Vibrato

by Tamara Mataya

  “You can ride off into the sunset with your rock star. He’ll keep you safe from the evil Blaine and his evil plans you’ve somehow decided to sign on for, and fuck you senseless while serenading you with his sweet, sweet music.”

  I close my eyes imagining it. Dylan, sweeping me away, taking me to his mansion in the Hills. He said he had a pool. We could make love by it, in it. No one would bother us, we could be ourselves and relax. The sun would shine down on our private little world where there were no expectations or regrets.

  We could make music together too, like we did that day before our bodies crashed together, caught up in the magic we created, a link so irresistible it was nearly tangible in the air.

  But even if he’d felt something for me that was more than a spark of chemistry—more than what he’s found with anyone else—I thoroughly doused it last night. He still hasn’t returned my calls. Or texts. Or emails. “I’m not breaking the contract.”

  She frowns. “Why can’t you have both? He might not want a relationship either. Rock stars are total players. You can see him, have amazing sex, and be married to Blaine, keeping the contract intact. Win-win. Except for the kid, but maybe you can renegotiate that, because it can’t be binding.”

  She scowls. “If you refuse to get the fuck out of the agreement, why can’t you still have an affair with Dylan? He was good in bed, right?”

  A thousand sexy memories claim my body and stab me in the heart at once. “I can’t even begin to form words about the things we’ve done together. That man switched off every inhibition I had.” Alex knew how amazing Chicago had been, but I’d never shared the details. Not about the things we did in public, or him taking me in front of my window.

  She knew the sex had been incredible and we’d left it at that.

  Her eyes widen with glee. “And why can’t you still have an affair with him?”

  “Because he’s famous. There’s no way we could keep that quiet. It’s been risky as it is. One picture in a tabloid would bring the whole thing tumbling down. I’d be sued for all I’m worth, and it would have been for nothing.” But if he’d still have me, I’d do it in a heartbeat.

  “If it’s so precarious, then why did you get involved with him in the first place?”

  Fate? Maybe I’m a subconscious masochist? Because something in his eyes drew me in and made me feel alive and then the things he did to my body confirmed it and made me want more. Because he’s even more amazing than everyone thinks he is and he let me see that side of him. “I couldn’t stay away,” I admit finally. “And I couldn’t have an affair with Dylan. I’d want more.”

  “That’s bad,” Alex says.

  It’s worse than that. Because I’m pretty sure I love him. Not that that matters now. “It’s worse than that. He was there tonight—last night—when Blaine made his speech.”

  “Aww, Rach.”

  “It was over before it even had a chance to start.” Tears well up in my eyes again. “And he hates me now.” Picturing his face feels like a fresh gut-punch.

  “No one could hate you, sweetheart.”

  “You didn’t see the look in his eyes. I don’t think anyone’s ever been so disappointed in me before. Not even my dad have made me feel so small. Probably because I deserved it.”

  Alex tucks my hair behind my ear. “Maybe if you talk to him, told him everything—”

  “I can’t! I legally can’t. I’d crawl to his house in LA if he’d give me a chance to explain, but even if I could explain everything, it wouldn’t change the fact I signed a contract.”

  “Give him some time so he’s not so caught up in the emotion of the moment. He’ll cool down. He’s probably just in shock—he’ll come around.” She sounds so certain I can almost believe her. Almost.

  “Maybe.” But I doubt it.

  Now that I’ve purged everything to her, sleep weighs me down with a dark warmth, pulling at my limbs, demanding I give in. Beside me, Alex’s eyes drift shut as well as she finally succumbs to her long night.

  I’d love it if Dylan would listen. If I knew what to say. Some things you can never make better, not even with all the words in the world and I have a legal injunction forbidding me from telling Dylan the words that would make him understand. And even if I could find those words, what’s next? Actions speak louder than any syllables spoken, and for the next five years, I belong to another man.

