Vibrato

by Tamara Mataya

  “I’m Paul, Paul Sullivan. So good to meet you, man, I’m a huge fan.”

  Dylan smiles. “Nice to meet you.” He turns to me and holds out his hand. “Dylan St. John.”

  I take it, startled at the jolt of electricity that shoots up my arm at the contact, startled more that there’s not even a glimmer of recognition in Dylan’s eyes. “Rachel Simmons.”

  He gives me a bland smile. “Nice to meet you.”

  Meet me? Is he joking?

  The hope dies in my chest as I search his gaze for the punchline that doesn’t come.

  The most surreal feeling in the world is someone who’s been inside you many times, introducing themselves to you like you’ve never met.

  Dylan used me for song fodder and promptly forgot I exist. My face burns that I could think for a second he cared about me as a person. Why did I think I meant something? Because he pretended to be sad and let me keep his sunglasses and I got carried away by the sweetness of the gesture? He could buy a sunglass factory for crying out loud. He’s probably used the same sweet gesture on hundreds of women.

  The song had nothing to do with any latent feelings for me—it was all about capitalizing on our time together. What else about myself am I going to find on that new album? Would he so casually destroy everything about our time together for a few lines of lyrics? How dare he. I feel ill with humiliation.

  Dylan smiles pleasantly. “You guys want a picture?”

  Is this a sick joke? He wants me to play the part of another nameless fan? I shake my head as Paul says, “That’d be awesome, bro. Hey, we’re musicians too, you know. We bonded over your band, actually. We’re both huge fans, aren’t we, Ray?”

  Bro? Ray? Does he hear how bad he sounds? He’s trying way too hard and I’m slightly embarrassed for him and for Dylan if this is how most grown men react in his presence. The women screaming and throwing themselves at him is bad enough, but the guys acting like they’re buddies would be equally annoying. It feels so fake.

  Dylan smiles and hands Paul’s phone to an assistant, and stands between us, throwing an arm around us both like we’re old friends. Why is he doing this? God it hurts. I don’t want him to out me as someone he fucked a couple weeks ago, but I wanted to see something warm and familiar in his eyes. Even if it was a tiny shared glance between us that said ‘you’re special and I remember you.’

  Instead there’s a polite nothing.

  “You want one with your phone, Rachel?”

  I shake my head at Paul’s question, wanting to disappear. How can Dylan stand here touching me like a stranger? Easy. He never gave a shit and he’s brought me back here to show me how little I meant.

  Dylan cocks an eyebrow. “Are you sure? It’s no problem.”

  My face burns as I look at Paul. “You can forward yours to me. I’m sure Dylan’s incredibly busy greeting all of his other”—I almost say groupies—“fans.”

  Dylan removes his arms from our shoulders. “Yeah, I should probably get going. Nice meeting you both.” He swaggers off to the next group—a trio of scantily clad women with sex in their eyes and grabby hands and giggles I want to silence with my foot.

  Paul makes me pose with the drummer for a quick pic, then the band leaves to change or do whatever they do after a concert. Probably banging groupies on the tour bus.

  I keep my gaze on my shoes, or my phone, the most subtle disengagement I can manage, growing angrier by the breath.

  We don’t hang around long once the band’s gone.

  “That was so cool.” Paul leads the way out.

  Dylan obviously doesn’t give a shit, but a part of me can’t let this go. Resentment’s dug its claws into my guts and if I don’t follow through, I’ll be emotionally disemboweled. “Now I really have to go to the bathroom.”

  “Oh. There should be one before the exit. Let’s go.”

  I shake my head and hope my expression is casual. “No, you go get the car. There should be less of a line by now, but there’s no point both of us waiting. I’ll meet you out front on the south side.”

  “Sure.” He’s enough of a gentleman to do as he’s told.

  I head back the way we came, slowing down as the hallway gets quieter. If I’d put on the concert Dylan gave tonight, I’d want to be somewhere quiet too. The doors grow farther apart until I hit a dead end—an emergency exit—and my anger stutters with my feet.

  You used him too, Rachel. For a wild experience, a fling to be someone else with.

