The Tour

by Shelby Rebecca

  As we finally make it down the last round of stairs, we find the rest of our group sitting around a table eating the food we’d brought. I think the blanket might have been uncomfortable. I remember Deloris telling me her back’s been hurting from sleeping on the twin bed in Kolton’s baby room. “Seagulls!” Riley yells when she sees me. “They dive bombed us.”

  “What do you mean?” I question.

  “They took my whole piece of apple! Then another one took Deloris’ chicken wing!” I look up and see a few more stalking us.

  “I’m hungry, though. Do you think we should risk it?” I ask her. She makes a sideways smirk and shrugs her shoulders.

  “If you’re brave.”

  “Are you brave enough, Kolton?” I ask. He says nothing, but gets a plate and hands it to me, then one to Devon, and gets one for himself. Above us, some seagulls dance and squawk.

  “Ladies first,” he says. So I grab the sandwich marked ‘vegetarian’ and some potato salad, along with apple slices.

  I sit down next to Riley, lean in and say, “I think he’s brave enough, don’t you?” and she giggles.

  “Keeping secrets, girls?” he says as though he’s mad, but he’s not.

  “Never,” I claim with mock distress. But the reality that very real secrets lay between us isn’t lost on me. And, by the distant look on his face as he stares off toward the city of Manhattan, it’s not lost on him either.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Missed Notes

  “When are we going back?” I ask as I stand here, my muscles sore, looking out over the city from the window in the master bedroom portion of our huge suite. I hope he says never. Although his parents’ house is a refuge, it also feels like a cage. I’d gotten used to living on top of the world in his apartment. This feels a lot like that.

  “That’s what I was going to talk to you about,” he says, sauntering into the beige and black marble bathroom, and I hear him turning the water faucet on for the enormous tub. I walk toward the doorway as he adds some of the fancy Oscar De La Renta bath gel to the water. Immediately, I smell spice and florals, and my muscles ask to be soothed by it. I feel it in my neck and shoulders, my legs, and my back.

  He dims the lights, and I watch as he takes off his grey sweatshirt and white, long sleeve shirt underneath and tosses it on the floor. His abs constrict and tighten, his hips angling perfectly into his loose jeans. I have to swallow. “What did you need to tell me?” I ask.

  “We can’t stay much longer. But I want to enjoy this while we can.” I follow his lead and pull the black tunic over my head, dropping it onto the back of the chair. He bites his bottom lip and his eyes devour me, taking in my every curve. He makes me feel so desirable, so sexy. He sits on the edge of the tub and his hands come to rest on his thighs. I have to suck in a breath when his palms and long splayed fingers run the length of his legs. “And soon you’re leaving on tour,” he says, his tone somber.

  His eyes stay on mine for so long that it begins to hurt deep inside. He watches the changes in me. My heart beats for him fast and sure. I feel my cheeks heat up with a blush. He blinks slowly, and when he opens his eyes, he says, “Unbutton your pants.” I swallow hard and move my hand to my top button. As I loosen it, he moves his hand to his button, too.

  I pull the zipper down and wiggle out of my jeans, sliding them down my legs. When I come up and step out of them, he takes himself out of his jeans. Seeing the way he handles himself has me shaking with need. The way he moves his hand up and down, I have to close my eyes or I feel like I’ll burn up. Combust.

  “Pull my pants down, Mia,” he directs. I come to stand in front of him, kneel, and do as I’m asked. “Take me into your mouth,” he breathes.

  It’s been so long since he’s let me return the favor, and I lead with my tongue. He tastes like salt and man. As I take him deep, his head tilts backward; his eyes shut so hard there are deep ridges around his eyes.

  I feel the power I have over him in this moment. How much he needs me and wants me. He pulls me up so I’m standing, turns off the water, and removes my bra with a flick of his fingers. Running the tips of his fingers down my legs, he removes my panties. I’m breathless as he pulls his finger up and down my spine and then nips my earlobe with his teeth. “I never want to forget the way you look right now,” he praises me, but there’s fear in his voice, in his eyes when he pulls back and looks me up and down. It’s like he thinks he could really lose me.