  Even if Dylan was okay with that—which I can’t imagine he is—I’ll have a child at the end of this. And even if he was okay with that, it’s five years. A lot can happen in five years, and Dylan is incredibly appealing with an insatiable sex drive. He doesn’t seem like the type to wait.

  Or forgive. And that’s the worst part of all.

  It’s too much to ask of anyone—especially since we parted so terribly.

  No, the worst part of all is the fact I need to forget all about Dylan St. John and move on with my responsibilities.

  I can’t think of them as ‘my life’ yet.

  Exhaustion overcomes me, and I fall into a blissfully dreamless sleep.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Three long weeks pass in a blur of symphony practices, performances, and regret. That last look in Dylan’s eyes haunts my dreams; longing for him haunts my days like I’m a junkie whose drug of choice has been suddenly taken away. The gnawing pit of sadness in my stomach only grows worse until I can’t bear it for one moment longer. My purse hits the floor as soon as I walk in the door from practice, and I head to my desk in the living room to power up my laptop, impatiently drumming my nails while it boots up.

  I need to see Dylan.

  I need closure.

  I need to talk to him, but he hasn’t replied to any of the twelve calls or thirty-seven texts I’ve sent. It’s maddening, but I can’t blame him for being upset. On the other hand, I care about him and everything between us was genuine. It kills me that he won’t reply to me or hear me out.

  I should stop this right now and focus on the future—my future. My boring, respectable, Dylan-free future. But I need this last moment. Maybe “goodbye” will set me free.

  Maybe I need to see the hate in his eyes now that the shock of the moment has worn off, and I’ll know our bridge is burned once and for all.

  Stomping to the kitchen to burn off some energy and grab a glass of water doesn’t help rationality rear its head, so I go back to my desk and hard, wooden chair.

  Screw it.

  Giving into the compulsion to google him, I quickly discover the band’s put the next leg of the tour on hold to extend studio time, meaning he’ll still be in LA recording. He was supposed to be in Europe, or Asia right now, wasn’t he? I swallow back excitement. Fate has thrown me a life raft and all I have to do is grab it. If he’s in LA I can fly there and talk to him. I have tomorrow off, and don’t have to play until the evening on the day after. It would be a ridiculously simple thing to fly there and...

  How the hell will I find him? I don’t even know where he lives. He said he’d recently bought a mansion in the Hills, but...That’s it! I type his name and ‘new home’ and an article about him pops up, unfortunately without the address or much more than a small paragraph of details about his new mansion in the Hills and how he bought it for a cool twelve-point-nine million. There are no more useful details in the write-up, but there’s a picture, and I drag that into a google image search.

  The realty listing for that exact mansion—complete with high quality photos of every room—pops up, sending a guilty thrill through me. The home sold months ago, this listing should be gone by now. I shouldn’t be doing this, but I wouldn’t have found his house if I wasn’t meant to go and talk to him, right? Finding this means something.

  My justification is reinforced when I note the mansion’s address, so I jot that down and open another tab in the browser, booking the first direct flight I can find from Boston to LA, and print directions from the airport to his place. It’s not super close, but I’ll get a cab when I get there—I can
afford it now—and I’m not sure I could calm my heart enough to drive safely. Even now, my palms are sweaty and my breathing erratic as I make the biggest decision of all.

  This time, I’m going to tell Dylan everything. He deserves to hear the truth, and that’s the only way I can truly explain. Lawsuit be damned, he still may not listen, but at least he’ll know what I felt—what I feel—was genuine. He may not understand, but at least he’ll know I was never playing him. Maybe I don’t deserve to be forgiven, but he deserves to know I didn’t use him as a dirty thrill.

  I should close the browser and go to bed, but the temptation is too great, and like a riptide I’m hauled along with the compulsion to know more about Dylan’s house and where he’s been the last few weeks we’ve been apart.

  Five bedrooms, six bathrooms... My heart squeezes at the thought of Dylan roaming around his giant house, alone.

  I push away the idea that he might not be alone in those spacious rooms or king-size bed.

