by Tracey Ward
“Break a leg.”
I gasp, spinning around.
Jace is there in the dark behind me. I don’t think the man knows how to enter a room without startling me. I think I’ll always see him and freak out a little bit inside, my heart racing excitedly to meet him.
He’s dressed in the same dark jacket he wore the night I met him, a red T-shirt underneath. Dark jeans on his long legs. He towers over me, his height intimidating, but I relax when I see him. I feel like melting into him, collapsing against him. My body flutters with memories of him, all of them imaged. He never kissed me but I know what his lips feel like on my body. He’s never been inside me but I can remember how it feels to have him nestled deep in my core. It’s an imagined intimacy that feels real as air as I look up at him. As his eyes of liquid fire pour deep down into mine.
“You’re here,” I breathe dumbly.
He grins. “So are you,” he whispers.
“You didn’t call.”
“I threw my phone in a lake.”
The orchestra begins the first number. Lights fade in behind me, illuminating his face. It’s so handsome it hurts. He’s so close I ache.
I shake my head, looking for clarity. “I don’t know if that’s a metaphor or not.”
“It’s not.”
“Shhh,” Jenny hisses.
I look around Jace, mouthing, Sorry, at her.
She glares back.
I step in closer to Jake, letting his warm scent surround me. I’m working, I mouth silently.
He nods. I know.
Why are you here?
I had to see you.
Fuck.
His hand touches mine, sending electricity down my spine.
I had to touch you.
Double fuck.
I’m practically panting, gasping for breath that doesn’t want to come. I stare up at him, my chest heaving with feeling. Excitement, desire, affection. Fear.
I’m leaving tonight, he tells me.
I frown. Where?
L.A.
How long?
He shrugs as the lights shift, his eyes in shadow. I can’t read them, not that I could if I could see them. Not that he’d let me. He mouths something else. I shake my head in confusion.
He leans down, his face coming in close to mine. My heart leaps, expecting him to kiss me. My entire body expects it. It’s braced for it, ready and willing, warming in my heart and flooding through my veins. But he doesn’t press his lips to mine. He comes in close to my ear, his lips soft against my lobe.
“I’ll be gone all week. I’ll miss rehearsals.”
His hand is still touching me, his fingers gliding against mine in feather light touches. It’s insanely distracting. Intensely arousing.
“We’ll miss you,” I breathe up into his ear.
I’ll miss you, I think longingly.
His other hand touches my hip, his thumb rising under my shirt to find my skin. “I’ll be thinking about you.”
I swallow hard. The feel of his thumb caressing low on my hip leaves no doubt as to what he means by that. I know what he’ll be doing when he thinks about me.
“I’m going to watch you perform for this crowd,” he whispers faintly. “And tonight, I want to hear you perform for me.”
Triple fuck.
“Will you do that for me, Greer?”
I’m trembling as I nod, my face brushing against his. It’s stubbly and sharp. It’s abrasive but I lean into it, searching for more. More of the hurt of him. The warmth.
I’m cold as ice when he pulls away.
He squeezes my hand as he steps back, his eyes burning into mine. I watch him disappear into the shadows. As he fades, the world comes back into focus. I can breathe again. I can think. I can hear my cue coming.
I put my hands to my face as I take a steadying breath.
Get your shit together, I scold myself. You have a show to do. You’ll have to do it with wet underwear now, but you still have to do it.
I lower my hands, turning toward the stage. Jenny is watching me. She’s looking at me with a mix of jealousy and hate. It’s an ugly combination, one that makes me strangely uncomfortable.
Sorry, I mouth to her again.
She doesn’t respond.
***
When the show is over, I practically run to Cam’s dressing room to grab my phone.
There’s no message. No missed calls.
I don’t know why I thought there would be. He said he wants to talk tonight, and by ‘talk’ I mean he wants to hear me get myself off, a prospect I’m surprisingly excited about. I want to hear him too. I know he won’t be able to help himself. He’ll join in the way he did last night, his thoughts on me, on my body, and I’ll hear that low growl that he does when he’s getting close. The feral sound that set me off and made me explode into a thousand shards of heat that tore through my body. That destroyed me completely, begging him to do it again.
