Confessions of a Muse

by Edeline Wrigh

  It was beautiful, and I sat in a chair in my own corner, watching silver sparkles. Pure magic, I tell you.

  Jack was waiting for me to approach him. It was obvious. But I had no particular interest in him, really, and I was content to let everyone else clear out, going to the band bus or wherever-the-fuck-else they were going. Once we were alone, we stared at one another, him with his cigarettes and sunglasses, me with my party girl outfit, settled in with the magic and my complimentary cocktail.

  “So you wanna fuck me, or what?” he asked me. “Why be back here if you aren’t a fan?”

  Ah, so the dude was a douche. I raised my eyebrows at his statement, then crossed my arms. “Who said I was a fan of you?”

  He nodded. “I get it. Like one of the other dudes? I’m sure a three-way would be on the table.”

  I rolled my eyes. “You sure know how to charm a lady.”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know how to charm anyone offstage. That’s why I got so good at it onstage. Want me to sing for you or something?”

  I burst into laughter. “That won’t get me into bed with you, you know.” But I did want him to sing for me, so there was that.

  “It doesn’t have to,” he said, then looked like he was considering something. After a long while, he sang.

  It wasn’t something I recognized from their set onstage. It wasn’t the same sort of loud, pounding beat that drove the gyrating hips of concert goers. It was slower, romantic, even. It turned out that when all the special effects were taken away, Jack was... a talented singer.

  He knew it, too. I couldn’t help comparing them in my head: Noah knew he had skill, but his bravado was a charade. Ryan knew he had skill but didn’t know what that meant for his future.

  Jack? He knew he had skill, and it made him arrogant.

  He was hot, but our dynamic could never properly work if I gave into him now. So, instead, I allowed myself to look smitten, to rest my cheek on my palm in true adoration while he sang to me. The song ended, finally, with a flourish of scales, and Jack expertly let the last note hang in the air, not breaking eye contact as he finished.

  He walked to me and put his hand on my chin, forcing me to look up into his eyes. His fingers were calloused from the guitar and they were rough against my skin, rough like the way he’d approached me earlier, but he was gentle in his touch if not in his next words.

  “So,” he said, “did that make you want me to to fuck you?”

  I burst into laughter and stood. When I did so, my body pressed against his, the heat from him warming me up. He smelled good, that was true, good enough that my answer to his question was now “yes,” but I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

  Instead, I let him put his hands on my waist and pull me towards him, let my breath move across his neck in a silvery cloud of inspiration. He held me tighter as I did so and even more tightly as I went onto my tiptoes to whisper into his ear.

  “I’m not going to fuck you tonight,” I told him, “so you might as well sit back down and tell me about your music like the pamphlet says.”

  He chuckled, and his body vibrated against me. “No one says no to me for an entire night,” he told me.

  “Maybe no one before me has,” I countered, “so maybe it’s a good thing you met me.”

  As a magical being, you realize all kinds of synchronicities. Often, they’re traceable, at least enough that the average person can write them off. Sometimes, they’re less so, like when you’re thinking about someone you haven’t spoken to in months only for them to call you.

  So, even though I had not gone to the effort of securing Jack’s contact information—if I would have been given it in the first place—it so happened that as I was lounging in my suite and trying to figure out how to handle him, I got a call.

  “Miss Carrington,” the voice on the other side said. “I’m with an up-and-coming online arts mag. We wanted to run an article on you.”

  I blinked. He said the name of the publication, but I didn’t catch it, and to this day I’m not entirely sure what it was. Truthfully, I think the publication failed shortly after, and I don’t believe their article about me was anything special.

  But it did exactly what the fates needed it to.

  Not long after it ran, I received another call from the manager of Chambered Lies.

  The particular details of the conversation are not all that important to our story. What is important is that the manager recognized the rising star dancer as the woman who passed out in the front row at a recent show, and he was calling to see if I was interested in additional work.

  And that was how I found myself at my second Chambered Lies concert.

  See? Fate.

  It was a trial, at first. Or so I’d been told. The manager had been looking into ways to expand the shows into spectator events, and while he wasn’t convinced he wanted to have a dancer or anyone else long term, he was ready to experiment with some attractions that might broaden the appeal of the shows.

  Or something. I kinda caught his meaning: the band appealed to young women for, well, obvious reasons, and it might help their bottom lines if those young women’s boyfriends were more enthusiastic about attending alongside them rather than unhappy plus-ones.

  I jumped on the opportunity. Partially because Jack and I’s eventual fate would probably come faster this way.

  But also? This was the best move for me as a creative. Taking all opportunities as they came my way. Beggars can’t be choosers, or something, and even though my ballet resume had one excellent gig on it, that was all that it had on it.

  Besides, I didn’t want to just be a ballerina, and expanding my resume into other areas of the arts scene could only help me on my Mission.

  Because that’s all my career as an artist was—part of a greater plan beyond my knowledge.

  All this to explain how I found myself backstage at a Chambered Lies concert once again, this time wearing a tiny performance outfit and thinking through the kinds of moves that would work best alongside their music.