  Everything is gorgeous. Clean lines, white marble or dark hardwood throughout, all the wood is painted white which I’m not a fan of but it looks fresh and modern. I guess that’s the difference between my little updated 70s home and a sparkling mansion on a hill. Everything gleams like a star you make a wish upon, but there’s something cold about it. Impersonal. The style says expensive, but that’s it.

  Of course, these pictures were taken before Dylan moved in.

  Did the furniture come included and is still there, or has he changed it with things better suited to his style? Did he rip out the fancy feature wallpaper in the open concept living room, or is it still decorating the otherwise beige walls?

  I shake my head incredulously. I mean, beige. Beige is the opposite of the colors I’d use to describe Dylan or choose to surround him with. Nothing about him is neutral. He needs deep jewel tones, things that scream passion and talent and complement his restless, dominant energy.

  His walls should be the stormy blue of waves crashing on the shore.

  Or the blackish reds of the beating pulse behind my eyelids when I closed them too tight because he was driving into me over and over.

  The deep purple of the marks he put on the pale skin of my neck with his mouth.

  Pulling my skirt up, I shove my hand down my panties, roughly circling my clit the way he did. Everything about him is bigger, louder, more vivid than anyone else. I plunge two fingers of my other hand inside, wishing it was him thrusting in and out of my wetness. I get myself off in an embarrassingly short amount of time, coming with a huge spasm while picturing him doing it to me in his bedroom, bending me over the bed like he had in his hotel room that first time.

  But that was before he found out I was engaged.

  Guilt immediately chases away the warmth of the afterglow.

  Right now, Dylan still hates me. It’s not going to be a happy reunion.

  I turn off my laptop and head to bed.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The black iron gate is imposing and makes my steps falter before I reach the intercom. What if he isn’t home? What if he is home but won’t even let me inside? I take the envelope with the four page, handwritten letter out of my purse. If he won’t hear me out then fine, but at least I got it all on the page, purging the truth from my system like lancing a boil. The simple act of writing it all out made me feel a little lighter.

  Apologizing doesn’t guarantee forgiveness. It’s up to him if he wants to read it, and even then it may not be enough to change anything. This apology isn’t about me, it’s about him. I know I hurt him, and I need to repair that.

  My hand trembles a little less when I reach out and press the intercom. And press it again. I stare straight into the security camera, hoping he won’t send me away.

  “What do you want?”

  Even angry and through the speaker, that rich voice affects me, spiraling across my skin.

  “I...” I’m unable to form smooth sentences, too wound up in the hope he’ll let me in and the fear he won’t. “May I come in?” Minutes seem to tick by agonizingly slowly. The sun beats down, heating my hair, making sweat prickle as it forms between my shoulder blades. “Dylan?”

  He buzzes me in and I yank the gate open before he can change his mind, striding up the stone walkway to the shade of the house. He knows I’m here, but I still lightly knock on the heavy double doors.

  Another minute or so goes by before he appears, blurred behind the frosted, beveled glass window, and opens the door.

  I take a step back from the hostile glare he gives me.

  “What do you want?” He crosses his arms.

  “To explain.”

  “You already told me. Remember?”

  I hold up the envelope. “No. I apologized, but I didn’t explain.”

  “I don’t really want to hear it.” But he keeps the door open when he walks away.

  I shut the door behind me, following his rapidly retreating form through the foyer and into the living room. He sits on the black leather couch, spreading his arms wide, laying them on the back of the couch. His dark hair’s a little longer, and a stray lock flops down over his eye. I want to brush it back from his face, but I’ve lost the right to touch him.

  And even if I dared, his expression stops me. His dark blue t-shirt makes his eyes seem darker, but maybe that’s due to anger.

  I don’t feel comfortable enough to sit.

  He raises his eyebrows. “Well?”

  I hold out the letter. “I wrote it all out here. I understand you might not want to see me, or hear what I have to say, but if you’d read it and see... Maybe, someday, if you want to—”

  “Read it to me.”

