by Skye Warren
Distantly I realize I’m muttering to her in Arabic. Strange, that. It’s the language I used on the streets of Tangier. The one of familiarity and abandon. I’m alternately soothing her and cursing her, though I’m sure she can understand neither.
Slowly she stills. Her breathing evens out.
When she lifts her head, there’s a distinct echo of loss in my chest.
“Is this…okay?” Her pale green eyes are large now, still hazy from sex but with some worry seeping in. Perhaps she senses that I’m not okay.
Perhaps because I’m clenching her ass hard enough to leave fingerprint bruises.
It’s an act of extreme hardship and heroism that I let go of her. I’m not entirely graceful as I shove her off my lap. Not entirely steady on my feet, but mon Dieu. My cock is as hard as iron in my pants, leaking against the black fabric, ready to explode.
If this were an ordinary relationship, I would take it out. Let her talented little fingers stroke me the way she plays the piano. Let her pretty lips taste me, but this isn’t an ordinary relationship. I’ve had women blow me, of course. Many clients wish to. Some even want me like this, desperate and demanding. But they are experienced enough to ask for it. This woman, she’s too innocent for the thoughts in my head. So I force myself to the bathroom.
I force out the words to say, excuse me, but I’m too far gone to be sure. They might be in English or French. Or in Arabic, the street language, the one I mumble in dreams.
Only in private do I lean my back against the door and pull down my zipper. There is infinite relief, letting my heavy cock fall onto my palm.
It only takes two strokes, remembering the spice on her tongue, the softness of her lips. The sweetness of her body in my arms. And I’m coming, spurting into my hand.
In the aftermath I can only stare at the gold-plated bathroom fixtures, the tile that is probably imported from Paris itself, with faded script and designs on every other piece.
I know I should not, but I have never been very wise. And so my head turns to the side, where I can see myself in the mirror. My hair is askew. My cheeks dark with passion. I look like a man who has been months without sex, years without it.
Like a man who has only just discovered what it is.
Chapter Ten
When I return, the dining room is empty.
Except for the cat, who sits and watches me with judgment in her gray eyes. Does she smell Bea’s desire in the air? Does she smell mine? Of course she does; she’s a cat. Why do I care? I can’t help but want her to like me, this scared little girl with razor-sharp claws.
I peek into the bedroom, but the white sheets are neat and tidy. I’m half-tempted to check behind the dresser, as if Bea might have shoved herself into a corner.
And then the music starts.
Like the kind that came streaming over the Internet, but far better than anything the tiny speakers in my phone could have reproduced. The sound draws me back through the living room to the other end of the penthouse.
I pause at the doorway, uncertain of my welcome.
Notes filter through the cracked doorway. More than anyone, I know that true privacy comes not from the body but from the mind. She might not want me in the room.
In the end it’s my own need that decides me. I need to see her, to feel her. To make sure she’s okay. We didn’t do anything particularly traumatic. A dry-humping session is practically adolescent, but I find myself strangely protective of her. Protective even from myself.
The door is silent as I push it open, revealing a room with a grand piano in the middle, lighting and video equipment all around the edges. There’s a large black rectangle in the corner with a hundred silver switches on it, as if she’s going to fly to the moon.
Bea sits at the piano, her eyes closed as her fingers dance over the keys.
The music stops.
Her eyes light up as she sees me, and I can finally take a deep breath.
“There you are,” she says, a little playful.
I like her like this, relaxed. It’s the music that makes her this way, but I like to think that it was me, too. Her orgasm, the one she wrung from my body.
“Here I am,” I say, wandering into the room, careful not to step on any wires. “This is quite an elaborate setup. Do you know what all these machines do?”
A smile flickers at the edges of her lips. “It was either that or get a filming crew every day.”
“You post every day?” I already know that I’ll be checking her channel from home, a level of connection I’ve never had with any client before, never wanted.
“Most days.”
“Do the other musicians mind? When you play their songs?”
“Some.” A small shrug. “Now it’s a big enough business that I can license the songs that I want to show. And before that…”
She plays a little song. It takes me a moment to realize it’s the refrain from “Baby, One More Time” by Britney Spears. Considering why I’m here, I can’t help the smile that spreads. She’s a dangerous woman, this one. Already beautiful and smart and shy. And now, funny?
Dangerous.
“Before that?”
“Before that I was lucky. This really huge artist saw one of my videos and she reposted it. Then it happened again with someone else. Next thing I knew I had these big PR firms contacting me, wanting me to do one of their client’s songs as soon as it comes out.”
I lean one hip against the piano, looking down at her. I’m the one above her, but she’s still the goddess on her glossy black bench. Lucky? That wasn’t luck. That was her incredible talent and what must be serious business intelligence. “And if you don’t like the song?”
“Then I don’t play it. But that’s not really the test. It’s more about whether I think I can add something to the song, something to make it my own. I wouldn’t just play the song as written. So if I don’t feel it… on the inside, you know? If I don’t have something to add, I won’t take the deal.”
