We stood, and he put his arm around me. “Come on, I want to show you where I work.” I nodded. All my attention was on the warmth and size of his hand around my shoulder, the closeness of his body. I felt my face going a bit red again. Fuck, the man was a tease. I took a deep breath, and tried to relax into his arm. “It’s going to be ok,” he whispered in my ear. The rumbling velvet sound of his voice that close to me was screwing with my mind. I knew he knew it. I tried to breathe.
“Yeah, it’s fine. Sorry, I’m just not used to being touched.” He sprang away. Shit. Wrong answer. I turned to him. “No, it’s fine, it’s good, I’m just...”
“Just what?” He stayed very close to me as we went through a door and up a flight of industrial stairs. The large window, pierced through with chicken wire, let a white glaring light in that showed the hollows under his eyes. He really didn’t seem so bad. It wasn’t his fault that the press had fucked with him. That he was beautiful. He was human, and in the bright daylight of the stairwell, he looked exhausted.
We went through another door, and turned right. Tristan made a sweeping, old fashioned gesture as he opened the door. “My inner sanctum.” He smiled again, but his eyes were serious.
I looked around. It was a large rectangle of a room, with fairly high ceilings, the pipework and ducts visible. Filled with windows, it nonetheless had a dark feel to it, from the black leather chairs and the big stained oak desk. It was neat, an ornate rug in the center of the room, and a coffee table with a vase of flowers placed exactly in the middle. The papers on the desk were ordered and placed in open letter box type shelves. There were some posters on the walls from the first two releases, and a big picture of his old band over the sofa, on a white painted brick wall. But it was the smell that struck me, and I tried to pin down what it was. Some kind of mixture of expensive men’s cologne and Frankincense? Candles with flowers and pine? Something else entirely, slightly sweaty and musky? I stood there and suddenly realized he was looking at me, the corners of his mouth twitching slightly.
I smiled at him. “It smells wonderful in here.”
He looked animated. “Do you like it? It’s a combination I’ve assembled myself.”
“You’re bringing out a perfume?” It seemed so unlikely, such a sell-out thing to do. But maybe he was branching out, making the money while he could.
“You’re kidding, right? This is for me. Just me. Don’t write this down.” He sat down in one of the leather chairs, suddenly looking huge and forbidding.
I had to smile, but I felt the message. A little too well actually. In all the wrong places. “No, I’m relieved actually. I was having trouble figuring out how the infomercial was going to come across.” He laughed, an irresistible sound. Damn. Keep to the truth. “But if you ever have some left over, I’d love to have some.”
“I can think of ways for that to happen.” There was that look again, and now, alone in the room with him, the intimidation felt physical. I wondered if he ever took it further, and the look of him surrounded by leather, staring at me, made me think that he did. And made me wonder what I would do if he did. I ran a hand through my hair. Focus. And then he snapped me out of it. “Sit.” It was an order, and I backed up and collapsed into the matching leather chair that was behind me. It was soft and smooth, and against my legs, it reminded me of his hand on my shoulder, warm, strong.
I swallowed. “I’ll just get my notebook and recorder out, then.”
“Fine.” He rolled away from the desk and a bit closer to me. I set everything up, and asked him to say something to test the level. “Are you comfortable?” he drawled, his voice a kind of slow pouring velvet, and I felt like I’d crashed into a wall. I literally did not know what to do with myself, and felt dangerously close to losing whatever control I had. Avoiding looking at him, I shook my head, and turned up the volume on his deep voice.
He took the head shaking for discomfort, and jumped up. “Let’s go sit on the sofa, you can put the recorder on the table, and we’ll be closer—easier to talk.” He grabbed all my possessions, and brought them over, setting it all up. He flashed me a big smile, and looked delighted with himself, like a small child figuring something out. I couldn’t help but smile back. He really was adorable. Dangerous, but adorable. He sat down and patted the cushion next to him. “Come on, let’s do it.” He looked up at me from under his dark lashes.
Such a fucking tease, I thought. I’m being played like a piece of music. He smiled again as I sat down, and I tried to find some of the anger that pushed me to action before, but I couldn’t manage it.
