I touched my hand to my cheek, watching myself in the mirror, and trailed it down over my breasts. My nipples were already stiffly pointing, almost too sensitive to brush against. My hand slipped down over my stomach. Lower….
There was a knock at the door. “Karen?”
I whirled to face the door. Adrenaline was suddenly crashing through me, my heart thundering in my chest. My mouth opened and a big, big part of me wanted to call out, “Come in.”
“One sec,” I said, and pulled on an old, soft t-shirt. I looked down at my bare legs and then dived into bed, pulling the covers over me. I took a second to run my hands through my hair. “Okay.”
He cracked the door open and then swung it wider when he saw I was decent. “Hi,” he said.
He was shirtless, his chest smooth and magnificent, broad pecs leading my eyes down to hard abs and a narrow waist. I’d had the image burned into my mind ever since his dressing room, but remembering it and seeing it were two different things.
“Hi.” The covers were around my waist. I suddenly wondered if he could see that my nipples were hard through the thin t-shirt, but didn’t dare glance down to look. Instead, I let my eyes rove down below his waist. He was in black jockey shorts, and his legs were thickly muscled and dusted with curly black hair. I dragged my eyes back up his body and sat there waiting for him to tell me why he was there.
“Sorry to bother you. But,”—he paused, staring into my eyes, and my chest clenched tight—“…do you have any floss?”
I stared at him, thinking I’d misheard. “Floss?”
“Dental floss.”
“I know what it is. Yes. There’s some in the bathroom cabinet.”
He nodded. “I thought so. I just didn’t want to go looking in case…you know.”
I made a quick mental list of everything in the cabinet. I wasn’t on the pill. I wasn’t on any medication. Nothing he shouldn’t see. “Thanks. It’s fine.”
“Okay then.”
“Okay.”
“Goodnight, then.”
“Goodnight.”
He hesitated for another second on the threshold and then backed out and closed the door behind him. I stared at the white-painted wood for several minutes. Had that been for real, or just an excuse to come in, to see if I was…what? Naked and ready? Had I avoided embarrassment by diving under the covers, or missed some massive opportunity?
I put a pillow over my face and screamed into it as loudly as I dared.
***
An hour later, I was still awake.
It didn’t matter that he was two rooms away. He was there, right in my apartment, as warm and alive and real as he could possibly be.
I imagined going in there and gently shaking him awake. Connor, I have to tell you something. But what if I was wrong? He was the man…why wasn’t he making a move, if he felt the same way?
I thought of how he’d looked at the door, how those smooth slabs of muscled chest would feel under my palms. How solid and unyielding he’d be if I pressed my body to his, all the way from lips to toe. I wanted him, more than I’d ever wanted anything in my life.
I let my hand, under the covers, find the softness between my thighs. Not rubbing, exactly, just…resting there. I imagined it was his hand, or the hard outline of his cock through his pants, and that was all I needed for the heat to start building.
He could be here, right now in this bed. All I have to do is go and talk to him.
I remembered the way he’d nearly kissed me, in the storeroom, and my whole body went weak. I wanted him to take me. I wanted him to—
“Fuck me.” My whisper was as quiet as I could make it, barely audible, but it was there. And hearing it, hearing my own mouth form that deliciously hard “k”, sent a wave of heat down my body, oily black and dangerously addictive. My hand was moving now, thin cotton pressed tight against my moistened lips.
All I have to do is go in there.
It was a game, almost. An edgy fantasy, because it could so easily become real. I rolled over onto my stomach, my hand beneath me. My cheek was pressed against the pillow, eyes on the door. What if I just went in there, right now, and told him? My hips were moving in small, firm little arcs, grinding myself against my fingers, faster and faster—
I suddenly tore back the covers and swung my legs out of bed. Three quick steps across the room and I had the door open.
What am I doing?!
The floors were new, solid polished wood. They didn’t make a sound as I crept towards the lounge.
