at chin level to this stranger, closer than I had been to any man in eight months. It must have been hunger, coupled with my recent workout, to account for the flip-flop deep in my belly.

  “Umm. Yeah, great. Thanks. Sorry,”
I mumbled. Like an awkward middle school girl, I could hardly lift my gaze to his face - his chiseled, gorgeous, seriously hot face.

  His grip loosened from my waist and caressed my waist as his fingers pulled away. “I usually like to know the name of ladies that I plow over. I’m Trevor, Trevor Morgan." The evening sounds of the city seemed muffled and distant, as if his gravelly voice had muted everything else.

  “Sam. Samantha Lin. Sorry, I was in a rush. Thanks again.” My voice sounded tinny and scratchy. What was wrong with me? I could perform a concerto in front of hundreds and one man could reduce me to a little girl! “Hope our little run-in has not delayed you. The pleasure was all mine, Ms. Lin.” A half-smile tugged at the corner of his mouth and I fought this irrational urge to reach up and touch his curved lips.

  I started to walk away, giving a half wave, since I did not trust my voice. Hardly knowing how I made it to the restaurant, Trevor Morgan's voice reverberated in my mind. The typical eye candy hostess, who was standard at every restaurant on the Upper East Side, escorted me to a table. “Hey, I’m Tom. Perfect timing, I just got here,” said a tall blond man rising from our table. We shook hands and I felt Tom’s warm grasp close over my long fingers with a gentle pressure. Tom and Claire worked in the same advertising agency. Claire was right. She didn't let me down. Tom was charming, well-mannered and a good conversationalist. The evening was lovely but, I let Claire down because every time I blinked or paused all I could see, feel and hear was Trevor Morgan.

  Chapter 2

  I awoke before my alarm clock buzzed. 5:30 AM. Stretching all five feet and four inches of my body, I could not even reach the end of my king-size bed. It had been such an indulgence to purchase the bed and the Egyptian cotton sheets. “You are single now! Why spend so much money on a bed? Better to save for something important,” my mother had scolded me when she visited my apartment for the first time.

  “Mom, I want a nice bed-for me. Not for anyone else. Just me.” It was a perennial argument with my immigrant-mentality mother. “I need to take care of me and do it my way. Not your way. Not Dad’s way. Just leave it and try to be happy for me.”

  “I would be happier if you had never married that Michael. How were we to know he would be such a bad husband? He has a good family; he is a doctor. He tricked us and now no one will ever marry you,” wailed my mother. No point in reminding my mother that she had practically started planning the wedding after the first time Michael and I met. Barely five feet, my mother seemed serene and calm to outsiders. Few knew that she was a human whirlwind who pushed her children to succeed, worked long hours to make her husband’s business a success and rarely accepted disagreement with her traditional beliefs.

  Scrambling out of the bed, I threw on an old sweatshirt and padded into the living room. I could get three hours of practice in before I had to be at the location for the photo shoot. Since leaving my marriage, my music career had blossomed. Elsa Tremaine, my agent, was eager to have me branch out beyond the close world of classical piano in New York City. The photo shoot was the start of a publicity tour for a new album. “Sounds silly to have to go to some weird warehouse to take my photo, Elsa,” I had whined to her last week. “What am I supposed to wear? Some Goth get up with black lipstick? For heaven’s sake, I am a pianist, not a rock star.”

  “Wear jeans and a T-shirt. Don’t worry about the makeup. We have someone to do that for you. Quit being such a pain. Your music is revealing the real Samantha Lin. This photographer is supposed to be awesome at capturing the authentic person in his work. It is going to make the publicity photos look great.” Elsa gesticulated at me with her bright red, manicured nails managing to eat, talk on her cell phone and explain the photo shoot to me all at once.

  I flexed my fingers over the keys and began a series of scales followed by arpeggios and then chords to warm up my hands and mind. As I practiced, the morning sun slowly crept in through the curtains. Finally, I paused and looked at the clock. 9:00 AM. “Crap, crap, crap! Elsa is going to murder me.” I had to be at the location by 10:00 AM and I was still in my sweats.

  After a three-minute shower, a quick swish of mouthwash and a drag of the brush through my hair, I threw on jeans and a T-shirt, grabbed my purse and dashed out of my apartment. “A cab, Ms. Lin?” asked Paul, the doorman. “You are a lifesaver!” I tossed over my shoulder as I hopped into the taxi.

  Are you on your way? Texted Elsa.

  In cab now, I replied.

  Are u running late? Buzzed the reply within seconds.

  Shit. How did u know? I shot back.

  It’s okay. Photog not here yet either. How she texted so fast with those nails I would never know.