Tristan jumped up again, startling me. “I’ll get us some water.” He was at a mini bar in the corner of the room, grabbing two small bottles of Perrier, and back in a flash. “Do you need a glass?”
“No, this is fine, thank you.” I needed the water, though. My mouth was completely dry. I had a moment of wondering if he felt any of the insanity I was experiencing, and searched his face for any kind of confirmation. I thought my heart stopped when I saw his throat again, pale and muscular, swallowing and I looked up. But now I was unable to tear my eyes away from his mouth, wet from the water. He put the bottle down, and his tongue darted out, quickly, smoothing over his lips.
I think I groaned. As I was opening the bottle at the same time, I prayed that whatever sound I’d made had been covered up. A slight twitch at the corner of his mouth worried me though. I sighed. I was done for. The writer who became prey. Easy prey.
His voice broke through. “Shall we?” He pressed the start button, and before I had a chance to speak, he was all business—talking about the new release that was due out in a month, the direction he was hoping to take the music in. I made some notes, and was glad I was recording it all. He didn’t seem reticent, not the monosyllabic artist some interviews had said he was. He jumped up and went to his computer. “Do you want to hear some songs?”
Now I was excited, but for a different reason. “I’d love it.”
He smiled, and pressed play. “You will.”
The first song was driven by EDM keyboards but then turned into a spiraling rock epic, with hints of Queen and symphonic orchestras. The next song was a straight out punk rock shout, his voice the drawling snarl from the very first cd. It was amazing.
“This is incredible.”
“You like it? That’s great. Really?” He seemed like a small child again, delighted at the praise. The next song was another rock song, but more like the Stones, harder, a growling rhythm, whining guitars, arguing and winning, but an insistent counter melody kept rising up to change the tone. I was trying to make a mental list of questions I could ask him, and started scribbling things down, not wanting to miss anything. It was thrilling, and was going to shut up every critic that ever said anything. I told him so, in between songs, and he laughed. “I hope so, doll, I hope so. I just want to get better—come up with something that will help people through their shit.” He stopped the music for a minute. “Here, I’m skipping ahead a little. I want you to hear this one.”
Another swirling song began, all delicacy and orchestration. Another strange melody served as counterpoint to a repeated line that stopped just when you expected it to reach a conclusion. The lyrics were about losing what you always thought you’d have, getting old alone, having to share what was most precious. Then the chorus began, hard and angular, furious, but the scale was sad and melancholy. By the end, his deep voice was reaching higher, the pain in it sharp and transcendent. It ended on a screech of guitars, and then there was absolute silence.
I sat there, slowly coming back to myself, and realized I was staring out the window, my hands clenched, eyes wet. I uncurled my fingers stiffly and reached up to stop the tear about to go down my cheek, and pinched my nose. I had a lump in my throat. I couldn’t cry, not now. Not in front of him. I wanted to laugh and break the moment, but I didn’t want to move. I didn’t want to be fake and false, turn it all into a joke. Not now.
I turned to look at him. He had
a sort of look of wonder on his face, but was equally silent. We sat there, his eyes locked with mine. I felt another tear start, but he was quicker than I was, and I closed my eyes when I felt his slightly calloused fingertip wiping it away. His hand cupped my face, gently, then I felt him pull me towards him, his strong arms wrapped around me. His hand was stroking my hair. “It’s going to be ok, shh, I told you it was.” I couldn’t stop the tears then, and my arms went around him, the feeling of warmth ripping me apart. “Shh, shh, I’ve got you, it’s ok.” His voice was gentle and slow, and the closeness of his body felt huge and comforting, a sanctuary. A warning chimed through my brain, but I pushed away the fear and breathed in the smell of him, the softness of his touch in contrast to the leather jacket I now realized my face was pressed against. He held me against his chest, and I could hear his heartbeat in the silence.
I felt him move, and my return to consciousness was a shock. I knew that meant that the moment was ending and in that same second, I knew I was lost. He squeezed me tighter and then his soft lips were against my cheek. “I’m sorry,” I whispered.
