Lost Secret

by Emily Kimelman Gilvey

  The cat skittered away.

  The stranger stared up at me—his eyes the blue of ice and of flame. I leaned into the window, my hands gripping the frame. A wind swept the curtains in front of me, billowing them out the window, and when they fell again he was gone.

  Humid air wrapped around me, and I swallowed, my throat dry and aching. Who the hell is that? I wasn’t dreaming. That guy was real.

  Sleep never came again and around noon, I went out to my balcony and stood looking down at the street. Two musicians played on the corner, the notes from their string instruments blending with their voices. People walked in pairs and small groups. Laughter and bright conversation interplayed with the song.

  Over the course of Megan's illness, I'd become hyperaware of my cellphone, knowing that a call could come from the hospital at any moment. So when I heard the phone vibrating where I'd left it with my keys, I hurried inside to answer it.

  "Darling Price, this is Dr. Issa Tor."

  "Hi.” My mind leaped to being half-naked on the floor, Dr. Tor trying to help me stand. Heat swept over my body. Such a fool!

  "I was calling to check on you."

  "I'm good," I said, brightening my voice so he would believe me.

  "No swelling, flu-like symptoms? You're sleeping okay? Eating?"

  "I'm fine," I said again. "How is the patient?"

  "She's doing great," he said, his voice soft. "You probably saved her life."

  Tears welled in my eyes, and a lump formed in my throat. I couldn’t save Megan, but I did help others. It felt good. “I just provided the raw materials, but thank you.”

  "Without 'raw materials' like yours I'd be lost." I couldn't help but hiccup a small laugh. "Do you have anyone looking after you?"

  I looked around my empty living room. "Yes," I lied.

  “Your boyfriend? I saw him drop you off.”

  “He’s my bandmate.” I said it for myself as much as for Issa, so I'd remember it the next time I thought about Emmanuel's heartbeat vibrating through my entire body.

  "Oh." Issa sounded disappointed. "So who is looking after you?"

  "Someone else," I lied.

  "Okay," he said, his tone unsure. "How did you sleep?"

  "I'm fine," I said again.

  "Please, Darling."

  The word please surprised me. Out of all the doctors Megan and I dealt with, I couldn't remember any of them saying please. Especially not like that. "Please what?" I asked.

  I could hear him breathing. "I'd like to come check on you. Would that be okay?"

  "You want to come to my house?"

  "I don't think you slept well last night. I think your body is hurting. I think you're in need of..." His voice faded for a moment but then he continued. "I want to check on you. Please."

  It was the "please" that got me. I gave him the address.

  His quiet but firm knock woke me thirty minutes later. I don’t remember falling asleep. I wobbled on unsteady legs to the door. The smell of Chinese food wafted in when I opened it. Issa held up a brown paper bag. "Wonton soup," he said.

  The door was the only thing holding me up. "Come in." My voice sounded weak and soft.

  Issa stepped in, and I went to close the door, but instead I found myself falling with it and stumbling forward. Issa's hand shot out and caught my elbow. "Thank you." I tried to get my feet under me. "I'm fine," I said, even as the edges of my vision darkened.

  I began to slide down the closed door. The paper bag of food thunked to the floor. Issa's hands pulled me up, wrapping me in an embrace. His face was right above mine. His eyes were sharp, looking at me hard. I’m so hungry I could die.

  He picked me up, one arm under my knees, the other cradling my shoulders. My head lolled back, bouncing with his movements. When he lowered me onto the couch I slow blinked.

  "Darling, can you hear me?" My eyes slid shut again. His palm cradled my cheek, fingers dipping into the hair at the nape of my neck.

  Darkness overwhelmed me, followed by a blinding, rushing, intense energy blasting into me. It echoed in my chest like a heartbeat. Thump–thump–thump…it pushed out into my limbs, tingling at the very tips of every digit.

  I was grabbing onto hair at the back of a head and forcing my tongue into a mouth. Wet and hot and needy, the link between us radiated. This is familiar. This great burst of life exploding inside of me, draining out of him. This is how I killed my foster father. He came to me in the night and tried to force himself on me, but I took from him instead. We were both monsters.