  “What?” My arm drops to my side.

  He sits forward, rubbing his palms together, resting his elbows on his knees. “You came all this way. Might as well tell me what it says. Let’s see how convincing you can be. Give me a show.”

  I flinch. “This isn’t an act, Dylan. I care about you and the last thing in the world I wanted was for you to be hurt at the end of this.”

  He laughs. “Oh, I’m not hurt. Why should I be? Chicks get hall passes to fuck rock stars all the time. You won’t be the last to make me her exception. I changed my mind, the letter can wait. Follow me, I’ll give you the grand tour.”

  Stunned at his lightning fast change of heart, I follow, soaking in the sight of him like water into sunbaked earth. His jeans are slung low on his hips and showcase his tight ass as he leads me up a winding staircase.

  He turns and catches me staring, smirks knowingly. “Like the view?”

  “I’m—”

  “Apparently, the marble for this staircase was mined in Italy and brought over here in the seventies.”

  “Dylan—” I trip on the top stair, stubbing my toe in my haste to follow him. “Ouch.”

  “And in this guest bedroom, there’s an original Warhol. Maybe you and your Maestro would like a print of it for your happy home.” He strides down the hall, not bothering to turn around. “Here’s the master bathroom if you’d like to use the facilities? No? Oh well.” His speech comes faster now, not giving me time to reply. “And here’s my bedroom. I bet it looks completely different than the one you share with your fiancé—”

  “Dylan, stop!”

  He turns and leans against the wall. “What?”

  “You need to know you meant—you mean—something to me. I hate that I hurt you, even a little bit.”

  “Yeah right.”

  I swallow hard. “I lo—”

  “Shall I show you the pool we were going to swim in when we talked about our houses and the life we could share? Or was I the only one actually picturing it because I’m the only one who wasn’t hiding a fiancé!” He practically shouts the last words, chiseled jaw clenching until the tendons stand out.

  “Why did you even let me in if you weren’t going to listen to me?”

  “I almost didn’t. But you never know when a groupie’s going to claim pregnancy or cause a
scandal. My publicist thought it was best that I address you head on since you weren’t going away on your own. At least this way I know there are no hidden cameras or people eavesdropping on your bullshit.”

  His words physically hurt like a hot poker stabbing me in the gut. He agreed to talk because he’s scared I’ll do something that would hurt his reputation? What’s with all these men in my life and their images? Father, Dylan...Blaine, who I’m going to be chained to for the next five years. What kills me the most and makes my chest ache, is how little Dylan knows me if he can even insinuate I’d do something so hateful, spiteful, and underhanded.

  I shake my head. “I’ve made a mistake. I shouldn’t have come here.”

  “So, leave. Nothing’s stopping you.” He shrugs a shoulder, the coldness in his eyes chilling me.

  “I’m going.” I spin and hurry back down the stairs on shaky legs holding my breath. My chest is burning, but so are my eyes, and if I don’t get out in about five seconds he’s going to see me cry. The letter hits the marble floor with a small slapping sound, and I bend to retrieve it because my words won’t do anything but give him more ammunition in his hatred for me.

  I did this to him, which only makes the agony worse. He should hate me. All I’d wanted that night in Chicago was a memory of something wild to carry me through the contract with Blaine. I never knew I’d feel this way about Dylan.

  I’ve hurt us both so much.

  I grasp the handle and turn it, pulling opening the door a few inches before Dylan’s hand slams it shut.

  He’s standing behind me so close I can feel his chest heaving, even though he doesn’t touch me. He got here so fast.

  My zing of shock is tempered by the way his closeness completely distracts me. I want him to mash his body against mine, to let me feel every inch of him.

  He slides his other hand out to touch the door, bracketing me in his arms with his chest lightly touching my back, but not pressing me into the door like I suddenly need.

  He nuzzles the back of my neck. “I lied. I let you in because I can’t stay away.”