“Don’t be,” he murmured. “You’re beautiful.”
Chapter 2
I looked up at him, so close now, and suddenly saw a moment of confusion in his face, a worried frown pulling at his brow. Tristan started to speak, then stopped, his mouth in a tight line. He began again. “I’m really…um…never meant…” He was interrupted by a knock at the door. “Shit,” he mumbled to himself, “excuse me.” He loped over to the door, and opened it slightly, blocking the room with his body. “Yes, it’s fine. Going well. Yeah, tell them I’ll call back. I don’t know where my cell is. Just ending, yeah, fine. See you in a minute.”
Ending. Right. That was my cue to pull myself together. I started putting away my notes and the recorder in my bag, rubbing the back of my hand over my eyes. By the time he turned from the door, I was already standing, bag on my shoulder.
“I’m sorry…something’s come up.” His face was still.
“No, that’s fine. I’ve got a few more questions, but we can always finish up over the phone.” I wasn’t breathing. I could not think of the implications of what I was saying. Images of blood flowing, like a fresh wound, came to mind. I guessed it was my heart. Maybe I’d get a tattoo. Pain for pain. But I spoke, said the same words I’d said many times before. “Your manager has my number. My deadline is in a couple of days, if I don’t hear from you, I’ll just write it up with what I have.” He started to shake his head. “No, thank you. It’s been a pleasure.” I swallowed. “The music is brilliant. I hope…I want to get that across to people.”
James, the manager, suddenly stuck his head through the door. “I’ll walk her out, Tristan.” His eyes were cold as he opened the door wide enough for me to pass.
I ignored him as I held out my hand to Tristan. “Nice to meet you.” One more touch.
His hand covered mine, his voice a deep rumble, his face unreadable. “Um, yeah. Take care.” We all walked back down the stairs. He was behind me, so I couldn’t see him anymore, but I felt his presence. Too close. I wanted to hit him, push him away and touch him, but I didn’t do anything but watch my feet go down the grey painted stairs one at time, carefully. One more step away from whatever it was that happened. And on to the rest of my life.
At the corridor, I turned to him. One more look. It was going to have to last, a long time. I looked into his eyes. I was dead anyway, there was nothing I was frightened of now. I searched beyond his beauty for something, some memory, but all I saw were the too bright white walls in the corridor, and his body, a strip of contrast, dark hair, leather jacket, serious expression. I smiled. The tumbrel was behind me, and I was reminded of the lines from the poem:
The door as sudden shut, and I,
I, lost, was passing by,--
Lost doubly, but by contrast most,
Enlightening misery.
“Goodbye.”
“Bye doll.” And he turned away.
The manager made as though he was going to grab my elbow. I shuddered, and glared at him. How dare he try to touch me, be where… I snapped. “Closing time, I get it. I’ll see myself out. You’ve got my number if you want to check on the article before it’s sent to print.”
“I’ll call,” he sneered. “You’re not the only interview,” he paused, “he’s had.”
Bastard. I laughed, nervously, with all the tension of the moment in my voice. “You don’t say. Well, you have been so helpful. I’ll be sure to let them know over at the magazine. I know just how surprised they’ll be.” I pulled open the door. “Thanks again.” The door closed hard behind me.
I walked to the lift and stabbed at the button. I was starting to see black spots in front of my eyes. I had to get some air, before I fainted. The beginnings of a headache were pinging sharply right in the middle of my head. The service elevator finally came, and I stumbled through the opening door, grateful that it was empty. I leaned against the back and closed my eyes. A vision of his hands, long fingered and graceful, handing me my coffee… I felt the tears burn at my eyes. I had to get the hell out of here before my body completely betrayed me.
Out on the street, I turned and looked back at the building. I couldn’t help it; I counted floors, and added one. Those windows at the end. That was…it. I could imagine walking past here in years to come, remembering, silently. Maybe I could tie a flower to the railing, a shrine to what I’d felt. As I was imagining that, a dark shape at the window moved. I started. Was it him? Did it matter? Without any more thought, I raised my hand and waved. I thought I made out a movement, an arm raised. A cab pulled up next to me. Oh right. I waved. Deep breath. I did need a taxi, and I couldn’t spend the rest of my life here, staring. So close to a kind of madness. I pulled open the door handle and gazed up at the window, one last time before I got in. The dark shape was still there. I smiled up at it. Ducked into the cab, and closed the door. I told the driver my address, and burst into tears.