  Hands pushed at my shoulders. Issa’s tongue entwined with mine even as he fought me. I collapsed back, chest heaving, body tingling. Issa fell onto the coffee table but stood quickly, wobbled slightly, then took two steps away from me. "Holy shit," he said. "I'm sorry." His hair stood out in clumps, his eyes wide, mouth red and swollen.

  My heart raced, my breath coming in quick pants. I can feel everything—every vibrating atom in the whole universe sings the same song, and I can hear it.

  Issa backed away from me, and I moved to the edge of the couch like a string between us pulled me to follow. He raised a hand to his swollen lips, lightly touching them with trembling fingers.

  Stand up and take that mouth again! Take every part of him and beg him to take every part of you. But that would kill him…just like it killed my foster father. I balled my hands into fists, nails biting into skin, trying to gain control of myself. "You should go," I said through clenched teeth.

  "I..." He paused. "I just never—it's not your fault."

  "I need you to go." My voice wavered.

  "Please—" He stepped forward.

  "Go!" He stumbled back from me. My voice became a force—a wind. “Run!”

  He did.

  Chapter Ten

  I didn’t have time to dissect what happened with Issa Tor and be on time for band practice. I chose punctuality…with a side of denial.

  I placed my bow against the strings. Emmanuel caught my eye and smiled at me, all friendly bandmate. I tried to smile back, but fear slipped up my spine and settled into my fingers. I can't do this.

  Without Megan, I was nothing, and my fingers would prove it with every foible, every slip, every mistake.

  I bore down on the violin, holding it tightly, knowing that was wrong but not able to loosen up. I'm going insane. Anxiety tightened my grip even more. Awesomesauce.

  As the band began to play, I waited for my beat and then came in just a moment too early, eager and pathetic. Scared.

  We did three songs, my performance off every time. Michael began to throw looks at me. He should be mad. I'm terrible. I tried harder, my fingers crushing the strings and clutching the bow, wringing out any hint of fluidity.

  Michael stopped singing, and Dre's sticks stilled against the drums. Emmanuel's steady bass faded. "Let's take a break," Michael said. He looked over at Emmanuel, jerking his chin at me as if to say, you deal with her.

  Dre stood and stretched toward the ceiling. Pulling a pack of cigarettes out of his pants pocket, he headed out for a smoke. "I'm going to get some air," Michael said, following him.

  I put my bow and fiddle back in their case and looked down at them. "Hey," Emmanuel said behind me. "You need to relax."

  "I know." I stared at the glossy wood.

  He took my shoulders and turned me around. "I'm going to kiss you now.”

  "What?" My voice came out strangled.

  His hands came to my hips and pulled me flush against the hard planes of his chest. “Is this okay?” he asked, his eyes locked on mine. It felt way better than just okay. Zings of lust and need sparkled out of his hands, tingling over my body. My head nodded—my body offering consent while my mind still tripped over itself trying to figure out what was actually happening.

  He lowered his mouth to mine, his breath reaching me a moment before his lips covered mine. Energy buzzed between us. It didn't feel dangerous—like I was stealing. It felt good. Really good.

  Emmanuel's hand wrappe
d in my hair and moved my head where he wanted it, the sense of power increasing, as if he opened a faucet, letting just the right amount pour through.

  My knees weakened and I moaned, my hands fisting in his shirt, pressing hard muscles against my knuckles. The rich scent of honey wafted over me. A melody played in the distance, the song whispering over my skin. The universe singing again…

  Emmanuel broke the kiss, but I leaned forward, reaching for him. He let me catch him and then bore down on me so that all my senses fuzzed except smell: the strong scent of sweet honey.

  I clutched his curls with one hand and let the other wander down his neck, finding the pulse there and laying my fingers over it, moaning softly at the beauty of that beat.

  Emmanuel pulled away, bringing his thumb across my lips. "Let's play," he said. I blinked at him. Play what? Oh, right. Music.

  I uncurled my fingers from his hair, a blush stealing over me. I can’t believe that kiss.

  Emmanuel smiled softly and reached between us to button the top of my blouse. I didn’t even realize it had come undone. That kiss might have melted part of my brain.