  I know I used him too, but what he’s done is so much worse. It’s exploitative and hurtful, and he needs to know that’s not okay to do to someone. Is this how he gets his songs? By moving from one woman to another, exploiting the very personal details of their dalliances? I love Fallen Angels’ songs, but have I been loving songs that broke other women’s hearts when they heard them? Did he pretend not to know them too when they saw each other again?

  Their personal heartaches became beautiful songs I devoured and wished for more of. I feel vaguely sick.

  “Not like he’ll care.” Shaking my head, I lean against the wall, slowing my breathing, listening for the tone of his voice to show me where to go, but there’s nothing. No warm words drawing me forward, telling me it was all a joke, a lie to keep me safe from questions about how we know each other.

  Maybe he thought Paul and I were together? It doesn’t matter anyways. I can only linger for so long before a security guard’s bound to find me. With a huge sigh, I push off from the wall and stride down the hall.

  A door opens behind me, and rough hands pull me inside a darkened room, slamming the door shut and pinning me into it from behind.

  I open my mouth to scream and my mouth is covered.

  “Don’t say a word.”

  Dylan.

  “I knew you were trouble, Cello Chick.” The darkness in his voice, a raw edge in it, pins me to the spot and I shut my mouth and eyes as I savor the feeling of his body behind me, as I breathe in his rangy, scent, incredibly turned on despite myself when he grinds against my ass.

  I should be mad. I should be so fucking furious, but he moves his hand from my mouth and slides it down my shoulder, cupping my breast through the corset, long fingers dipping inside to scoop me out until my nipple’s exposed.

  My throat dries out from my ragged breaths, and I swallow hard. This is what chemistry is—the feeling that if they take their hands off you, you’ll explode. I never forgot what his touch felt like, but I didn’t remember how intense it is, what it does to my body.

  His fingers skim my nipple with the barest brush of contact and I shiver and he presses his hard body against my back, crushing me to the wall, pinning me exactly where I want to be.

  He gathers my hair and pushes it in front of my shoulder, yanking the back of my scarf down to access the nape of my neck with his mouth. Will he, is he—

  “I can’t believe you wore this scarf here.” He sucks at the tender flesh, pulling a gasp from my lips. A hand circles around my belly and eases lower—oh, God, if he touches me he’ll know how fucking wet I am—and slips into my panties, finding their way to my clit, skirting to the side at the last second, heading lower, lower, dipping into the abundance of wetness between my legs.

  “Christ.” He nips my neck with his teeth and I shudder. “You’re so fucking soaked for me already.”

  I nod.

  Then he works my clit, slicking me with my desire, letting those talented fingers slide around and around in a way that feels so perfect my eyes lose their ability to focus, so I close them again.

  “Do you know how fucking hot you are right now? All that soft flesh exposed, these tight fucking jeans leaving nothing to anyone’s imagination,” Dylan’s voice rasps in my ear. “Showing off your perfect little tits.” He nips my skin where my neck meets my shoulder, hot breath flowing down my chest.

  Our time apart evaporates like he never took his mouth off me.

  I arch into his touch. “You didn’t forget about me.”

>   “I haven’t stopped thinking about you, Rachel, my good girl.” His fingers slide lower, and he circles my aching hole.

  God, I want, I need him to fuck me and I shouldn’t. “Dylan,” I moan.

  He thrusts his fingers deep inside and all my breath leaves my body. My head spins, and I spread my legs as much as I can in these jeans to give him more space, to move deeper, to take whatever he wants.

  He pinches my nipple with the hand not buried inside me. “I said no talking, baby. I can still feel your tight pussy clenching my cock. I think about it and jerk off.” He presses his erection against my ass while his fingers plunge in and out, and for a wild moment I want him to jam his cock into me, even there, as long as he gets inside me again and makes me feel free, makes me come like only he can.

  “Dylan, please.”

  “Shhh.” He curls his fingers inside me, hitting my g-spot, and I sag against him, glad for the wall or I’d be on the floor. “I remember the surprise on your face when I ate you out and you came on my tongue at Tilt. In the stairwell. Anyone could have walked in on us.” He presses his thumb against my clit while working everything at once and I see stars. He grazes my earlobe with his teeth. “I can still taste you, Rachel.”