All the time lying awake had let my eyes adjust to the darkness. I could see the outline of him stretched out on the couch, the blanket I’d given him down around his waist. His bare chest rose and fell softly in the glow of the streetlights.
I stepped closer.
This is weird. And stupid. And stalkerish.
Closer still. Close enough to touch him, though I didn’t dare.
What am I doing here? Am I going to wake him up?!
I stared down at him. It wasn’t just the sex, I realized. It wasn’t just wanting him. It was what had hit me after the ice skating, what had been building slowly for weeks—maybe even since I first met him, on some level. I was in love with him, and I had to tell him.
There was a voice in my head that sounded a lot like my father. He’s your one shot at the future you’ve always wanted. You have a chance—a slim chance—to save your career, and you’re going to throw that away for…what? A stupid infatuation with a man who’s done prison time for hurting people?
I gazed down at him. I couldn’t imagine him hurting anyone. I was only a few feet from him, now, and I squatted down until our faces were at the same height. I could lean forward right now and wake him with a kiss.
I waited there, feeling it all boil through me. The lust and the fear and the love.
What if he wakes up? What if he wakes up and sees me like this?
Then my stomach lurched. What if he’s already awake? What if he’s lying there faking and he knows I’m watching him?
I went absolutely still and listened to his breathing, deep and rhythmic. Was he lying there with every emotion screaming, desperate to scoop me up in his arms and pull me to him?
Or was he completely unaware of my existence?
Very slowly, I stood and walked back to my bed.
***
The next morning, I crept into the shower super-early so I could be sure of being dressed before Connor woke up. I stood there under the spray and told myself over and over that I’d made the right decision. Until I knew how he felt, I had to keep my own feelings hidden. Well, fine. I could do that. I could be the perfect, innocent friend.
It occurred to me that the shower was turning into one of my epics, so I got out, wrapped myself in a towel and opened the bathroom door, only to find Connor standing there. He was maybe a foot from me and, with tousled hair and a little extra stubble, he looked if anything better than the night before. I suddenly realized that my towel wasn’t much bigger than Jasmine’s hooker dress, only covering me from breasts to thighs.
We stared at each other. “It’s all yours,” I told him.
He nodded, but he wasn’t looking at the bathroom. He was looking at me.
“I’m dripping,” I told him.
He just stared at me. And then reluctantly stepped aside to let me past. I walked to my bedroom on trembling legs, feeling his eyes on me the whole way. I shut the door and stood with my back against it, breathing hard.
It’s just because he’s in your apartment, I told myself. Once you’re rehearsing again, everything will be fine.
***
We had coffee and chatted about Belfast. He had two brothers, one of whom was in prison.
“Now that I know about me,” he said, “I’m wondering if he’s dyslexic too. He dropped out of school when he was a kid. I was lucky: I had my music.” He sipped his coffee and looked at me. “And I have you.”
I tried to will my hand to be steady, but the surface o
f my coffee rippled and shivered.
***
Later, at Fenbrook, we rehearsed again and things weren’t back to normal. They weren’t even close.
I couldn’t take my eyes off him: the way his fingers worked the strings, the frown of concentration as he got to a difficult section, even the way he stretched his back when we took a break, his chest flexing under his t-shirt.
For the third time in a row, I missed my cue and came in late. “Sugar!” I said under my breath. “Sorry.”
When I looked up, he was quaking with silent laughter. “What?”
He went to speak, but started laughing again. “Sugar?!” he said eventually.
I flushed, but it didn’t bother me as it would have done a month before. I wasn’t intimidated by him anymore. “It’s what I say.”
“We need to teach you to swear; fortunately, you came to the right place. Give me a good, strong ‘Bugger’”
I looked at him. “Bugger,” I said tentatively.
“Like you mean it.”
“Bugger!” It actually felt pretty good.
“Now let’s progress to a F’ckin’ ‘ell.”