But when three A.M. rolls around and my phone still hasn’t rung, I accept the fact that’s it not happening. He’s not calling. I’m in my apartment in my PJs staring at a silent phone, and it feels so pathetic I can hardly stand it. I should be asleep but I’m too wired for that. I’m amped up and irritated. My body has been on high alert, ready to do whatever he tells me to do for the last few hours, but now it’s just tired. And angry. And sad.
I turn the phone off before casting it onto the coffee table in front of me. I watch it go dark, feeling my heart sink with its light. I was stupid to wait up this long. I was stupid to get this excited about him. He’s Jace Ryker. He’s probably in L.A. in bed with some movie star, and here I sit waiting breathlessly for him to call. And for what? Some dirty talk? An orgasm at my own hand? I could do that without him. It wouldn’t be half as hot, yeah, but at least I’d be asleep by now.
At least I wouldn’t feel so empty.
I’m stupid in a lot of different ways for a lot of different reasons, but the worst one is caring.
I yank the blanket off the back of the couch, curling up underneath it even though the apartment is stifling hot. The AC is off, the windows open. Outside, the world is churning. Car horns honk, people shout on the street. Some are heading to bed, some are just waking up, and here I am somewhere in between. Lost in the middle of nothing and nowhere.
Stupid as the day I was born.
***
“Did you sleep on the couch?”
I blink blearily up at Cam. He’s leaning against the back of the couch, looking down at me. The morning sun spills in behind him like a halo.
I stretch slowly, getting my bearings. “I didn’t mean to,” I grumble, my voice rough with sleep. I sit up, pushing my hair out of my face. “I was watching TV. I must have dozed off.”
“The TV isn’t on.”
“I guess I turned it off.”
“And then went to sleep on the couch?”
“What time is it?” I ask, halting the interrogation.
Cam studies me for a second longer before heading into the kitchen. “Seven-thirty. How long were you up?”
“Too late.” I stumble off the couch, heading for the hallway. “I’m going back to bed.”
“You forgot your phone.”
“No, I didn’t.”
He chuckles in surprise. “Yesterday you wouldn’t put it down. Now today you don’t care where you leave it?”
“Yep.”
“Hey.”
“Nope.”
“Hey!” he calls again, this time following me into the hall.
I pause, turning to face him reluctantly.
He comes to a stop a few feet away, his arms spread wide with his palms resting against the walls. His face is furrowed with concern. “What’s up with you?”
“Nothing. I’m just tired.”
“Tired of the phone. That you got from Jace Ryker. That you were psyched about less than twelve hours ago.”
I shrug indifferently. “It’s not as fun as I thought it was.”
“Jace isn’t or the phone isn’t?”
“I’m tired, Cam. Can I go to sleep now?”
“What happened last night? Did he piss you off?”
I shake my head, avoiding his eyes. “No.”
“What’d he do?”
“Nothing. He did absolutely nothing last night.”
Cam reads between the lines. “Oh,” he breathes in understanding. “He didn’t call, did he?”
“No, and it’s fine,” I swear, lying through my teeth. “It was stupid to think he would.”
“Did he say he would?”
“Yeah.”
“Then it’s not stupid.”
“He’s Jace Ryker. He has better things to do than call me every night. And he shouldn’t be calling me!” I exclaim, revving myself up. “He’s my boss and he’s a… he’s who he is, and it isn’t like he’s into me or anything, is it? He’s just looking for some fun while he’s in town, and he went back to L.A. last night so he probably found some fun there. I’ll probably get a call when he gets back, and I’m not going to answer it because it’s dumb. It’s so dumb. I don’t have time to be his taste of New York whenever he rolls into town.”
Cam watches me rant silently. I can feel his eyes on me. Studying me. “Are you sure you’re not overreacting?”
“I’m sure.” I meet his eyes, pleading with him to understand. To side with me. To help me be strong. “I can’t do this. I’m not cut out for him, even as a fling. He’s all over the place, totally unreliable. This is twice now he didn’t call when he said he would.”