  But I didn’t feel weak…I felt alive.

  I heard the door open and turned away, letting my hair fall across my face so that Michael and Dre wouldn't see the bright red flush spreading across my chest, up my cheeks, straight to my hairline. Emmanuel walked over to his bass, his jeans hanging on his hips just so…

  He bent over to pick up his instrument, the muscles of his back shifting under the thin material of his T-shirt. I want to rip it off him.

  What is wrong with me!

  I quickly bent down and picked up my violin. It felt different in my hand. The smooth wood, elegant neck, and taut bow fit better against me.

  Instead of trying to play the song, I melted into it. My eyes closed, and the music washed over me. Michael's voice sang in my blood, the drum pounded in my stomach, and the bass, that low, controlled, never-fading bass, beat in my chest.

  Chapter Eleven

  I held up a knee-length black dress in front of the mirror. I look like I'm heading to a funeral. On stage I liked to wear all black—Megan always fought me on it, insisting that I was hiding away, trying not to be seen. Yeah, she practically had a Ph.D. in Darling psychology.

  I miss her. I had no one to talk to about what was happening. I’d gone from a girl who barely tolerated being touched to someone who needed to feel skin under me. In the past few days, I’d kissed three men. Three.

  And two of them didn’t give consent that I could remember. I accosted them. With Michael I could tell myself we’d been drugged. He even agreed. But with Dr. Tor…what was that about? Maybe he kissed me? He was on top. But he had to force me away from him.

  And then there was Emmanuel. I sat on my bed, clutching the black dress to my chest, wistfully staring out the window but seeing his eyes, feeling his hands, and luxuriating in the memory of that kiss.

  A shimmer of gold in the closet caught my eye. Megan’s gold shorts. She'd worn them the night we got our record contract. I pulled them out. That night the music was perfect; we were in sync—as though a force field grew between us, making my fiddle and her voice into one instrument. People said they'd never heard anything like it.

  Two months later, days before we were set to begin recording our album, Megan coughed up blood. An expression of abject terror twisted her always-brave face. She knew what it meant before I did.

  Turning to the mirror, I held the small gold shorts to my waist. They'd fit.

  I nodded at my reflection and headed into the bathroom to finish getting ready for the show. I owed it to my bandmates and myself to rock tonight. Megan's little gold shorts were just the thing to help me.

  Before leaving the house, I dabbed Gilt onto each of my wrists, behind both ears, and once right between my breasts. "For luck," I said as I replaced the bottle on Megan's dresser. Then with a last look around, I picked up my violin and hit the street.

  As I walked over to the venue, I felt eyes on me. Despite the black raincoat I wore, which fell respectably close to my knees, the people I passed dragged their gazes over me. Black stockings and low-heeled black ankle boots, even without seeing the gold shorts, communicated something.

  "You look great," Michael said when I walked into the green room. "I like what you did with your hair."

  I'd pinned it away from my face, but it flowed in loose, broad curls down my back. "Thanks," I said, nervous about shedding my coat.

  Emmanuel sat on a battered couch, his fingers straying over his bass, forearms tensing and relaxing as he watched me cross the room. Turning my back on them, I shrugged out of my coat, exposing the shorts and open back of my shirt. I hung up the coat and turned around.

  Both men were staring at me. Michael's jaw hung loose, his eyes fixed on my cleavage. Emmanuel's fingers stilled, his gaze heated. My top was low cut, tight, and black, with the edge of one of Megan's lacy black bras poking over the top.

  Michael whistled under his breath, a soft and appreciative sound. "You look incredible."

  "Lovely, as always,” Emmanuel said, his voice low and rough. He began to strum again, looking down at the instrument.

  Are we going back to just being bandmates?

  I headed to the refreshment table, picking up a bottle of water and cracking the lid.

  It felt like fingers trailed down my spine, and I shivered. Turning, I found Emmanuel's gaze on me—his eyes, usually so warm and calm, were dark and sparkling.

  "Can we have a minute?" he asked Michael, without taking his eyes off me.

  "Sure, yeah." Michael headed for the door.

