Boston Avant-Garde 4: Encore

by Kaitlin Maitland

  Giving up on sleep, he rolled to his back and stared at the coffered ceiling. As always, he lingered over the Aladdin scenes from Arabian Nights. The streetwise thief had pretended to be a prince. Dante wasn’t trying to pull one over on a princess, but he figured swapping nationalities put him in pretty much the same category. Aladdin wanted to be the prince of Persia. Dante didn’t. Same dif.

  He’d spared no expense when he’d built the club. The contractor hadn’t made it any secret that he thought Dante was nuts to rehab an old South Dorchester warehouse. It would have made more sense to put an upscale club in a better area of the city. Dante didn’t give a shit. He’d had his own reasons for burying himself in the Lower Mills district of Dorchester.

  The old building had charm. It’d been a factory in the late 1800s and had already possessed a sort of atrium-like construction that had given Dante the initial idea for the club layout. It was twice as long as it was wide, with four floors, including a first level that was partially submerged in the rock surrounding the Neponset River. With the already narrow iron staircases and warren of corridors connecting various spaces on each floor, Dante had never had a desire to move anywhere else.

  He stretched his stiff muscles. It’d been too long since he’d gotten laid. When had sex become something he’d lost interest in? The erection pushing against the soft cotton sheets wanted to know the same thing. One night wasn’t enough. He hadn’t been that satisfied with a lover in ages, and last night he’d had two.

  The memory of Suri’s soft skin and Jericho’s spicy taste tormented him. His cock was painfully hard, the skin so taut he thought it might burst. Reaching beneath the covers, he wrapped his hand around his shaft and gently squeezed. It throbbed right back at him, angry at the loss of the woman and man who’d shared his bed for the first half of the night. He shouldn’t have allowed himself to sleep and miss out on the chance to instigate round two.

  He thrust his hips against his hand and shivered at the sensation. Sliding his fingers through the fluid leaking from the hole in the tip of his head, he brushed the warmth over his already sensitive skin. His eyes drifted shut, and the memories came back full force.

  He pictured his princess with her long blonde hair and bright blue eyes, taking his cock in her hand as she stared into his eyes. Those soft lips kissing a trail of fire down his belly. The anticipation of watching Jericho thrust into her pussy while she sucked Dante to completion. He clenched his fist, pumping it up and down as he remembered the feel of their bodies next to his.

  Her pink lips closed over the head of his cock as she sucked precum from the tip. Tongue like satin gliding across his skin, licking, teasing, until his balls were ready to burst.

  Dante groaned, his ass clenching tight as his climax built into a wall of need inside his body. He wanted Suri like he’d never wanted another woman. More than that, he wanted to share her with Jericho, to enjoy his friend’s hard body and thick cock. He wanted to feel the suction of Jericho’s mouth, the tight embrace of Suri’s pussy before his body came undone.

  Dante trembled, his cock spewing a thick stream of cum that scorched his belly. He groaned, sated and frustrated all at once. It wasn’t enough to relieve himself. He had to find a way to scratch this itch before he lost his mind. Asylum wasn’t the kind of place to run when you were distracted. One wrong move could bring the whole thing crashing down.

  Chapter Three

  “You’re playing as if you hate your instrument, Abby.” Suri cradled her own cello in her arms. “Make friends with the thing. You should hold it like you would a lover.”

  “As if I know what that’s like.” Abby’s grumble brought Suri to the realization that using sexual references while teaching a music lesson probably wasn’t a great choice.

  “Then think about how you hug your mom or dad.”

  The teenager wrinkled her nose. “I don’t typically put my mom between my knees for a hug, Ms. Robertson.”

  “Okay, forget the hugging.” Suri was reaching the boiling point at a much faster rate than usual. Either her students were twice as annoying, or her sexual frustration was off the charts. “Just be nice to it. You’re so tense your arms can barely move. Technique can’t be forced. You’ve got to feel it. If you can get in touch with the music, the technique will come.”

