by Alice Ward
It stops. I am swallowed by silence again. But still, I don’t move.
“Bravo.”
The voice is gritty, sensual, and pervasive. I prefer the silence.
“You have touched me, Romeo.”
A hand snakes around my middle, slithering down to cup me, and I grow hard.
“Have I touched you?”
“Yes,” I whisper because this isn’t my line. The audience cannot hear me, or everything will be ruined.
Warm breath caresses my neck, and painted lips brush my earlobe. The shiver undulating down my spine is devoured by the creature behind me. My wrist is taken between two manicured fingers, and I am stretched in two directions. Cock forward, arm back.
“Touch me, Romeo.”
Soft, small hairs kiss my palm, and damp heat urges my exploration. I’m throbbing against the hand, ready to burst but unable and unwilling. The Eden beneath my fingertips is smooth with slick insistence. I can’t last much longer.
“The curtain’s closing.” The voice digs beyond my ear into the deepest recesses of my mind. “Time for your finale.”
My cock swells under increased pressure, and I am jetted from my place in the spotlight to my knees. White specks pop and burst before my eyes, a wicked confetti of unfortunate pleasure, and the applause begins again.
Hundreds, thousands of hands clap now. Millions. The room goes dark again, and I am left to kneel alone on the planked floor.
I have nothing left.
***
My eyes were open before I realized I was awake. The bedroom was filled with the filtered gray light of an overcast morning, and my sheets were soaked with sweat and cum. I laid in the mess and stared at the ceiling with unblinking eyes.
I’d had the dream before. It had been a nightly reoccurrence when I first moved to New York, but it had slowly stopped appearing in my slumber over the years. This one was different, however. Longer. It was the first time I’d ever climaxed both in the dream and out. For some reason, it felt like a bad omen, and I had an unsettled sensation in my gut.
Peeling myself from the bed, I stomped naked to the bathroom to clean up. The counter was littered with toiletries, everything from an open tube of toothpaste to an unrinsed mouthwash cup to a half-empty bottle of cologne. Normally, I kept my things neat and orderly, but I’d been so miserable over the past week that I didn’t see the point. Shoving the junk aside, I grabbed a washcloth from the rack and rested my elbows on either side of the sink while I waited for the water to steam.
I couldn’t go on like this anymore. It was bad enough sitting on the couch and staring at the wall every night, but my Concrete performances were starting to suffer, and now I was having the dream again. Being without Sadie felt like I was grieving a lost loved one constantly, except it was worse because she was only a phone call I couldn’t make or a car ride I couldn’t take away.
“I’m done with this,” I muttered.
The dream made me mad. Not angry, which was the civilized kind of displeasure educated folks were supposed to experience. Mad. Straight-up pissed. My past coming back to haunt me was a cruel move on karma’s part, but it was utter bullshit that it had come back to haunt me in the darkest forms.
My brother. My relationship with Sadie. And now my sleep.
“Fuck that.”
I finished wiping myself up and slapped the soaked washcloth into the sink like it had personally offended me, then went back into the bedroom to snatch my phone off my nightstand. The number I wanted was at the top of the list, and I punched the call button with so much ferocity that I wouldn’t have been surprised if the screen had cracked.
“Bro, it’s not even six.” Artie’s groan wasn’t one of sickness this time, thank god, but one of grogginess.
“I have to tell her.”
Static or something fabric rustled across the line. “You have to tell who what?”
“Sadie. I have to tell her about me. About us.”
He groaned. “It’s not even six,” he repeated.
“Art, I mean it. I have to tell her.” I was pacing in a wide oval around my bedroom, coming to a halt each time I reached a window and turning around to retrace my steps again. It didn’t occur to me to cover up even though I was stark naked and in full view of anyone voyeuristic enough to keep a telescope or a pair of binoculars handy. “I almost did last week. Remember when I called you, and you were sick? I wanted to let you know I was going to come clean because I wanted to make sure you knew before I did it, but I didn’t get a chance because she showed up while we were talking.”
“Yeah…”
“She left me. I wouldn’t tell her because I hadn’t warned you and because you were sick, and she left me.” I curled my fingers into my hair and tugged, hoping the physical pain would overtake the emotional. “I need her back. I have to be honest.”
There was a small click, and I pictured him turning on his bedside lamp and sitting up. “Just because you tell her doesn’t mean she’ll come back, you know.”
“I know, but I have to try. It’s the only option I’ve got.”
“No, it’s not.” He had his lecturing voice on. “You also have the option to quit kicking the dead horse. She already ended it, bro. Let her go and move on. No need to take an unnecessary risk without a guaranteed reward.”
“Letting her go is the biggest risk I could take.” I dropped onto the end of my bed and looked down at the carpet. My pacing had left a slight tread in the grain.
He groaned again, this time with exasperation. “So, you tell her, she doesn’t take you back, and then what? Then your secret’s in the hands of a freaking reporter who has no emotional chips on the table. She might be a nice girl, but that’s a bad situation no matter how you slice it.”
