Prelude: Book One in The Interlude Duet

by Auden Dar

  The familiarity of the Emersons eases the tension I felt earlier. It allows me to focus on something other than the growing attraction for my childhood friend. I tell them about my career as a composer and my house in Santa Monica. At the same time, they both tell me that I need to see their daughter, Allegra. “She works and works. She has no love life, no social life, and it would be great for her to have a friend.” I ask about the rest of the Emerson clan, and with grief in their eyes, they mention their eldest daughter, Elizabeth. “She and our granddaughter, Mia, were in an accident a few years ago.”

  I take Helena’s hand in mine before offering, “I’m saddened to hear that.”

  A few minutes of awkwardness arises, and then Roan asks his wife for a dance. Before leaving, Helena retrieves her phone out of her clutch and types my contact number. “I’ll be in touch, and I hope you don’t mind if I give Allegra your number.”

  “Please do. I would love to see her,” I say, before smiling at the thought of having a fellow New Yorker to hang out with in Santa Monica.

  Once the Emersons leave our side, Julian whispers in my ear. “Uh. Uh. Uh. You and Allegra together.” His voice lowers. “That’s trouble.”

  I look up at him, stupefied. “What are you talking about? I am soooo not trouble.”

  Placing his hand on my hip, he brings me closer to him. “Oh, but you are.” What does he mean by that? The wetness between my legs makes me squirm. God, this underwear is useless. How is it possible just the nearness of him … his deep, rich voice … could have me so aroused? I’ve never thought of myself as highly sexual until a few days ago when I thought of the gorgeous man at the café who happens to be the man next to me.

  My body and heart have different agendas. It takes me a few minutes to finally try to separate myself from the man next to me. Although I’m not a cheater, just the thought of begging Julian to carry me up to his bedroom frightens me. But his grip is strong, making it difficult to move away. And the truth is, I love the feel of his large hand on me.

  I am not a cheater.

  What would it feel like to straddle him, have his large hands grab my hips as I bounce up and down on his cock?

  Stop. Stop. Stop.

  I love Andrew.

  Nothing’s wrong with being attracted to Julian as long as you don’t act on it, I tell myself.

  Several minutes pass by in complete silence, and Alistair returns along with Shira. It becomes quite obvious Julian doesn’t like the interruption when he sneers.

  “Mate, what’s your ... your problem?” Alistair asks. Mildly put, he is intoxicated. Cradling another glass of whiskey, he can barely stand.

  Rather than help Alistair, Shira walks over to Julian, rubbing his arm. “This is so boring. Take me upstairs,” the whiny bitch begs.

  No, take me, Julian. Take me. Fuck me.

  Do whatever you want with me.

  Rather than respond to Shira’s request, he simply ignores her. His attention is on me. He whispers on a sigh. “Lina, I’m sorry.” Turning his head, he studies Alistair, and it’s difficult to tell if he is disgusted or if he is mad. Shaking his date off, he moves closer to his intoxicated cousin. “You should go to bed, Alistair. You don’t look so good.”

  Alistair looks my way. “Yes, I’ll be going to bed soon, and I pray that this lovely Evangelina will be accompanying me. I haven’t had my dessert yet.” He winks again, and I can’t help but feel a bit sorry for him.

  What’s up with the constant winking?

  Without hesitation, I respond to Alistair’s innuendos. “I don’t know about dessert, but of course, I’ll help you up to your room. I’m exhausted anyway, and I’ll be heading back to LA tomorrow.” I turn to Julian. “Thank you for today. I’ve had a wonderful weekend. Good night.” Although I would like to ignore the bitch, I don’t. “Good night, Shira.”

  Before Julian can protest, I take Alistair’s arm in search of Marcel. Slightly turning my head again, my peripheral vision allows me another look at the man who has managed to unnerve me. He continues to stare at his drink, and the only word that he mutters is, “Fuck.”

  A few minutes later, we find Marcel seated next to Roan, engrossed in a conversation. Peeking up, he asks that we join them.

  “I would love to, but Alistair needs help.”