  He steps into the water and helps me in, too. Our lights are dim inside the bathroom, but anyone who steps on their balcony next door to us might see us. I reach for the white roman shade and, after it falls, he kisses me, slow and deep, his tongue coaxing me, leading me, forcing a response. He lowers us into the steamy water and then pulls me onto him by my hips.

  As he fills me slow and deep, my back arches. His mouth and tongue on my neck. “Would you love me, Mia,” he moans out. “No matter what?” he questions, our skin hot, and the steam rises up around us like a fog. Then he moves down and his teeth sink into the rise and fall of my breast. The water circles around us, like the confusion in my mind.

  The scent of musk and primrose fill the air, and the pressure of his thumb rubbing circles, his mouth as it forms around my nipple, pulling, builds me up and up. “Promise me you’ll understand,” he murmurs, and when I think he can’t be deeper inside, he rocks his hips again. Agonizing pressure, building and building. I can’t process his confession now. My senses are too open. I am undone.

  It’s as if there is a cord wrapped around my heart, constricting and plugged into his. I hold him as he empties himself into me, rock my hips and clench down. “My love will never end,” I reassure him, as he cries out, his voice mixing with the steam.

  And as we cling to one another, I worry how I’ll ever leave this man—especially when we’re so new and fragile. In this moment, I realize there is a difference between needing and wanting. And I’m scared that he needs me to make up for losing his parents because I’ve lost mine, too.

  We have to be two whole people for this to work, but we’re broken. And when I leave, with all these secrets between us, how can we heal? How can we become whole enough to love with our whole hearts?

  * * *

  He dries me off with the softest towel I’ve ever felt, while letting water drip down him in long streams. I press my finger tip along the scar above his heart. It looks so much better—maybe his heart is healing, too. I take another towel and dry him off. And then he picks me up, like a bride over the threshold, and carries me to the turned down bed. As I get under the covers, my sensitive naked skin is so awake to the feeling of the soft, cool sheets, and the heavy warmth of the white duvet.

  He climbs over me and nestles the two of us under the covers. My legs are just beginning to feel sore from that climb. Three hundred and forty-four steps. “What did you mean, Kole?” I ask, worrying about his cryptic confession. My arm stretches up and I run my fingers through his still wet hair.

  “Hmmm?” he mumbles and opens his eyes, heavy with sleep.

  “Never mind,” I say, nuzzling my nose into the spot just under his chin. When I look down, he’s moved the sheet enough I can see him in all his glory. He’s beautiful and strong, and healthy. I lay my hand on his chest and listen to his heart beat and the ebb and flow of his breathing. I decide I’ll ask him later, just before I drift away.

  * * *

  Why does the piano always sound like doom? I think. But then I open my eyes, and I’m not on stage; I’m in bed. I’m in the Peninsula Suite. The sound is coming from inside our suite.

  I reach for Kole, but he’s not here—the bed is wide and empty. I sit up and throw my covers to the side and listen again to the sad piano piece that’s playing in our suite. I step down onto the plush carpeting, grab the white robe lying on the chair, and open the door. Our suite has another bedroom where Deloris and Riley are, and we’ve connected to another deluxe suite where Devon and Manny are sharing a room. It’s over
3000 square feet, with a full kitchen, study, dining room, and a living room. I remember there was a piano in there, too.

  As I walk down the wooden floor covered in a plush rug, I see the dimly lit living room through the dark double doors. I’m struck by the image before me. The long wall of windows partially covered by linen drapery through which, the city lights are blinking their busy, old tune, and then Kolton, lit only by one single floor lamp nearest him, in the corner behind the linen tufted chairs. His bare back is hunched over the black piano as he plays, fingers splayed and pounding gently upon the white keys. I stand firmly planted, scared to take a breath. He’s working through something, and I think interrupting him could ruin his efforts.

  I can’t look away. I can’t stop wanting to hear it. It’s like a sad love story. He hums a little, then stops, but never stops playing the song. I lean against the doorjamb, and settle in to let the story play out in tune. But then, my bare feet lose their grip on the smooth marble, and it squeaks a little under my heel. I try to move back into the shadow of the foyer, but he sees me first.