  I quickly thanked the cabbie while I paid the fare and jumped out. My cell phone rang the moment I slammed the taxi door. “Hey, Claire. Totally late for my photo shoot and I have no frigging idea how to get into this warehouse,” I mumbled into my cell, balanced between my chin and shoulder, as I struggled to find that little slip of paper that Elsa had scribbled directions on.

  “So glamorous now that you cannot give me an update on the fabulous date I set up for you?” chuckled Claire. “Tom thought you were great. He said you were gorgeous and funny and wanted to have hot sex with you.”

  “What?” I screeched as I came to a halt. “He was nice and everything but there was zero chemistry. You are a total gem to try to help me and it was good to get that first date, post-divorce over.”

  I heard peals of laughter come across the phone. I had to pull it away from my ear because Claire was laughing so loudly. “Just checking if you were listening. He did say you were nice. Just joking about the hot sex part,” she snickered.

  “Weirdest thing was that I literally ran into this guy on my way to the restaurant. It must have flustered me because I could hardly concentrate during dinner,” I was panting a bit as I climbed metal stairs leading to the entrance on which Elsa had kindly attached a handwritten sign – HERE. “Claire, I have to go. I cannot get this door with my bag and cell phone. Talk to you later.”

  Damn. The door was stuck. I tugged at the rusty handle to try to get a purchase on the door when it suddenly gave way. Gasping, I fell backward while my arms windmilled wildly. “Oomph! We need to quit running into one another this way, Ms. Lin,” grunted a strangely familiar voice. Those hands that I remembered from last night were around my waist again and I could smell his cologne, mingled with his own delicious scent. His mouth was next to my ear and his lips brushed my hair as he spoke.

  The door flew open and Elsa stood arms akimbo. “It is about time you got here. Oh good, Trevor is here, too.” Trevor? Trevor Morgan was the photographer? “Well, don’t just stand there. Hurry up. Don’t you photographers worry about light and all that stuff?” Elsa dragged me upright and I shuffled my way into the building, thankful that my hair hid my flushed face.

  Bare metal beams arching between panes of glass met my eyes, as I looked down to the ground level to an ebony-black concert piano surrounded by lighting equipment. “Quite a space, isn’t it, Samantha? I am looking forward to working with you,” murmured Trevor. He was standing so close to me I could feel his body heat through my T-shirt. My breasts tightened as I felt my nipples come to attention.

  Crossing my arms to mask my apparent arousal, I turned to face him. “Yes, quite a space. I guess we don’t really need an introduction, as we have already met,” I snapped, trying to climb out of this woozy pit of animal attraction. Mistake. Looking at him directly, I felt yet more drawn to him. Those grey eyes appraised my face and slowly took a tour down my torso, my waist, the V between my legs and down to my Converse sneakers. I felt my breath catch as if he were touching me.

  “Trevor, we have the accessory lighting set up by the piano if you want to take a look while makeup takes Ms. Lin,” shouted a woman’s voice from the bottom of the stairs. The concrete echoed as I heard quick footsteps up metal stairs. “Hey, Ms. Lin. I'm Izzie, Trevor’s assistant. So nice to meet you,” chirped a lit
he redhead who radiated efficient energy.

  Cocking his head to the side and running his hand through his dark brown wavy hair, he studied my face with such intensity I began to flush, not sure if I should look away. “We don’t need makeup. She looks great as is – like she just got out of bed after having a wonderful dream. Let’s go with it,” he said to Izzie looking over my head. “This is going to be great. So jazzed.” Grasping me by the shoulders, he directed me toward the steps and placed a hand on the small of my back as we walked down the stairs together.

  I took a deep breath and tried to walk naturally down the steps as if it were an everyday occurrence that a six-foot tall, gorgeously attractive man would have his hand on my back. Looking down, I was mortified to see my nipples stretching my T-shirt and realized that in my rush I had not put on a bra. Oh God, I hoped that I would be able to pull my T-shirt out a bit so I did not have a neon sign that said, “Hey, totally irrationally hot for my photographer here!”

  “Ms. Lin, have a seat at the piano. Trevor is going to do a few test shots to see how he likes the lighting. Can I get anything for you?” Izzie fussed around me to get me settled. I glanced over at Trevor now that I could observe him. His grey eyes were focused on the camera he had in his long fingers. As he moved about the room with a sure athletic stride, his navy blue sweater stretched over his broad shoulders and his jeans fit loosely and dangerously low on his hips. I think I could have stared at him all day.

  “Samantha, you don’t need to keep looking at me. Why don’t you play a piece from the album? Something that tells us a secret about yourself,” Trevor had the camera lens trained on me and kept moving about the room. Izzie followed him adjusting the lighting screens. “Get comfortable. This is all about you. Smile if you want. Frown if that makes you feel better. There are no rules here. Just you,” Trevor spoke as he continued to shoot photos as if the camera were an extension of him.