“If you’re worried about this affecting you, I can prevent that. I’ll buy you a new house in some remote location with privacy fences and security guards, if you want. Whatever makes you comfortable.” I let out a heavy breath. “But I have to do this.”
He didn’t say anything for a second, and I wasn’t sure if he was mulling over my offer or trying to think up more ways to convince me not to dig up everything I’d buried. When he did respond, I was surprised to hear a note of envy in his voice. “She means a lot to you, huh?”
“Yeah.” I wanted to say more, but my tongue wouldn’t let me.
Another second of speechlessness passed. I gave him the time he needed to consider my plea, though I wanted to flood him with more reasons why it was imperative I do this. Then…
“All right.”
My jaw dropped a little. “All right? Really?”
“There’s only one thing I’ve ever heard you so passionate about, bro, and that’s Broadway. I know what Broadway means to you, and if you’re talking about this Sadie in the same way, that means something.”
“Yeah,” I said again, a bit at a loss for words. “I guess it does.”
“You know you won’t be able to just tell her, though, right?”
I looked around the room for some sign of clarity about what he meant. “What, I’m supposed to act it out or something?”
Artie chuckled, then coughed. “That’s one way to do it. Or you could just bring her here.”
“Right, because we broke up, and naturally, that would make her eager to go on a trip across the country with me to learn all about my secrets.”
“Don’t you think that’s your best chance?” The lecturing voice was back. It was something I’d mocked him for since we were young because he’d always had a habit of acting like the elder brother despite my being three years his senior. “You can explain everything to her in detail, but words are words. If she sees your life, she’ll be more likely to understand why you’ve hidden it the way you have.”
A good point. “I could ask her, I guess, but I still don’t think she’ll agree to travel all that way with me, let alone spend the night with me.”
“Jesus Christ, bro. You’re one of the richest freakin’ dudes i
n America. Take your jet, bring her over, and take her back home if it’s what she wants.”
“Yeah.” The idea was starting to appeal to me the more we discussed it. I wasn’t looking forward to revisiting my history, but Artie’s suggestion had provided me a glimmer of hope for continuing my relationship with Sadie that I hadn’t fathomed. “When do you have some free time to see your big brother?”
I could hear his grin through the phone. “All I’ve got is time, bro.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Sadie
Jenna and Alyssa’s attempt to cheer me up had seemed like a big, fat flop at the time, but I realized it had been somewhat of a success over the course of the next couple days. Work was a distraction I gratefully anticipated rather than dreaded, and I managed to fall asleep without crying for the first time since the split. My interest in dating again still hadn’t kicked in though, so I continued spending my evenings at home alone, but it wasn’t quite as pathetic in the absence of the grueling despair.
Getting over my previous relationships had always been a face-it situation. I remembered everything I could, good and bad, and let myself drown in the feelings until I’d used them all up. Then, I got on with my life. This one was apparently made from something else because facing it hadn’t helped in the slightest. Instead, I’d discovered getting over Tate was really just engaging in a series of meticulously planned distractions from the time I woke up to the time I went to bed.
I had my morning routine before work, went to the paper, came home, and threw myself into various projects I’d been putting off for years. On one hand, I’d successfully weeded out everything in my apartment I’d wanted to donate to Goodwill, repainted my faded kitchen, fixed the broken hinge on my medicine cabinet, and completed a scrapbook of my grandparents I’d been working on since high school. On the other hand, I wasn’t sure if I was actually getting over Tate or if I was just occupying myself until the inevitable breakdown caught up with me.
I was on the bathroom floor with a screwdriver pinched between my teeth when I heard my phone chiming from the living room, where I’d left it on the coffee table. The knob on the door hadn’t been lockable since I’d moved in, and I’d been out of projects when I’d gotten home. So, in the interest of remaining busy, I’d gone out to purchase a new knob, thrown my hair up into a messy bun, and stepped into the role of Miss Fix-It without any expectation of socialization for the night.
“Dannit,” I cursed clumsily around the screwdriver. The knob fell from the hole where I’d placed it unsecured to make sure it fit and clattered against the linoleum. Yanking the screwdriver from my mouth, I clambered to my feet and went to retrieve my phone.
Tate McGrath.
There it was, in white letters against a blue background. His photo dangled over the name, and I read and reread the number several times to make sure it wasn’t some cellular malfunction. Tossing the tool to the couch, I picked up the phone and stared at it, going so far as to clench my eyes tightly shut and reopen them to extreme proportion to ensure I wasn’t hallucinating.
What on God’s green Earth could he be calling me for? The man was a celebrity, for Pete’s sake. In the time we’d been apart, he had to have gone out with a few women, or at least had ample opportunity. I couldn’t imagine for a second that he’d spent his nights alone in that big penthouse listening to Lionel Richie and mourning what we’d had.
“You probably just left something at his place.” I said the words aloud to get my heart to catch up with my head, because I was suddenly overflowing with hope that more than likely would end up crushed into a billion pieces the minute I answered.