Ten minutes later, my breathing started to ease up, and I felt the ache begin. I took out a tissue, and looked up to see the cabbie looking anxiously at me in the rear view mirror. “It’s ok,” I said, trying a smile. “I’ve just met the love of my life and lost him all in the space of an hour.”
He looked confused. “Still same address?”
I nodded, waving my hand towards the road. Yes. “Yes. It’s fine.” He kept driving, and I pulled myself into the corner and watched the traffic go by. It was the end of another cold New York City winter, bitter and sharp. Hats and puffy coats. A mother with a stroller, baby wrapped up inside. A black suited bicyclist, Lycra covered against the cold. We finally pulled up in front of my building, a slightly run down walk up in a good neighborhood. I fished out some cash, and didn’t wait for change. I flipped open the handle, and climbed out, slowly, checking behind me that nothing was lost. As much as I was dreading having to hear his voice again, I didn’t want to lose the tape. It was all I had of him. All I’d ever have, said a voice inside my head that sounded remarkably like the manager.
I took a deep breath, feeling the cold hit my aching head, shut the door and tapped on the roof of the cab. Watching it drive down the one way street was like another link being snapped, something else broken between me and him. I would not cry again. No. I fished out my keys, and opened the heavy door, and slowly climbed up the stairs. I still felt light headed, and I gripped the railing as I went up. Six long twists later, I was at the top. I leaned on the door, breathing, and caught a whiff of that smell. No, it couldn’t be. I held up my bag to my nose, and inhaled. There it was, just a hint. The stairwell, the ugly tiles, the sparkles in the flooring, my headache—all receded—and I was left with that strange heaviness in my chest again, the feeling that had come over me when I first met him. I sank down, my back to the door, and buried my head in my bag. I didn’t care what kind of fool I looked, I just wanted to breathe in that…smell…and let it take me under. It will fade, I thought to myself,
and the pain hit me again.
Eventually, I stood up, shakily. This was not normal. I needed some normal. I unlocked the door and went in, but instead of throwing my bag on the floor, I walked into the kitchen and placed it gently on the table. A symbol, of something. I wasn’t even sure what anymore. I felt stoned. I went and washed my face. A glass of wine. That would settle me. And then I thought of him, facing that kitchen, facing his demons, and my stomach twisted. Coffee. I could drink nothing but coffee. “Oh come on!” I shouted. This was crazy. But I made the coffee and sat down again, running our conversation over in my mind. I was not looking forward to writing the piece, listening to the music, and his voice. That voice. Again. My headache was returning. I put the mug in the sink and walked across the hall to my bedroom. I needed to lie down.
In the shadows of the windowless hall, I noticed the red light flashing on the phone, but ignored it. I was sure it was Alice, wanting a blow by blow of the afternoon. Well, that would have to wait too. I wasn’t even sure I could describe what had happened, even if I wanted to. Because I knew I didn’t want to. It was ours. A moment we had created together. I wasn’t going to tell anyone. Maybe just myself, and even then I probably wouldn’t believe it. Like that movie. Yeah, the movies. They made them for a reason.
I returned to the kitchen, and picked up the bag. A few hours, alone with my thoughts, and I’d be able to return to life. Sure. I lay back down on the bed, and holding the leather bag to the pain in my chest, I closed my eyes.
Chapter 3
I was awakened by the sound of the door slamming. It was dark out, and I felt disorientated. Was it early morning? What had happened? Then I took a deep breath, realized I was still holding on to my bag. The faint scent was still there, floating ghostly on the surface of my consciousness. His voice, the music—I tried to grasp at pieces of it, but like a dream, it fragmented under my mental touch. I lay back down on the pillows, trying to make shapes out of the darkness on the ceiling. There was a knock. My American roommate. Alice.
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