  Emmanuel stood up slowly, placing his bass gently on the couch. He walked over to the door, his stride lazy. The click of the lock jolted through me.

  My heartbeat pulsed through my body. Emmanuel approached slowly, his movements liquid and dead sexy. I bumped up against the table, feeling the edge hit my butt. Putting the bottle of water down behind me, I tried to break from Emmanuel's gaze but couldn't. I literally could not take my eyes off his slow approach.

  He stopped inches from me—his breath on my face, his scent swirling around me. Electric vibrations made it feel like we were already touching. I meant to speak, to tell him not to kiss me, but I didn’t. We need to talk, right? That’s what people do after they kiss and before they kiss again…

  His hands came up and cupped my face, pulling me up to meet his mouth, and there was nothing in the world but him and me and the spark we made. A tornado of passion unleashed, tearing at me, threatening to destroy us both.

  Emmanuel pulled away, his lips still close, and I tried to go after them, but he held me in place, fingers dug deep in my hair, controlling my head. "Stay still." His chest heaved with each breath, and his body shook—like it was taking intense effort to not devour me. Don't hold back on my account.

  He groaned and closed his eyes, leaning his forehead against mine. "Darling." Emmanuel whispered my name, and it sounded almost like a prayer. It sounds too damn good.

  I want to tear his shirt off and lick every inch of him.

  I surged forward, desperate to take his lips, but he held me back. "No," he whispered. "I won't be able to stop." He sounded pained.

  "So don’t," I panted, pulling at his shoulders. Leaning up, I captured his lips, wrapping my arms around his neck. His hands dropped to my ass and lifted me onto the table. Pushing between my legs, he took control of the kiss. Water bottles toppled, plastic wrap squeaked, and the table scraped across the floor.

  Bright orange and white heat splashed across my closed eyelids. It burned around my body, coursing through my veins at insane speeds. His hand left a trail of flames down my exposed back.

  There was knocking at the door. "Yo," Michael's called. "Come on," he yelled when neither of us answered. "It's time to go on!"

  Emmanuel did not stop kissing me.

  His hand cupped my breast, stroking me through the lacy material. His lips left mine, traveling south
. He pulled my hair, tilting my chin skyward. Fingers dipped into the cup of my bra. Emmanuel stilled, staring down at my exposed breast.

  Another knock, this one louder. I heard the door handle jiggle, and then Emmanuel's mouth covered my nipple. I cried out, a small, strangled sound that changed into a low moan as he swirled his tongue. “Come on!” Michael yelled. "We don't have time for this."

  "I told you I wouldn't be able to stop," Emmanuel said against my breast, the tickle of his lips shooting rays of pleasure and energy to my throbbing center. He returned one hand to my ass, clenching even harder.

  "I've got the key," Michael yelled through the door. "I'm coming in, in 3, 2..." Emmanuel turned to look toward the entrance behind him.

  "Get out," he growled. Emmanuel's body blocked my view; his hand still on my breast, his neck twisted toward Michael, mere inches from my lips.

  "We go on in ten, you asshole."

  "I don't give a shit," Emmanuel replied, his voice deep and threatening.

  "The fuck you don't give a shit." I heard Michael take several steps into the room.

  Emmanuel's hand tensed on my breast. It felt so good. I wanted him so badly.

  What the fuck am I doing, spread out on the concession table of a club I'm about to perform in? This isn't professional. This is insane. Holy crap, I've really lost it. The "it" is gone. This has to stop.

  I shifted, trying to pull my shirt back up. Emmanuel turned to me, ignoring Michael. "What are you doing?" he asked.

  "We're going on.”

  Both his hands tightened at once, making me ache, desperately hungry for him. His hard length pressed against me. I wanted him so badly it clouded my thoughts, but I wasn't this person. This wanton girl. I pushed him back, yanking my shirt up and closing my legs. He stumbled away, his gaze searing.

  "All right," Michael said. "You ready to play? Come on!"

  My eyes stayed closed for most of the performance, but I heard the crowd's reaction. Felt them love every second of it. Michael's sultry voice, Dre's precision drumming, Emmanuel's bass, and my fiddle made magic.