  Pressure builds and my hips frantically buck against his hand. I’m gonna come. I’m gonna come.

  “I want to eat that pretty pussy again. I’m going to lick it clean and then kiss you so you taste yourself.”

  Oh God.

  “And then I’m going to suck and bite your tongue. I’m going to nibble your hips until you’re wet again. And when you are? I’m going to fuck you until you scream my name.”

  My pussy spasms, clenching his fingers hard as I cry out through clenched teeth, unable to keep it in, shaking as release crashes over me, in spasms of heat so deep it almost hurts. Dylan’s hand leaves my panties and comes to my mouth. Caught up in endorphins and the moment, I suck his fingers into my mouth, tasting myself on him, wanting more.

  His hand leaves my mouth and returns to my breast, tucking it back into my bra—now with a piece of plastic nestled inside the cup next to my skin.

  “What’s this?” I brace my hand against the wall, and reach for whatever’s poking my nipple.

  “Don’t take it out. I'll be at the Liberty hotel in an hour. That's the keycard to my suite. Be waiting for me there. Naked.” He pulls me back from the door and spins me around. The hunger in his eyes sends tingles through me as he hauls me against him. Even through our jeans I can feel how hard he is. He grabs my ass one more time with a small groan. “You’d better not surprise me again, Rachel. Be there.”

  He doesn't even look at my face before opening the door and pushing me back into the hall, the key still tucked into my bra.

  The metal door closes, leaving me alone in the corridor with a key card, temptation and very wet panties.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Dazed, I start walking with no idea where I’m going, body swollen and heavy with the post-orgasm haze Dylan dropped me into, adjusting my clothes.

  What the hell was that about? The card digs into my nipple, and I pull the plastic rectangle out—Ebersol Suite—and tuck it into my purse, jumping as my phone buzzes.

  It’s a text from Paul. I’m out front.

  Shit. I completely forgot about Paul waiting for me outside while I was being finger fucked by the rock star we both admire. Chagrined, I type ‘I’m coming’ before deleting the unintentional double entendre. Yeah, I was coming a minute ago. Giggles rise in my chest like champagne bubbles in a glass. I need to pull it together before seeing Paul.

  Me: The line wasn’t as short as I’d thought it would be, but I’ll be right out. What color is your car?

  Paul: It’s black and lime green and hard to miss.

  I wonder what kind of car he drives. Something flashy to overcompensate like a lot of men do? I’d have pictured a practical beige sedan, but lime green and black? Definitely not my first guess for what would suit him. Then again, he surprised me tonight with his appearance—before he went all fanboy on Dylan, acting like they were ‘bros.’ Telling him we were musicians too, like that would somehow matter.

  Rock stars must be inundated with people trying to bond and relate with them, finding flimsy links in a grasping effort to forge a connection to stand out from the rest of the crowd.

  To be special.

  What would Dylan drive? He probably doesn’t drive, instead being driven around in a flashy limo, or town car. But if he did, I bet he drives an SUV or a truck. Something with muscle and room in the backseat for...

  Now moving with purpose, I make it outside in a couple short minutes. There are a few stragglers, but the street’s mostly deserted now. Black and lime green. I start heading left when a car horn beeps, surprisingly high-pitched.

  “Rachel!”

  I turn back to Paul’s voice and almost laugh.

  He’s driving a smart car. Really, good for him for trying to reduce his carbon footprint, but they look so silly. So much for overcompensating. “Sorry for the delay.”

  “It’s all right.” He opens my door for me.

  I’ve never ridden in one of these before, but it’s about as cramped as I expected. The seats aren’t that comfortable and the interior looks ultra-modern. If Ikea sold assemble-your-own cars, this is what they’d have for sale. I’ve got enough legroom, but as soon as Paul gets into the driver’s seat and his shoulder bumps mine, I know I’m in for a long ride.

  Now that I’ve sat down, I’m increasingly aware of how badly I need a fresh pair of panties. Can Paul smell my arousal? Digging in my bag, I seize my flavored lip balm, hoping the bright mandarin scent will hide a multitude of sins, as I give him my address. “How do you fit your cello in here?”