“He came to the show last night to make up for it,” he reminds me, playing Devil’s advocate.
“And he disappeared without explanation in the same hour. He’s in L.A. now and I have no idea when he’ll be back. That’s some serious vaguery, but that’s just how his life is. How well do you think I can handle that?”
“Not very well. You don’t like surprises. Or change. Or grapefruit.”
“And he is a huge freaking question mark. I don’t know him. I don’t even think he knows himself very well. I can’t deal with that. And it’s not like he’s asking me to, you know? We’re just having fun, but if this is going to be what it’s like, it’s not fun for me.”
“So you’re dropping out?” He lets his hands slide down the wall, his mouth forming a crooked line of disappointment. “That was fast.”
“What do you want me to do?” I demand.
“I don’t know. Try, maybe. You have optimism for everything but people. You never give people a fair shake.”
I feel my temper rising like bile in the back of my throat, burning hot and painful. “You know why I have a hard time trusting people.”
“Yeah, I do, but I never stop hoping you’ll get over it. But you’re not even trying, and if Jace Ryker can’t tempt you to stick your neck out, I guess no one ever will.”
“I tried,” I argue weakly. “He failed. Not me.”
“It was one missed phone call.”
“It’s a broken promise.”
“It happens,” he snaps. “People mess up, Greer. You don’t always have to quit on them because of it.”
My eyes are burning. The tears are coming, and it’s the most frustrating thing in the world that I can’t control it. Every big emotion, good or bad, turns on the water works and I feel so small drowning in hot tears. I wish I was stronger, for so many reasons.
“I’m not quitting on him,” I explain slowly, carefully controlling the waver in my voice. “I’m being careful with me. Even if he had called last night, it wouldn’t be a good idea to answer. I shouldn’t have taken that phone. I shouldn’t have gone to dinner with him.”
I shouldn’t have let him caress me in the stairwell. I shouldn’t have let him make me come with his words. I shouldn’t have loved it like I did.
I put my hands over my eyes, rubbing gently. “I probably shouldn’t be doing his show. I turn into a star struck kid every time I see him. I have no control.”
“You don’t look at him like a kid, Greer,” Cam tells me gently. “You look at him like a woman. One who hasn’t had any in way too long, but still; like a woman.”
I drop my hands by my sides, looking up at him imploringly. “It hasn’t been that long.”
“Your hymen has probably grown back.”
“Jesus, Cam.”
“It’s science.”
“It’s mean.”
“It’s the truth. Don’t run from it. Don’t run from Jace, not until you give him another shot. A real shot, both feet inside the door.”
I sigh, shaking my head. “I can’t. He’ll do this again; he’ll miss a call, or he’ll go back to L.A. for good, and I won’t be able to be cool with it. I’m not that girl. I can’t do casual. I look at people coming into my life and I immediately ask them how long they’re going to stay because I’m terrified they’ll leave before I’m ready. In what universe does that make Jace Ryker a viable option for me, in any sense?”
Cam frowns, his face falling with acceptance. “None.”
“Then I need to give back the phone and take a big step back.”
“Are you sure you’re going to be able to do that?”
I throw my hands up helplessly, trudging toward my room. “I have no fucking idea.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Jace
“He’s late.”
Grant glances at his watch. “It’s a tactic.”
“It’s annoying as shit.”
“He’ll be here soon.”
I lean back in the black leather office chair, testing its give. It goes back so far I worry I’ll fall. I have that momentary oh shit moment where my hands reflexively grasp at the shiny chrome arms, steadying myself. Readying myself for the fall that never comes. But my heart doesn’t know that. It hammers wildly in my chest as my adrenaline spikes. It feels good. It feels better than the anger.
“When he gets here, let Greg and I do all the talking,” Grant reminds me.