I took a deep breath. “Fucking hell.”
“No, more Irish. There’s no ‘u’ or ‘g’ or ‘h’. And make it more mournful, like you’re a kid who’s lost his pocket money and can’t buy any chips.”
“F’ckin’ ‘ell!” I said, louder than I meant to.
The door opened and Professor Harman put his head through the gap. “Everything okay in here?” he asked, in a tone that implied it certainly wasn’t. I went white.
“Just…getting into the spirit,” Connor told him.
Harman gave him a long look and then closed the door, and we both burst out laughing.
***
When Connor got his essay back, a little over a week later, he bounded up to me to show me the red-circled B.
“That’s great—” I started to say, but his hands were already closing around my waist. He lifted me into the air, spinning me around and around as the other students moved back out of the way. When he set me down, both of us were high on the moment, panting, our faces inches apart. We stared at each other and—
He moved back. “Thanks,” he said. “For helping me.”
I’d been a fraction of a second away from closing my eyes and puckering up, and my face flushed red at the thought of how close I’d come to making a complete fool of myself. “No problem.”
We turned and walked away.
Chapter 18
It was four weeks until the recital. Connor had handed in another essay and managed another B. Four of the six sections of our piece were finished, and we were both working away composing the final two. We figured we’d earned a break, so we all went to Flicker.
The snow had melted and the sun was doing its best to warm the frigid air, but it was cool enough that everyone was still in coats when we arrived. Connor, of course, was in his trademark leather jacket. Jasmine had grown attached to the fur monstrosity I’d found for her—she’d named it “Abe” for “Abominable Snowman”—while Clarissa was in an almost floor-length leather coat that probably cost a month’s rent. Natasha was sporting some high-tech jacket Darrell had bought her—his looked like it matched—and Neil, of course, looked like Neil, in jeans and a biker jacket.
And me? I was in the same sensible winter coat I’d worn since it first got cold. Some things don’t change.
Some do, though. I was going to tell Connor how I felt.
I’d thought about nothing else all week. I wanted to be on familiar ground and I didn’t want to be alone when I did it. If it went wrong, I wanted the girls to be on standby with hugs and alcohol. They’d been briefed, of course.
I wanted to make an impact, so when I peeled off my winter coat it revealed a scoop-neck black sweater that—with a lot of help from a push-up bra—managed to give the illusion of curves. I’d spent about an hour on my hair, too, using tongs to coax most of the frizz out of it. It didn’t equal Natasha’s soft, lustrous locks, but it was a start.
We all sat down and I knew as soon as I looked at Darrell that something was horribly wrong. His skin was almost gray, and his hair didn’t look sexily messy—it looked greasy and unkempt. Heavy bags had formed under his eyes, and when he sat down it was with a sad sigh of relief, as if even the walk from the cab had been an effort. That was something else I’d noticed—he’d brought Natasha in a cab, not on his bike.
I tried to catch Natasha’s eye, but she was quizzing Connor on which bars he played in.
“So! How are things?” I asked Darrell brightly.
He smiled at me, and underneath the mask of tiredness I could see the old him peeking through. “Okay.”
And that was it—just one word. Back when he and Natasha were first together, he’d talked non-stop about bikes and riding and how Natasha inspired him. He’d been hungry for new experiences, full of life. Now, he seemed like a different person.
“What are you working on?” As soon as I said it, I wished I could take it back. I watched Darrell collapse in on himself, his body hunching over the table, his gaze locked on his glass.
“I’m…between things, right now.” And he glanced up at me, eyes almost pleading with me not to ask anything more.
A deep unease started to shift and churn inside me. This was Darrell, sexy, confident, multi-millionaire Darrell. Natasha had spoken of nightmares, and he certainly looked like he wasn’t sleeping…but what had changed, that they were now reducing him to this?