  Assessing his nephew’s demeanor, Marcel nods his head. “Lina, I can have someone else escort him upstairs.”

  I kiss Marcel on the cheek. “It’s fine. I’m tired as well. I had a wonderful time. Happy Birthday.”

  Looking over at Alistair, Marcel shakes his head, not out of disgust, but instead, fondly. It is a gesture that reminds me of what I love about him. He accepts everyone regardless of his or her shortcomings. A slight chuckle escapes his lips, “Alistair, I’m happy you had a great time tonight.”

  Julian’s drunken cousin is now leaning on me. “Happy… hap …py Birth … day.”

  My former guardian’s eyes moisten, and he offers me a warm smile. Tenderly, he says, “Thank you for giving me the best birthday gift.” Taking my hand, he squeezes it lightly. “I love you, Evangelina.”

  Twenty-Five

  Alistair and I walk up the set of stairs that will lead us to our respective bedrooms. As the evening dies down, I just want to go to bed and sleep. Constantly desiring a man who is not my fiancé is exhausting. Moreover, I’m beginning to feel guilty. Alistair, on the other hand, has other plans. Since his room is closer, I decide to escort him there. Standing in front of the door, he gazes at me longingly. Licking his lips for the hundredth time tonight, he has this impish look in his eyes.

  “You are quite beautiful. But, of course, you know that.” Alistair is unable to hide a snicker.

  “Well, thank you.” I glance up at him and I know what needs to be said. “Good night, Alistair.”

  Leaning closer to me, he reeks of strong liquor and cigarettes. “No, my lovely, the night is not over.” He’s barely standing. How could he even think he’ll be able to perform at all?

  Even though I am slightly intoxicated, I look firmly in his eyes. “Alistair, this thing that you think is going to happen between us is not happening. I am engaged.”

  Straightening himself, he says, “Julian mentioned that. It doesn’t mean we can’t have fun. I’m not asking you to leave your fiancé.” And as if he had just gulped down a gallon of water, he doesn’t seem so drunk anymore. He clears his throat. “I just want to lick your pussy and fuck you tonight. No strings attached. Hell, you can leave in the middle of the night if you want. Although, I think that tight little body of yours will want pleasure all night. I promise to fill your cunt with my substantial cock.”

  Oh. My. God.

  I’m surprised I’m not laughing at Alistair’s cockiness.

  Let’s be honest here. I love the filthy words rolling off this drunk man’s tongue, but it’s someone else who has me wet with desire. Unfortunately, it’s not Andrew. And unfortunately, it’s my childhood friend. I want him, and it is only Julian who I crave, even with a fiancé waiting for me. What I would give for Julian to be the one desiring me at this moment. I close my eyes and sigh. It takes me a few seconds before I open them only to see Alistair’s handsome face so close to mine. The continuous smell of whiskey and cigarettes on his breath fails to entice me. He reaches down, trying to capture my lips.

  “Good night, Alistair.” I turn my head, and his lips smack my cheek. Before he can object, I am already walking away. Without turning around, he shouts, “Cunt.” And it’s not in the endearing kind of way. I actually don’t care and hold my head up high, unaffected as I continue to make my way down the hall.

  When I enter the guest bedroom, I throw all the decorative pillows on the floor before plopping myself on the massive bed. Although I spent the past few hours celebrating Marcel’s birthday, it’s difficult not to think of his first wife. It’s difficult not to remember that the last time I saw most of the guests tonight was at Elisa’s memorial.

  I brace myself at the
memory as if it were only yesterday.

  Fourteen Years Ago

  I had been napping that morning, nursing a cold when Nana rushed to my room in tears. “Lina, dear. Wake up. We need to hurry. Something has happened to Elisa.”

  My grandparents immediately got us out of the city. The ride to Connecticut took forever. By the time we met Marcel, Elisa had already been pronounced dead. Anger doesn’t come close to describing what I felt that day. I was angry with God for slowly taking all my loved ones away from me.

  Elisa Rutherford Caine was a figure in society who devoted her time to several charities. Her memorial at home only included a handful of close friends and family members. I remained at 740 Park Avenue with the Caines every night until Elisa’s memorial. They had been with me through my own loss, and I wanted to be there for them. Marcel was beside himself. Not only had he lost his wife, but he also lost his twin brother.