  Abby was her last private lesson for the afternoon. Suri liked the kid more than she did her other students. Abby had a bigger build that gave her an easier time with her playing stance, and her curly, dark ponytail and hazel eyes hinted at her witty sense of humor. It was just too bad she suffered from the vestiges of teenage drama.

  Suri looked up at the clock for the ten millionth time that day. If she finished up early, she could make it to Asylum by six. That would give her enough time to get the pick of the wardrobe selection before the other dancers started showing up with all their neuroses.

  “I can’t make friends with my cello. I think it hates me. Maybe I should switch to the violin.” Abby held the instrument away from her as though it might bite.

  The teacher/pupil relationship made it inappropriate for Suri to smack Abby on the back of the head, but that was her first instinct. “Why would you want to play the violin? Everybody plays the violin. The cello is an amazing instrument. Without it, the music is empty. And even alone, it can sing a beautiful melody.” Suri put her bow to the strings and played a few bars of her favorite Bach solo.

  The last note sang out, reverberating in the tiny studio. Yes, the cello could sing alone, but most of the time it longed for companionship. It wanted a trio, the kind that Leslie had been lucky enough to find. Could Suri possibly be that lucky in life? Or was it ridiculous to think that whatever had happened after she’d been happily buzzed on champagne could ever be repeated?

  Hormones, alcohol, and the confidence of an alter ego gone wild.

  Abby’s exaggerated sigh brought Suri back to the moment. “I wish I could play like you. You’re awesome.”

  “Thank you, but nobody is awesome right away. It takes time.”

  “I used to be awesome. Then I came here, and suddenly I suck.”

  The kid harbored some serious perfectionist issues. You didn’t get into the Boston School for the Arts if you sucked. “Okay, that’s enough for today.”

  Abby set her cello aside. “Be honest. Am I hopeless?”

  “Quit being ridiculous. You aren’t at all hopeless.” Suri racked her brain for a way to make this talented kid understand. “Tell you what, bring a piece of music with you next week that made you feel like you were awesome. It can be anything, but preferably something you played right around the time you got accepted here.”

  The girl’s expression grew visibly brighter. “Ooo! I know the perfect thing!”

  “Great. Now get out of here before you send me over the deep end.”

  They packed up their instruments in comfortable silence. The tiny, soundproofed studio had barely enough space for two people, their instruments, and their cases, so there wasn’t too much to put away. Suri stowed her cello carefully, snapping it into the hard-sided rolling case as if she were strapping a baby into a car seat. She and her friend Niles used to make fun of Leslie for her excessive love of her violin, but truthfully, Suri was just as nuts about her cello.

  “Ms. Robertson?” Abby stood and opened the door, preparing to wheel her case out into the hallway. “Thank you. You always make me feel better.”

  The door closed with a snick, and Suri was alone in the silent space. The words made her feel good inside, but there was also a bitter taste left behind. Why was it that some people were hardwired to be comforted, and others were destined to do the comforting? And how come nobody ever seemed to switch places?

  Her phone trilled inside her bag. She answered it without thinking. “Suri O’Callaghan.”

  “Jen? Is that you? This is Nurse Nancy Phillips.”

  A hard lump formed in her belly. “Yes, this is Jen. Is my mother all right?”

  “She’s fine no
w, but we had another incident this morning. Dr. O’Neil saw her afterwards, and he’d like to speak with you about the visit. Do you have time to stop by?”

  No. “Of course. I’ll be there in half an hour.”

  “Thanks, we’ll see you in a little while.”

  She ended the call and finished closing her cello case with hands that shook. Part of her wanted answers; the other part was afraid of them. But if she stopped to think about possibilities or options for the future, there was a good chance she’d start screaming and never stop.

  Leslie Hampstead swung the door open, flashing her brilliant smile. “Hey, do you have a minute?”

  “Actually, I don’t.”

  Leslie’s smile faltered. “You remembered we have a job tomorrow, right?”

  “Of course. I’ll be there. Ten o’clock in the morning.”