  “Very strategically.” He eases us away from the curb and into traffic. “No, I have a van as well. That was fun, hey? I can’t believe we scored a backstage invite.”

  I keep my eyes on the road and smile. “Yeah, it was awesome. Thanks for inviting me.” I turn to face him, but in the cramped interior, we’re way too close, it feels too intimate.

  “It was my pleasure. You’re a pretty laid back date.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  His eyes sparkle in the darkness. “It was meant as one.”

  “Is that the correct time?” I point at the digital clock on the dash that reads 11:17PM.

  “Yes, it is. Why, are you late for another date?”

  “No, I—”

  “I’m kidding, Rachel.” We pull up to a red light and he shifts to face me. “So, the night’s pretty young. Do you want to make the most of it? I mean, we’re already dressed and on the road. I don’t know about you, but there’s no way I can sleep right now. We could catch a movie, or go for a drink.”

  I can’t remember exactly what time it was when Dylan gave me an hour, maybe ten minutes ago? If I get Paul to drop me off, I could pre-order an Uber now to avoid a wait, but it’s another fifteen to twenty minutes to take me to The Liberty Hotel. God, that’s cutting it close, but it’s doable. I order the Uber. “I would, but it’s been a crazy couple weeks for me. I kind of want to finish unpacking”—I finished days ago, trying to focus on something other than the memories of Dylan, and online, well, stalking—“and get to bed.”

  He nods and smiles, but it’s a little forced. “No, sure, I hear you. Moving’s awful.”

  “It is.”

  “Maybe tomorrow? I could come over and help you with the unpacking?”

  An uncomfortable feeling squirms into my gut. The jig is up; directness is best. “I’m really sorry, Paul. I do like hanging out with you. I had fun tonight, but I don’t want you to get the wrong idea about a potential future between us. This is only going to lead to friendship.”

  “I see.” He focuses on the road.

  Taking a deep breath, I take the plunge and say the words I’ve been keeping to myself for ages. “There’s someone else. I’m sorry if I led you to believe thi
s was something it wasn’t.”

  He sighs. “No, I should have known someone like you would already be taken.”

  “Sorry.”

  This time when he smiles at me, there’s more warmth. “Don’t apologize. The situation wasn’t romantic going into the date, so it’s not your fault I was optimistic and got carried away. It’s probably for the best anyways. We wouldn’t want things to get complicated at work.”

  If only he knew how complicated it is for me. “We musicians are a tempestuous lot.”

  His laughter fills the car. “That’s for sure. I wasn’t lying about having fun tonight. And it’s nice to talk to someone from work who has outside interests. I’m okay with being friends.”

  It’s probably not a good idea, but I smile and nod, and we drive the rest of the way to my house chatting about nothing in particular.

  Each minute that passes winds me tighter, and I don’t invite him inside when he pulls up to my curb. “See you tomorrow.”

  He nods. “And again, don’t worry about Maestro. He always gets like this before a new season, but he’ll mellow out in a few weeks. Then you’ll be more worried about the performances than the practices.”

  “Thanks.” Maestro’s the last man I want to think about right now. I wait until Paul drives away, giving a cheery wave. My driver’s not here yet.

  I can’t bear to leave the street while waiting, and I pace quickly up and down the sidewalk in front of my house, one step ahead of second-guessing myself.

  Bad idea, bad idea. I can’t do this.

  Turn.

  Bad idea. Bad idea. I don’t care.

  The car arrives and I climb in, not looking back the whole drive over, clutching the keycard in my palm, taking comfort in the way it digs into my skin, making this feel more real.

  With nine minutes to spare, we reach The Liberty and I thrust some bills at the driver. “Keep the change.”

  “Are you sure?”

  I nod, unsure of how much I gave him, but I slam the door behind me. Hauling in deep breaths, I stop to gawk at the hotel for a moment. I don’t know anything about it other than it’s imposing and gorgeous and Dylan’s got a suite up there he wants me to be naked and waiting for him in about eight minutes. Huge grey blocks and tall gracefully arched windows make up the façade of a hotel that looks more like a tasteful, modern palace.