  Marcel walked around their home like a zombie, only stopping to thank the chosen few who were invited to the memorial. Caroline did her best, hiding behind an unreadable face. Julian remained alone, upstairs in his room. I knew what it felt like to lose a loved one, someone who knew me better than anyone, someone who always helped me understand that no matter the circumstances, that person would always love me unconditionally. For Julian, that was his mother.

  I wandered around the vast duplex apartment toward the bedroom I occupied at 740. My bedroom was next to his. Before entering my own bedroom, I noticed Julian was in the corner of his room sitting on the edge of the bed by himself. The door was slightly ajar. I walked toward him, scanning his room, trying desperately to hold back the tears. I finally sat down and without hesitation, wrapped my arms around him. Holding a child who just lost his mother, I caressed his head and didn’t say anything as he silently wept. He was inconsolable. The guests were all downstairs, unaware that they were deafeningly loud. Everyone continued to reminisce in other rooms while Julian and I sat on his bed for several hours without a word.

  Our silence, loud.

  Our understanding of one another, even louder.

  He didn’t need to hear “It’s going to be okay” or “You’ll be fine.” You’re never fine when a parent dies. Lying on his bed, with his head resting on my chest and his left arm across my belly, he sobbed uncontrollably through the night. It was a little after two in the morning when I left his side as he finally slept soundly. Not knowing it would be the last time I would see him in more than a decade, I kissed his forehead and whispered, “I love you, Julian.”

  A few hours later, I woke up in the next room discovering that my best friend had left the city … had left me … had left his past … without a word.

  The city held too many bad memories for the boy who just lost his mother. With his connections, Marcel enrolled his son at a boarding school in England. His daughter remained in the states, barely managing college. Unable to deal with her loss, the girl who was like a sister to me retreated to drugs. Her newfound college friends were heroin addicts, and that was a scene I couldn’t be a part of. My conversations with her always turned into arguments. Caroline was always high. I had visited her on two memorable occasions. The first was to console her on her 19th birthday. The second was to hold her hand during an abortion. After that second visit, I knew she would never be the same. Caroline had always talked about being a mother one day. She stopped coming to the city and didn’t return my calls. Caroline stopped living. No matter how hard I tried to keep our relationship close, she kept drifting further and further away.

  A little over a year after Elisa’s death, a distraught Marcel called to tell me his daughter had died of an overdose during her visit to London. Julian had found her lying in bed after taking Valium and drinking an entire bottle of Smirnoff. I was devastated because I was meant to be with her at the time. Holed up in the hospital with appendicitis, I couldn’t attend her funeral. I knew in my heart, though, I wouldn’t have been able to say goodbye to Caroline.

  A few hours after I was released from the hospital, I called Andrew in hysterics. It had finally hit me that my ‘sister’ was gone. In the middle of a college exam, Andrew left Columbia and spent several days with me. As I cried, he held me and comforted me, always reassuring me that I would never be alone as long as he was alive. Andrew was never the romantic type but I knew after his visit that no matter what, he would always be someone who I could count on. There was no doubt in my heart that Andrew Nielsen loved me.

  Two months later, Marcel flew in from London. We met for lunch at Serendipity’s on the Upper East Side. It was a place dear to us. Caroline, Julian, and I spent our childhood afternoons enjoying frozen hot chocolates there. As I watched my frozen hot chocolate melt away, my former guardian finally admitted he couldn’t live in New York anymore and would reside in San Francisco and London. While bawling my eyes out, he reassured me I was just a phone call away. He mentioned that Julian would continue his education in England and that I should remain in touch with him. I revealed that his son had not responded to any of my calls and emails. Marcel looked down at the table. “He’s been through so much. Half the time, he doesn’t answer my calls as well. Please wait for him to come around.”

  I stared at the man who raised me as if I were his own, noticing he had aged so much in such a short time. When we left the restaurant, he held me as if he were afraid to let me go. Marcel admitted, “I love you, Lina. You, Julian, and Alistair are all that I have left,” before walking away.