“That’s incredible,” I tell her. “That you’ve built this empire in your spare bedroom. You can pick and choose what you play. Make it your own. I’m in awe of you.”
A breathy little laugh that I feel all the way in my soul. “It feels like me alone in a room, most days. Which is the only reason I can do it.”
So much isolation. Does it cost her something? I think it does, even if she doesn’t know it. “Would you ever play in front of an audience?’
“Oh no,” she says immediately. “I could never. Not only because I wouldn’t leave, but… playing is private. The cameras aren’t real people. They’re just recording. Not watching.”
An interesting distinction, but I’m not convinced. There are thousands of people watching those videos. Bea may tell herself she’s alone, that she prefers it that way, but it hurts her. And for some reason I think I can help with this problem. A foolish idea, probably.
You’re falling for her, asshole.
“Has it always been like this for you? Creating new songs from what you hear?”
She shakes her head. “I mean, I always heard the music in my head. I thought that was normal. My mom was the same way. She was a concert pianist.” I hear the pride in her voice. “She played in Carnegie Hall.”
“That’s incredible.”
A shaky breath moves her. “She died, when I was nine. My dad, too.”
Everything inside me goes still. This is huge. An earthquake in the middle of afternoon tea. What she’s revealing to me splits her world apart. It’s splitting mine.
“It was…pirates, actually.” This time her laugh is pained. Bitter. The kind that slices through my defenses. How many people has she told this to? Not many. Maybe no one. “They were on a yacht. A party with a hundred people, but the pirates only took them.”
“Why?” I breathe, but I already know the answer. It’s folded around us. Money.
“They wanted a ransom. At least that’s what they usually did, but something must have gone wrong. Th
ey usually would have only taken my mom, made my dad pay the ransom. But for whatever reason that day they took them both.”
And they didn’t come back. “Bea. You don’t have to continue.”
Her eyes are mournful. “But I do, because you do something to me. Make me feel open and vulnerable. Scared, but like I want to keep feeling it. How do you do that?”
You do that to me, too. I don’t say it.
“They never found out exactly what happened on that boat. Probably my dad fought them. There was a struggle and both of them died that day, before they even asked for anything.”
“I’m sorry, Bea.” More sorry than I can put into words. More sorry than I thought I could feel for someone. On the streets of Tangier I saw more tragedy than should exist, but it moves me beyond bearing, her suffering.
She gives a little shake of her head. “Most of the time I don’t think of it.”
“Why now?” I ask softly.
She scrunches her nose. “This is embarrassing but I guess it’s talking to you. I mean, using words. I go downstairs and chat with people, but it’s always on the surface. Anything deep, anything important, it happens through music.”
“It’s beautiful,” I tell her when what I mean is, you’re beautiful.
“When they died, I stopped speaking.”
“You mean… entirely?”
“For a couple years, yeah. There were therapists and doctors. I could make a sound, if I was startled or scared. But I didn’t form words. I already played piano before that, but after that it was the only way I would communicate. Anything I wanted to express, it happened here.”
I understand that she means more than the piano. She means this room.
God.
Chords of longing and loneliness fill the air, her expression dark.
“‘Hotel California,’” I say softly.
Then her eyes brighten. “For you.”
This one I recognize immediately. ‘Castle on a Cloud.’ It’s a song that’s part of the Les Misérables musical. My face turns to stone, but inside there’s a clamor.
The notes slow and then stop.
“Sorry. Was that weird? Because your name is Hugo. And the author was Victor Hugo.” She looks crestfallen. “Of course that was dumb.”
I force myself to speak through the chaos inside me. “Not dumb.”
“Then why do you look like you’re going to throw up.”
Moving stiffly, I manage to sit next to her on the bench. She scoots to the side to make room for me. “I’m sorry,” I say.
“No, don’t. I’m the one who can’t interact with regular people.”
“I hope you aren’t categorizing me as regular,” I tell her, managing to find some wry humor in this situation. I want to shut down, to push her away, but she opened herself up too far for that. “The truth is that my mother named me for that author.”
Green eyes widen. “Did she?”
“I’m not sure why I’m named Hugo instead of Victor. Perhaps because it was easier to spell.” Then I admit something that always pained Mama. “She couldn’t read.”
She couldn’t read, so she never knew the irony of a book about a man starved enough to steal bread and a revolution he wouldn’t need. About a whore who sacrificed for her daughter and a grand love she would never know.
“But she liked the story?” Bea asks, too innocent to realize that there was no one else on our street who could read either. No one knew the story, but Mama kept the large book as a sad little tribute to our French heritage. Only when I moved to America did I learn what it was about.
“She liked that it was long and important.” Perhaps she thought it would help me become important, instead of an illiterate maid. I never knew what my father did for a living. My skin is darker than Mama’s, my hair a rich black. So my father was probably native to Morocco, one of the transient workers who appeared and disappeared like ghosts haunting the harbor.
“I’m named after an author too,” Bea says. “But her books were less long. Less important, too.”