He’s told me a million times already. It’s all I heard on the plane. In the car. In the elevator. He doesn’t have to worry. I don’t feel any desire to talk to my deadbeat dad. I wouldn’t even be in L.A. if he hadn’t insisted I be here in person for this negotiation. I’d be in New York at rehearsals with Greer. I’d be watching her ass in those tight black pants she always wears, her tits full and round in her bra, her tight stomach white and hard as marble. I’d be explaining why I’m a douchebag and didn’t call. The problem is, I don’t know what that explanation would sound like. I don’t know why I didn’t call like I promised. I had time. At least I could have texted her, but what would I say? Something dirty? Something charming? Something shallow and pointless because it doesn’t matter, it’s a stopgap. It’s a sorry substitute for something real, but so am I.
The thing is, that’s not the tone I want to strike with her. Not right now when what I’m feeling is something softer. Something slow and so fucking Ed Sheeran I can hardly stomach it.
I worked on remixing another one of my songs last night when we were flying over here. I did it with Greer in mind, mixing the music with a big band kind of feel. Old jazz with a contemporary twist. Her excitement over this new direction I’m taking my music is infectious. It’s the Madsen Effect driving me forward, twisting my stomach excitedly, inspiring me to make more for her to love because, if I let myself stop to think about it, I love it too. It’s new and it’s fun, and I’m actually eager to make something again, even if what I’m making is more a remaking. It’s still something. Something for me and something for her. Something that will get her up and moving, flying across the stage like a bird on the wing. Like an auburn angel.
“Have at him,” I tell Grant halfheartedly.
He looks me over quickly. “You didn’t get much sleep last night, did you?”
“None,” I admit.
“Fuck, Ryker. What were you doing?”
“Working.”
“On what?”
“The songs for
the show.”
“That’s great, but—”
“But it’s not a new album so I shouldn’t lose sleep over it. I know.”
He frowns. “I was going to say that’s great, but you should have slept so you have a clear head for this meeting.”
“What does it matter? I’m not talking, remember?”
The door opens. Two men in suits file in, dour faces and briefcases expertly matching their clothes. Behind them is my dad. He’s in tattered jeans, cowboy boots, a button up flannel shirt, and a jacked up version of my face. We look too much alike for comfort. I worry this is what I have to look forward to in my old age. Thick graying hair, sun weathered skin, and a total departure from reality in my eyes. He smiles when he sees me. He’s happy. He looks like he expects me to be happy too.
He’s fucking delusional.
“Hey, Jacey,” he says with a dip of his chin. “Glad you could make it. It’s been too long.”
I stare back at him blankly. Silently.
Grant and Greg stand on either side of me. They offer their hands to the men across the table from us. David and Eric, those are his attorneys. I’m surprised there are two of them. I expected one old idiot in a wrinkled suit with chocolate on his chin and a hairline behind his ears. These guys are young. Fresh and crisp with shark’s eyes and Cheshire grins.
I nod to them without rising. I don’t offer my hand.
“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Ryker,” Eric tells me with a smile. “I’m a big fan.”
“I’ll sign an autograph for you if you walk out of this room right now and never talk to this guy again.”
He lowers himself slowly into his seat, his smile painted carefully on his face. “Thanks, but I have a duty to my client.”
“Suit yourself. Quick question; which songs are you a fan of? The ones I wrote or the ones I wrote and he’s trying to steal from me?”
“Jace,” Grant mumbles under his breath.
I ignore him, my eyes latched on Eric’s. His smile fades as he stares back. When it’s gone, when he’s looking at me with just a hint of hostility, I feel like we understand each other.
“Let’s get started,” Greg suggests amiably. He opens a leather bound portfolio, pulling a thin stack of papers from inside. He glides three copies across the table with expert precision, like a Vegas dealer doling out cards. “This is our proposal, just as we discussed. It states that Mr. Ryker will allow a percentage of the royalties for six of his songs to pass to Mr. Ryker Sr. In addition to this, a lump sum will be paid as a means of compensation for previous years’ royalties. These payments are entitled to Mr. Ryker Sr. only. They cannot be passed on to a dependent or willed to another person. When Mr. Ryker Sr. dies, so does this agreement.”