  Several years later, we have all moved forward with our lives. And although it still hurts that we’ve allowed too much time to come between us, I am grateful. I’m grateful to have Marcel and Julian back in my life.

  With my head resting on the pillow, I lie on my side. A few feet away from me is The Kiss. I continue to appreciate the beautiful painting across from me until my eyes can no longer stay open.

  Twenty-Six

  Loud moaning from the next room wakes me from a deep sleep. I reach for the down pillow trying to drown out the obvious sound of people fucking. It’s completely useless. This is when two inches of wall space does absolutely nothing. Nothing. Even if I can’t see them, I can hear them.

  Dammit, Julian kept his promise.

  From the sounds coming next door, he’s definitely not a gentle lover. His words from yesterday, “I love to fuck,” continue to loop in my head like a broken record. The man who loves to fuck is fucking her … hard.

  Why couldn’t I be in an alternate universe where I’m the woman next door screaming at the top of my lungs in pleasure? I think about how nice it would be to have him make love to me. I laugh inwardly because who am I kidding? I don’t want gentle. I don’t want nice and sweet. I get that from my fiancé. Hell, I want to be fucked into a crazed stupor.

  Andrew.

  Andrew.

  Andrew doesn’t exist right now. Andrew is in our house sleeping.

  This, this is a fantasy.

  Julian.

  God, what I wouldn’t give to be Shira right now.

  Still dressed in my Mandalay racer dress, I quickly sit up and take off my dress. A tear escapes my eyes when I hear The Weeknd’s “Wicked Games” in the background. Oh, how cruel that he would have one of the sexiest songs I have ever heard playing, a song about a one-night stand no less. Surprisingly, I find myself whimpering. I’m such an idiot. Naked in bed, I pull the cover over my entire body and lie in a fetal position, trying desperately to forget what the couple next door is doing.

  What the hell is wrong with me?

  I’ve never been like this before. I’ve never been disoriented. I’ve never been jealous of another woman simply because of a man. I can’t even remember wanting to be intimate with someone other than my fiancé. Yeah, I’ve thought of Bruce Venture while Andrew was inside me. He’s a porn star, so that’s a given, especially when he’s so good at what he does on-screen. But how could I be so stupid for desiring a man who is obviously fucking someone else in the next room?

  Th
e. Next. Room.

  Why am I even thinking about another man when I have someone at home waiting for me? Okay, I might also be delusional in that department as well.

  “Oh! Oh! JC! Yes! Yes! Fuck me harder. That’s it! Don’t fucking stop,” the bitch yells from the top of her lungs. Good God, that girl is ridiculously loud. Kanye West’s “Gold Digger” now plays, and although a part of me laughs at the sentiment, I am still filled with jealousy.

  I’m not going to fight this and slowly pull the covers down. Peeking up, as if to make sure I’m alone because the couple next door sound like they’re right next to me. And then I do the unthinkable. I picture them. Different scenarios unfold.

  I torment myself as I imagine him doing things to her. Things−I want him to do to me.

  I close my eyes, desperate to compose myself. More importantly, trying not to jump out of bed and bang on his door like a disgruntled neighbor or, even worse, a jealous woman; a woman who has no right to cock-block her childhood friend.

  Please let this be over soon.

  The sound of intense fucking continues. I can actually hear his bed creaking. Thump, thump, thump. What the hell? I grip my sheets tightly. Dear God! Did the floor just shake? I turn my head side to side, making sure that nothing has fallen. I look up at the ceiling. Okay, there are no cracks. Thump, thump, thump. They’re still going at it. Time has never moved so slowly before. Fifteen songs play back to back before the moaning, loud thumping, and the music from the other room cease. Yes, I counted and unfortunately knew all the songs. I didn’t know this about myself until tonight.

  I. Am. A. Masochist.

  I sat up with my back against the headboard, the duvet covering half of my body, willing myself not to move. I continued to listen to them fuck while I kept my eyes closed, singing along to all fifteen songs, even when I had to use the bathroom.