“Who?”
“Beatrix Potter.” At my look of bemusement she explains. “She wrote Peter Rabbit. It’s a children’s book about a rabbit who gets into trouble.”
“It sounds less tragic, at least.”
She laughs a little, but sadly. “That’s true. Will you come back next week, Hugo?”
I have the feeling this question is about more than money, but that’s the only way I know how to answer. “Of course, darling. Call the agency and get on my schedule.”
Chapter Eleven
At the beginning I worked most nights. I shared a one-room apartment with Sutton, who arrived in Tanglewood more broke than myself. Every cent I earned went into investments, some throughout the city in real estate, others in the stock market. As my portfolio grew and my hourly rate got higher, I stopped working—except for Saturday nights.
Even with a large nest egg, the money I make in a single evening is worthwhile. My services are only for the elite women of the city, those who can afford to throw thousands of dollars at pleasure.
And I enjoy my time, usually.
The arrangement suits me, but not everyone is pleased. When a knock comes on my door Sunday morning, I know who it is before I check the security camera on my phone.
It is with great reluctance that I press the button to let her in.
I take a final swallow of espresso before I get up to meet her at the door. We exchange kisses on the cheek, superficial pleasantries before she attempts to stab me in the back.
“Come in,” I tell her genially, because I have much experience with pretending.
Melissande gives me a dark look because she knows this. “Beatrix Cartwright booked you again.”
I stroll into the living room and recline on one of the over-plush leather sofas. Everything here is luxurious and modern and completely impersonal. The furnished loft was only going to be a stepping stone after moving out of Sutton’s, but I’ve never seen any reason to leave.
“I thought you’d be pleased.” This is a lie. Nothing has pleased her for many years.
She sits across from me, crossing her slender legs, revealing the edges of her garters. Always dressed to impress, this woman. “Meanwhile the rest of your clients are clamoring for an appointment. This new girl is taking up all your time.”
“So give the night to someone else,” I say, pretending my throat isn’t tight at the thought of not seeing Bea again. But I’ve never minded who booked my time before. I’m not going to start now, especially when Melissande would see it for the weakness it is.
“Beatrix pays too well,” she says, looking annoyed despite the fact that she makes a neat forty percent for doing nothing but taking phone calls.
“Then why are you here?”
“You know why. Because you need to work more nights.”
“Non, I’m doing very well. You are the one who needs me to work more nights.”
A sneer forms on her pretty lips. “Are you having trouble keeping it up more than once a week? There are medicines that can help with that.”
It does not bother me, the insult. She used to be a whore before she became the madam. And like most women her hourly rates only went down and down. While mine only goes up. It is the curse of our genders, but I will not quibble over it. “I work Saturday nights. That’s all.”
At my quiet certainty, her face forms a pout. I’m sure that is effective on some men. Once it would have been effective on me, but I learned not to trust her a long time ago.
Her dark gaze takes me in, from my open collar to my fresh slacks to my bare feet. I am only beginning the day, still comfortable and crisp. Her eyes heat in that familiar way that once would have made the back of my neck warm. Now I’m left completely cold.
“Or perhaps I can remind you of what it felt like to have sex every night. Several times a night. You were quite skilled at that, once. Maybe that was only for me.”
“I was fifteen,” I say, my v
oice flat. “And horny.”
Rage flashes in her eyes. “Don’t be crass, darling.”
I manage not to flinch when she says that. Darling. That’s where I learned it, after all. A word to push someone away. “You know very well that I can leave you whenever I please and earn the same amount of money. More, probably.”
She smiles, probably not realizing how cruel it looks. “Then why don’t you?”
Melissande was a beautiful woman when I met her, in the finest designer clothes and with her glossy hair in curls. She had so much money, I could not have guessed that she was a prostitute for the wealthy men who came to the city. She took me into her penthouse suite and showed me what it meant to be a man—or at least what I thought it meant.
There was nothing keeping me in Tangier, so when she offered me the chance to come with her to America, I took it. Perhaps it should have alarmed me that we had to pretend I was her adopted son in the paperwork, but I was too eager to come. Too blindly in love.
My lips twist in a wry smile. “Perhaps because I still have feelings for you.”
Her cheeks flush, most likely with anger. She hates to be the subject of pity. But what else can I feel for her? When I realized she only wanted to whore me out, it broke my heart. There are no feelings left in that organ now. No love and no warmth.
“I’ll give you seventy percent,” she says flatly.
“Thank you,” I say. “I will be happy to accept seventy percent of what Beatrix pays for Saturday night. But no more than that. One night a week. That’s all you get.”
She narrows her eyes. “There’s something different about this girl, isn’t there?”
“Apparently she pays more,” I say, my voice dry.
“No, something else. Is her pussy extra tight? She did mention her little problem. The virginity thing. I told her you would take care of that. Did it feel special, Hugo?”
It’s been years since her digs could make me angry. And yet I feel it rising inside me now, the need to tell her not to talk about Bea. It would only give Melissande power.