  “I thought we could go over the playlist tonight and hang out for a bit. We haven’t had time to talk in ages. Seth and Josh have a business meeting, so I’m on my own for a few hours.”

  Suri shoved the cello out into the hallway, careful not to bang it on the doorjamb. “Can you just e-mail me the playlist?”

  “Yeah.” Leslie followed her down the hallway toward a set of double doors that exited the building into the quad outside. Lessons were in progress, and the place was silent as a tomb.

  She could feel Leslie gearing up for one of her probing interviews. Leslie was the closest thing she had ever had to a friend, but not even she knew how screwed up Suri’s personal life really was. Les was great, but she was one of those people who couldn’t help but try to fix everything. Her desire to champion everyone’s lost causes had landed her in trouble too many times to count. Although it had also managed to put her in a long-term, committed relationship with two of the hottest guys in Boston.

  At least I thought they were hot before I got an eyeful of Dante and Jericho.

  The women pushed open the doors, stepping outside. In good weather, the quad was always filled with students lounging around the fountain, congregating on the benches beneath the big trees, playing impromptu concerts, and dancing like lunatics. At the moment, the place was deserted, and the cold wind sweeping in from the street carried enough arctic frost to freeze them solid.

  “Are you okay?” Leslie pulled up her collar against the weather.

  “Other than being freezing, I’m fine. Can you believe it was warm enough for an outdoor wedding yesterday?”

  “About that.” Leslie hesitated, and Suri realized she’d been stupid enough to give her friend the perfect segue. “What happened with you and the groom at the reception?”

  The last thing Suri wanted to talk about was her humiliating exposure at a public venue full of Boston’s social elite. “It was just a mistake, okay? The guy was a sleazebag. He was banging servers at his own wedding reception and decided to make me his next conquest.”

  “He said you were a stripper.”

  They were almost to the street. Suri could see a black Lincoln parked at the curb. “Your ride is here.”

  “Where are you headed? I could give you a lift. Josh sent the car so we could load up your cello for the gig tomorrow. I know you don’t like lugging it around on the bus.”

  A nice warm car sounded a lot better than the train, but Suri didn’t want to explain why she needed Leslie to drop her at the nursing home. “I’m good, thanks.”

  Leslie stopped walking and stared, making Suri feel guilty for withholding so much. “Why won’t you talk to me? Is your sister giving you fits again?”

  Finally, a safe topic. “Actually, I threw the asshole of the month out this morning. So other than the litany of insults she’ll give me after work, we’re pretty good.”

  “After work? You’re done for the day. Aren’t you going to see her when you go home? Or did she finally get a job of her own?”

  Damn. Either the cold air was numbing Suri’s brain, or her stress was reaching a point where she couldn’t control her mouth anymore. Next she’d be telling Leslie that she’d fucked her boss and the head of club security. A complex conversation, since Les had no idea that Suri worked at Asylum.

  “Are you working another job?” The sudden understanding on Leslie’s face made Suri’s heart sink. “Are you working as a stripper to get extra money? Is that why you don’t want to talk about yesterday?”

  She was so tired of hiding everything. The worst part was that Leslie would’ve been a great person to confide in, if Suri wasn’t afraid of how she’d react. She was tired of seeing shock turn to pity when someone found out what she did. Stripping made great money. It just wasn’t the most respectable way to do it. The humiliation from the day before was still hot on her mind. She’d been recognized in public and called on it. How many times would that happen?

  “Jen?”

  How she hated that name! It represented everything in her life she wanted to leave behind. Her toes were going tingly from cold. This was not the time to discuss any of it, much less her moonlighting. “Have your driver pop the trunk so I can put the cello in. I’ll see you at the luncheon tomorrow, okay? I’ll try to explain then. Will that satisfy you?”

  Leslie gave a sharp shake of her head. “It isn’t about satisfying me, Jen. I’m worried about you. You’ve been so stressed lately, and I want to help.”