  “Come in, Mia,” he says, still playing his tragic tune. I walk in, stepping onto the beige rug, and sit down on the yellow couch, facing him. I feel my eyes getting heavy. The couch is comfy, and as sad as his playing is, it’s soothing, too. I lay my head on my arm, and notice he misses a note. He stops, and tries to play it again, but misses it again, and then again. His jaw is set. The glow from the lamp shines on his chest, his arms. The muscles in his arms are straining against the song.

  He pounds once with all his fingers, and then drops his head. “Kole?” I ask, and watch as his hands come up onto the top of the piano, and his back starts to move as his breathing increases. I go to him and sit down on the edge of the bench. “What is it, Kole?” I coax.

  “I want you to need me, too, Mia,” he admits, resting his forearms on the edge of the piano’s top. “But I’ve been thinking about this a lot,” he says, taking my chin and tilting it up. “You should look into the other contracts that are coming in for you.”

  “Oh, I mean, I’ve been thinking about that, and—”

  “That way you aren’t feeling dependent on me. I mean, you and me would be more like partners—but I feel you holding back with me,” he says. I take a second to think. I was going to ask him what was bothering him when he pulled me into the tub with him last night. Is it really who I’ll sign with? Because it felt like he thought I would leave him. Like he’d done something wrong, but what?

  “I’m not holding back. I just want us to be two complete people, or we’ll never be able to withstand all the times we have to be separated. I’ve thought a lot about your deal, and I—”

  “I’ve scheduled a meeting for you tomorrow,” he interrupts. I feel my eyebrows furrow and my heart constrict in my chest. “I want you to choose the contract that’s right for you. I want you to go into your career feeling like you’re the one in charge of it.”

  “Who’s the appointment with?”

  “Ceol,” he says. As I recall, Ceol: The Art known as Music, is owned by several well-respected producers. In fact, Rania Steele, the first celebrity to co-coach me on The Stage, is signed with them. I nod, tucking my bottom lip under my teeth.

  “You don’t have to do this,” I say.

  “You need to do this,” he says, forcing a smile. He takes my hand and leads me back through the double doors and then down the hallway into our room. As he takes my robe off and tucks me into bed, he goes around to the other side instead of climbing over me. I’m on edge. He’s not angry; he’s being soft and gentle—not the normal pushy Kolton. He’s got boxer briefs on, and I suddenly feel really naked.

  I wonder if this is a trick—what he’s doing tomorrow. If how I choose a contract could mean the end of us, or if he’ll really respect my decision. And is this just a way for him to divert my attention from his mysterious confession?

  How am I supposed to sleep now?

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The Deal

  This hotel spoils us. They made Kolton and me eggs benedict—without the meat and fruit on the side for me—a side of baked veggies for him. They bring tea and coffee in beautiful silver carafes. Riley’s addicted to the waffles and whipped cream. Deloris likes the quinoa and oatmeal power breakfast. Devon and Manny get the sunny side up eggs, potatoes, and bacon. Guess who steals the guys’ bacon.

  There goes Riley’s little hand to the silver platter with the bacon. She’s never going to be a vegetarian, like me. I check the time on my phone. I haven’t used it in so long; I deleted most of my apps—all the ones for social media.

  There’s a text from Kaya. I’ll read it later.

  “What time are we meeting with the people from Ceol?”

  “Ten o’clock,” Kolton says. That gives us about two hours.

  “I’d better hurry up,” I say, jokingly, but not really. I want to look professional and I need to wash my hair.

  “I have lawyers meeting you there,” he adds, nonchalantly, taking a sip of his black coffee.

  “I’m not signing anything right now,” I tell him, in my own defense.

  “Exactly, but they’ll be able to explain the terms of the contract to you. I’m not going in with you.”

  “Why not? Are you punishing me?” He rolls his eyes, and then rubs his face with both hands.