  “Why are you here?” Jack’s voice floated to me.

  I turned, a broad smile. “Your manager hired me.”

  He glared. “To do what?”

  “To dance, obviously.” I shrugged, then went back to stretching. His eyes trailed over me, so I stayed in the position a little longer than I needed to to be ready for my set.

  He sighed. “I’m going to have to talk to him about not hiring just anyone. You’re getting a lot of special privileges just for fainting.”

  “C’mon, don’t you trust your manager?” I rolled my eyes. “I’ll have you know I’m an extremely skilled dancer. They’ve run articles about me. Coincidences happen, you know.”

  He continued to glare at me, but went silent. It was like he was trying to find the words to tell me off, but he couldn’t figure out what his issue with me actually was.

  So instead of saying anything at all, he turned on his heel and stomped away.

  I smiled.

  I was getting under his skin, and I loved every second of it.

  Chapter 8

  It was no secret to me—or anyone—that Jack had slept with a pretty much uncountable number of women. And men, probably, if I’d had to guess.

  I’d wanted him since the moment I’d laid eyes on him onstage, since the moment I’d first heard the vibrato of his voice as it sang his original lyrics. On some level, I’m sure he knew that, but I had never made it explicit.

  Until now.

  I hadn’t made a show of jealousy when the groupies swarmed him after his latest gig. It seemed obvious that had been his goal, and it’d been underlined by the way I caught him stealing glances at me stretching between sets while some pretty young woman straddled him. Her hips rose and fell in suggestion of what he could have if he just said the word, his hand cupping her ass as it moved on top of him.

  I smiled hugely, then went back to practicing my splits.

  I was playing a game of chicken; there wa
s nothing that would prevent him from taking her back to his room except losing his shot with me. Again. I had nothing to lose, not really; his interest in me would not be impacted if he added another notch on his bedpost.

  Well, long story short, I won.

  We were back at the hotel. I was pretty surprised I’d still managed to stay here, but I wasn’t questioning it too much at this point. I was getting a better handle on this whole making money thing, so it turned out that the longer I stayed the less of a chance there was that they’d ever catch onto the fact that I’d had literally nothing to me, not even a name, when I’d first arrived.

  Jack was nearly naked on the suite bed, his cock stiff from his strokes, pushing up against the fabric of his boxers. He had one muscular arm up behind his head to cushion himself. It seemed like he was trying to look like a model, hoping to best me in this game of seduction.

  Like I said: I wanted him. That much is true. But him biting his lip at me did nothing to make me less stubborn, so while he laid ready for me on my bed, I remained clothed—wearing a revealing sun dress, but fully clothed nonetheless—and sat flipping through Noah’s latest manuscript.

  “What’s got your attention?” he asked. He meant it nonchalantly, like a neutral conversational topic, but with my face pointed away from him, I smiled. He was definitely not used to women ignoring his lust for them and it was driving him nuts.

  “Work,” I said cheerfully. “I got this incredibly interesting manuscript from a playwright friend of mine. He wants me to play the lead,” I told him.

  “Friend, huh?” he asked. “Like a boyfriend?”

  I turned in the swivel chair to face him like the professional woman I was becoming. I raised my eyebrows suggestively. “I wouldn’t call him a boyfriend, but I suppose it depends on why you’re asking.”

  “It would explain why you’re not on my cock yet. But don’t worry, I don’t judge. Wanna make him jealous? Is that what this is?”

  I burst into laughter. “I’m not really into...”—I searched for the words—“...limitations or jealousy. So, no. I didn’t turn you down to preserve another guy’s feelings and I’m not gonna fuck you to make him feel differently about me, either.”

  “So why did you invite me up?” he asked, stretching out more on the bed so I got a better view of how thoroughly he was tenting his boxers. “Just to ogle me? To half ignore me?”

  “If that was the reason you’re here, that sure backfired.”

  “Seriously, though, Selene.”

  I shrugged. “If you were only after sex, you had someone practically begging for it from you, what, three hours ago? I’m sure with some minimal effort you could find her again and cash in on that.”

  “She wasn’t interesting,” he grumbled.

  “‘Interesting,’ huh? You think I’m ‘interesting’? And why is that?” I set down the manuscript entirely as I asked him. It felt important to me that I posed perfectly here, so I folded my hands, one on top of the other, ever-so-elegantly on top of my knee.

  “Ugh, fine, yes. You’re interesting.”

  “Because I rejected you?”

  “There’s just... something about you...”

  “You mean like my willingness to reject you?” I tilted my head at him and raised an eyebrow.

  He was not amused. “I mean like. The way you carry yourself. Like you’re already a celebrity and everyone will know it one day.”

  Ah, so he meant that he really, really liked my performance skills.

  “I can’t stop thinking about you,” he said. The words left his mouth in a rush, like he was afraid that if he didn’t say it fast enough, he would never admit to pining over a woman he’d only seen a handful of times. “And it doesn’t matter how many other women want me or how many times I take them home. I want to know more about you.”

  “So instead of asking me on a date you come up to my hotel room and attempt to get in my pants?”