I understood how losing your job could make someone depressed, but hadn’t Darrell essentially worked for himself? Couldn’t he just design, or build stuff, or whatever it was he did in that massive workshop? When I was there for the party, it had all been covered in sheets, but that had been weeks ago. Had he not worked since? Had he not worked since he quit his job? A man who had been insanely driven, even obsessive, about his work seemed to have stopped dead, and in my mind that pointed to something being deeply wrong.
When I looked over at Natasha, she was staring back at me, her teeth worrying at her lip. She gave me a slow nod, the internationally recognized women’s symbol for we’ll talk later.
I looked across at Clarissa. She was sitting on Neil’s knee, and he was nuzzling her neck. She was smiling, and if it hadn’t been for our conversation in the restaurant I would have thought they were happy. Looking closer, though, I could see the worry in her eyes.
“I’ll get some more drinks,” said Connor, standing up. This was it, the perfect time to get him alone and—
I couldn’t do it. I looked desperately at the girls and nodded towards the restroom. “I’m going to—you know,” I said as I stood.
“Good idea,” said Jasmine, jumping up.
“Me too,” said Clarissa, sliding off Neil’s lap.
“Yep,” said Natasha.
We left Darrell and Neil sitting there in shock, suddenly alone at the table.
In the restroom, Jasmine pinned me to the wall with a pointed finger. “Don’t even think about backing out.”
Natasha beamed. “I’ve been talking to him. He’s nice. Nicer than when we first met him, less....”
“Arrogant,” said Clarissa. “And still edible. Seriously. With a spoon.”
I looked at myself in the mirror. “But…I have no clue if he feels the same way.”
“You’ve been working together for months,” said Natasha. “You must have some idea.”
I thought about all the times it felt like we’d nearly kissed. The feel of him against me, the heavy silences. “I don’t know! There are moments, but they don’t add up to anything solid.”
“Circumstantial evidence,” said Jasmine wisely. She was still dreaming of a part in a police drama. “But if you wait to find a warm gun you’ll miss your chance. You gotta go with your hunch. What does your gut tell you?”
My stomach was swirling and fluttering with nerves. “I think…I think…yes.”
“Then
go for it,” said Clarissa.
“But if he does like me, why hasn’t he done something? He’s had enough chances!”
Natasha shrugged. “You won’t know that until you ask. So get out there!”
“But what if he changes his mind about the recital, or”—I realized I hadn’t told them about his dyslexia, and didn’t feel I should—“or…or doesn’t work as hard and doesn’t graduate? If he flunks, I flunk!”
“He’s your friend, whatever else he is or isn’t. Do you really think he’d do that to you?” said Jasmine.
I considered that, then opened my mouth again.
“If the next word out of your mouth is ‘But’,” said Clarissa, “I will physically hurt you. Go!”
I took a deep breath and nodded. Then marched through to the bar.
Connor was leaning forward over the bar, grinning, and I instinctively smiled myself, even though he wasn’t looking at me. I felt my confidence grow. This was the right thing to do.
I walked around the bar towards Connor, and that’s when I saw her. She was sitting at the bar right next to him, but she’d been hidden from my view behind a pillar. He had his arm around her waist, and as I watched she leaned in close and whispered something in his ear, and he laughed and pulled her closer.
She had honey-blonde hair and a silver, low-cut top. She had jeans that looked like they were sprayed onto her toned, perfect ass. She’d been with him no more than five minutes, but she was already touching him like I never had, patting him on the back and then letting her hand idly stroke the muscles there. Flirting with him exactly as any woman would, if they weren’t an over-analyzing, flat-chested geek.
I changed course and swung around to the far end of the bar, where the girls were waiting for me with open mouths.
“I know her,” said Jasmine sadly. “She’s in some of my acting classes—her name’s Taylor. She’s actually a sweet girl.” She glanced at me. “I mean, I still want to kill her. Obviously.” She looked at Connor and Taylor. “Bitch.”
In Harmony Page 17