  “Mia, this is your decision, not mine. If it were my choice, you’d sign with Bad Heart. End of story.” I hate the look of disappointment in his eyes.

  “Kolton,” I say, in warning.

  “When are you going to learn to trust me?” he asks, raising his voice. The chatter at the table stops as all eyes fall on us.

  “We’re back to this again,” I say, matching his tone.

  “Because you don’t. Not yet. But I’m not giving up,” he says, as he takes his napkin off his lap and throws it on the table.

  Watching him walk away, I feel so ashamed. He wants nothing more than to share this process with me, to write and record music together. To share everything. He’s so giving, and I’m grateful for that.

  But, at the same time, if I rely on only him for all of my needs, including my career, where will he end and I begin?

  * * *

  The Ceol building was just a few blocks from our hotel. I’m wearing platform boots with three-inch heels and I wish I’d worn flats. Apparently, New Yorkers walk all over the city and they know better. It’s not like Carrie Bradshaw in her Versace heels. All the women I passed on the street were wearing flats.

  As I enter the lobby, Devon walks forward and says something to a man and woman who are sitting on the couches. “Mia Phoenix, this is Lenora Vasquez and Bob Fairfax. They’re the lawyers who are meeting with you today.”

  Both are probably in their fifties and wearing really nice suits. They stand and shake my hand. Lenora has had some work done—not a wrinkle in sight, and I love her hair. It swished perfectly as she stood. Bob is a little overweight, but a sharp dresser. “Do you always do entertainment law?” I ask.

  “Yes, Miss Phoenix,” Lenora says. “Between the two of us you’ve got about sixty years of experience.”

  “How long have you worked for Kolton?” I ask.

  “Actually, we’ve never worked directly with Kolton Royce. We have, however, worked with his uncle, Tedd Royce, on many deals over the past twenty-five years,” Bob informs me.

  “Oh, I thought he’d have a staff lawyer.”

  “He does. We’ve represented the artists he’s signed, helped them negotiate better deals with him when their contracts were about to expire. That kind of thing.”

  “Have you ever represented an artist who’s signed with Ceol?” I ask. I need to know if they’re impartial.

  “Yes, we have,” Lenora says. “We’ve helped nearly a dozen artists negotiate very advantageous contracts here as well.” I relax a little. They’re here to help me, not steer me toward Bad Heart Records.

  A receptionist comes around to the lobby and s
miles. “Right this way,” she says, motioning toward the elevator. We all step in, and when the doors open again, we’re escorted into a conference room. Already in the room is a grey-haired man in his late fifties or early sixties, and another man who’s probably in his thirties.

  “I’m Richard Altman,” the older man says, “and this is John French. He’s from our legal department.”

  “Nice to meet you both,” I say, shaking one and then the other hand.

  There are a few niceties between Lenora and Bob and the two of them, and the receptionist offers to bring us something to drink. I choose a Pepsi, needing a little sugar in my bloodstream.

  John passes out paperwork to everyone, and Richard starts. “We’re pleased to have you here today, Ms. Phoenix. But we’re altogether confused about why you’re looking into other record companies besides Bad Heart Records. Are you serious about considering our offer?”

  “Yes, I’m serious about it. I’m concerned about being in a relationship with Kolton and working with him at the same time.” I don’t feel the need to explain further.

  “Thank you for your honesty,” he says. “So, let’s get down to business. As you’ll see, we’ve started with the basics, that’s what you’ll see on the first page of our proposal.”

  As I look it over, it’s broken down by categories. It starts with Royalties.

  …30% of the royalties will be split with Mia Phoenix after the advance is earned from record sales, ticket sales, and merchandise….

  …The duration of the contract will run one year, with six options…

  …Lock-out clause…to our satisfaction…owns the rights to the artists’ name, likeness, and songs for the duration of the contract.

  …Advance: $250,000…

  “Thirty percent seems pretty low,” I say, pointing out the only thing I really understood. And the dollar amount, of course, which is more than I made on The Stage. Coming in as runner up earned me about $100,000. Pennies to Kolton, but three or four year’s income working the three jobs I had after Mom and Dad died.