  “Of course you do.” Suri gave Leslie a quick hug and nudged her toward the car. “Just go, and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Fine, but I’m going to sit on you until you talk.” Leslie opened the door and stuck her head inside. Moments later, the trunk lid opened.

  Suri carefully stowed her instrument while her friend climbed into the Lincoln. She watched the car disappear around the corner before she set off down the bumpy sidewalk to catch the Red Line. She wished she could be like Leslie and have some Prince Charming sweep in and whisk her off to a world of private cars, high-rise penthouses, and mouthwatering sex with two guys who actually gave a shit.

  * * * *

  “Your mother’s mental condition is deteriorating at a faster rate than I would have expected.”

  Suri was glad Dr. O’Neil’s words were flat and monotone. Had the man showed one ounce of pity, she would’ve broken down. “So what does that mean, exactly?”

  There was nothing soothing about the consultation room at Our Lady of Perpetual Hope’s private nursing facility. Considering the huge amount of money Suri paid them every month for her mother’s care, it should’ve looked like the Ritz. In fact, the place should’ve changed its name. She never felt hope when she walked through the sterile white hallways that always smelled faintly of antiseptic and urine. The consultation room was in a tiny nook sandwiched between two staff offices. Someone had attempted to make it friendly with a coat of rose-colored paint and some faded art prints, but the hard ladder-back chairs were as unforgiving as the doctor’s words.

  “The dementia is really not the issue, although her mental faculties and periods of lucidity have decreased exponentially.”

  Suri wasn’t certain that the dementia wasn’t a secret blessing. At least it kept her mother from being fully aware that Suri had had to put her in this awful place.

  O’Neil’s eyes were glued to his clipboard as if he were reciting a speech someone else had pasted there. “My real concern is the progression of the Parkinson’s disease. The medications we’ve been trying don’t seem to be helping the rigidity. She’s having difficulty swallowing, and I’m concerned about malnutrition and dehydration.”

  Sometimes it was hard for Suri to remember her mother before all of this. Fifteen years had passed since the first time she’d fallen while tending bar at a strip club in South Boston. Mellie Robertson hadn’t told her girls that her muscles had been stiff and she’d been having trouble getting around. Until that moment, she’d always been Suri’s rock, a strong woman who didn’t take crap from anybody. Without early treatment for her Parkinson’s, Mellie had declined quickly. Five years after the diagnosis, just after Suri finished
Boston School for the Arts on scholarship, there had been no choice but to put Mellie in a nursing facility. Suri had always told herself it was for the best, but even knowing she couldn’t have cared for her mother didn’t make the guilt go away. Suri’s mother had never held it against her, even on the days when she knew where she was.

  Suri sucked in a deep breath and held it, fighting for control. She hated feeling helpless. There was nothing she could do and nothing anyone else could do that would make things better. “Just say what you’re trying to say. I understand her condition isn’t going to get better. I just want to make her comfortable.”

  Dr. O’Neil hadn’t been at Our Lady very long. In ten years, Suri had seen eight different doctors come and go. The first few times it had happened, she’d felt as though they were deserting her, like they knew it was hopeless and they were getting out while they could. After a while, she started to realize that the job of watching residents die wore the doctors down just as much as it did her.

  O’Neil stabbed fingers through his dark salt-and-pepper hair and rested his elbows on the table between them. His face looked haggard, his brown eyes haunted. Suri knew he wouldn’t be around much longer. She wished she could say the same. “There are some treatments and medications we can try. Until then, I’ve put her on a liquid diet. If the rigidity increases much more in the throat area, she’s going to lose her swallow reflex. At that point, I might have to recommend a feeding tube.”

  “How much longer is all of this going to last?” Suri closed her eyes briefly, trying to find a modicum of hope or at least an end to the suffering.

  “There’s no way to know.”

  Which was the real bitch of this disease. It didn’t kill. Patients generally died of complications—things like pneumonia or the flu. In the meantime, their bodies either spasmed out of their control or hardened into shells that trapped their minds in a world not of their choosing. “Okay, you said new medications?”