  He looked away. “I don’t... this was a mistake. I’m sorry.”

  “Woah, an apology from the Jack of Chambered Lies? I should get that in writing, sell it on eBay.”

  He sat up, then rolled to the side of the bed in a motion to grab his clothing from the floor. I rolled my eyes. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, stop that,” I told him. “You don’t want to go and I don’t want you to go and you know it.”

  He glared at me, but returned to his place on the bed. The glare faltered after a moment, his frustration finally twisting into something like… nervousness?

  That broke my resolve, too.

  He was damn beautiful. All those teenage girls with posters of him were onto something, that was for sure.

  I walked to him, putting one knee and then the other onto the bed. He swallowed, but he stayed perfectly still as my fingertips traced from his scalp to his neck to his chest. I repeated the motion, this time with my lips, softly brushing them against him, and goosebumps rose on his skin, but he still didn’t move. When I pulled away, just far enough to look back at his face, his eyes were shut and his mouth was ajar.

  The sensations stopped, and he opened his eyes just the smallest amount to look at me from beneath his long lashes. He still didn’t dare move, but the intensity of his gaze was heavy. Intimidating. It froze me in place, too, even as it made me wish to close the distance that much more.

  He moved first. One moment I was sitting on my butt, staring at his green-grey eyes as he laid next to me, and the next, I was on my back, the weight of his body pressing me into the mattress, his cock pressing into me through my dress and underwear. He pushed his mouth against my neck, one of his hands gripping roughly at my hair to hold my neck into position as his teeth grazed against my skin. The other hand, meanwhile, trailed up my legs under my dress to find my underwear.

  “You want me,” he said, “admit it.”

  I moaned against him, my hips arching into the finger he held against my clit. “Okay, you win,” I somehow got out, “I want you.”

  “That’s what I fucking thought.” His words came out terse as his fingers deftly moved my underwear aside and allowed him entry. He thrust in and out of me, one hand still gripping my hair, the other moved to hold down my shoulder as if to keep me here, as if without his grip I may have vanished.

  Everything was silver.

  His touch hurt, but I liked it. It grounded me, kept me present. I pulled him back, equally hard, digging my nails into his back to pull him closer to me. I ground my hips, my cunt into him as he thrust. It wasn’t a fight. I wasn’t trying to escape or even play-struggling, nor was I trying to gain the upper hand. He had it, and he was keeping it. What I was doing was simply matching his aggression, matching the part of him that wanted to destroy me for making him want something more than a casual one-night stand.

  For making him feel.

  His teeth hit my skin and he bit me, hard, making me come around his shaft. My clit was ever more sensitive for it, and I squirmed under him, trying to adjust so that his thrusts hit it slightly less, but I could not move away, could do nothing but accept him. I moaned, low in my throat and then higher, and with it his hands squeezed and his thrusts deepened, sped up, until his frustrations came out into me as he came, too.

  He held his final thrust deep inside me, propping himself onto his arms to stare down at me as he reveled in the sensation of my cunt. He finally withdrew, but did not otherwise move, and his passionate stare changed to frustration.

  “What the fuck is wrong with me?” he asked, grabbing a handkerchief from the side table to wipe himself off.

  Even post orgasm the action was very distracting. But I managed. “What do you mean ‘what the fuck is wrong with you’?” I asked him.

  “Fucking you was supposed to get you out of my head,” he said.

  He was glowing with a sparkling silver, but it wasn’t the beautiful glitter I’d gotten so used to. No, this was a molten silver that accented a dark sludge that made its way along his skin, tracing his blood vessels, and settling on his pres
sure points. It was beautiful in its own way, but sinister. I wanted to absorb it; I wanted to take it away from him, even if it meant taking it into myself.

  I was attached to his consciousness, that was for sure, but he wasn’t happy about it.

  But I still wanted to hear him say it. I’m vain like that. “And it didn’t?”

  “Damn, Selene. No, it didn’t.” He sighed, then grabbed his boxers to put them on.

  “There’s nothing wrong with that,” I hedged. Because there wasn’t, but there was a lot wrong with him beating himself up over it. I didn’t know how to tell him I had feelings for him, too; I didn’t know what that would change, if anything.

  “You don’t understand,” he said.

  I scoffed.

  “What? You don’t,” he insisted.

  I rolled my eyes. He was being dramatic, and that was supposed to be my job. “What don’t I understand?” I asked him, raising my eyebrows.

  “How am I supposed to write new music when all I can think about is you?” he asked.

  I shrugged. “You’ll figure something out. You could write me a song. I’m very... inspiring.”

  I was laughing on the inside at that one. He seemed less amused by it.

  “I don’t want to be in love with you,” he said, then tightened his lips as if he had let it slip and maybe if his mouth stayed shut no other secrets would escape.

  “You’re not in love with me,” I told him. “Not yet. You’re in love with the way I make you feel.”

  “What? Pathetic? Hopeless? Desperate?”

  There was nothing left for me to do but smile. “Human. You got used to feeling like a god, but it’s lonely up there.”