But what if he was calling to make things right?
“It wouldn’t matter.” I stamped my foot, injecting more force into the assertion than I’d felt. Reason told me it shouldn’t matter, that even if he wanted to open up now, the fact still remained that he’d failed to do it when I’d needed it. Love, however, insisted it mattered. It was irrelevant when he opened up as long as he did.
Right?
The phone was chiming for the fifth and final time before he was going to be directed to my voicemail, so I accepted the call and lifted the device to my ear. “Hello?”
“Hey.”
It was just a word, so simple, but it was loaded with everything that had gone unsaid. I heard softness and uncertainty, and the way the greeting trailed at the end made me wonder if he truly had been spending his time the same way I had — grieving.
“Hi.”
“How are you?”
The small talk was a necessity, and I lowered myself slowly to the couch next to the discarded screwdriver. “Fine.” It was one of those lies that just had to be told. “How are you?”
“Fine.” I stared straight ahead at the taupe wall behind my TV and tried to quiet the onslaught of questions burning in my head. If I could’ve seen his face, it would have been so much easier to know if he was genuinely fine or if he was playing the what-you-say-to-exes game.
I waited for him to continue, but he didn’t. When the quiet started bordering on awkwardness, I said nonchalantly, “That’s good.”
“No, it’s not.” It came out in one rushed breath. “It’s bullshit. I’m not fine. If you’re fine, that’s good. I want you to be fine. But I’m not.”
The hope I’d managed to temper roared back into existence, coating my insides and sending my heart into a series of joyous tumbles. I wanted him to be fine too, of course, but I couldn’t deny it made me selfishly gleeful to learn he wasn’t happy with the end of our relationship.
Maybe I wasn’t the only one who’d cared so much.
Hell, maybe I’d been doing him a disservice by thinking he’d been using me or playing me or any of the other less-than-savory things I’d figured he’d been up to over the course of our modern and unconventional courtship. In a weird way, I thought I might owe him an apology for having questioned his character, if only mentally and not vocally.
“I’m sorry.” There he went, reading my mind again. “I’m sorry I made you feel so insignificant to me, and I’m sorry I didn’t tell you what you wanted to know when you needed to know it. I’m a jackass.”
Jenna’s exclamation floated back to me, and I couldn’t help but smile. It was the first real smile I’d had since… well, since the last night I’d spent with Tate, actually.
“You’re not a jackass. I’m not sure what you are, but that’s a different conversation.”
“Actually, it’s the same conversation. You should know what I am and who I am. You were right about everything you said.”
The night we’d gone our separate ways had become such a blur to me thanks to the internal turmoil that followed that I couldn’t exactly remember what I’d said. “I don’t—”
“I shut down on you. It’s not personal to you because I do it with everyone, but you deserved that the least out of anyone, and I shouldn’t have. I’m ready to answer any question you’ve got, Sadie, if you still want to ask.”
I leaned back into the couch cushion and closed my eyes. There was a possibility I was making up this entire phone call in my mind because the breakdown had finally come to collect. Men only did this, reached out to right their wrongs and beg forgiveness, in the movies. I pinched myself on the arm to test my sanity, wincing when it stung.
“Okay. I guess the main thing—”
“Wait. There’s one condition.”
I paused. Now, I definitely knew I wasn’t making this up in my mind. If I had been, if this had all just been some fantasy, there wouldn’t have been something as ludicrous as a condition in play. He would have told me everything I wanted to know, then insisted he come over and made love to me until dawn.
“Oh, god, you’re not going to confess that you have a body hidden somewhere or something, are you?”
“No.” I detected a familiar note of unreleased laughter, and my mouth tingled with the desire to kiss it out of him. He resumed being serious as he continued, “You have to
come with me to my hometown.”
Of all the conditions he could’ve possibly laid on me, that was last on the list. I’d been expecting something along the lines of signing an NDA or not letting the information cloud my judgment of him. “Why is that a condition?”
“Because I can’t just tell you my secrets. For you to really understand, I have to show you.”
“So, you want me to come to California with you.” I was clarifying rather than asking because I found it such a strange request.
“Yes.” He cleared his throat. “We’ll take my jet, and I can bring you back to New York the same day if it would make you more comfortable.”
My thighs suddenly became warm at the idea of spending the night with Tate in a California hotel overlooking swaying palm trees and white-capped waves. I squeezed them together, but that only served to add friction where it counted, and I had to silence a small moan.
Hearing his voice after more than a week was an aphrodisiac in and of itself, but now my mind was wandering. The little logician in my brain was narrowing her eyes at me and warning me not to go jet-setting across the country with the man who’d just broken my heart. The little romantic on the other side, however, was swooning on a chaise lounge, her hand resting daintily on her forehead like a horny Cleopatra.
“I’m not interested in repeating the same pattern, Tate.” I was pleased to hear how firm I sounded. “If I agree to this, it’s with a few conditions of my own.”
“Which are?”
I held up a finger even though he couldn’t see me. “One, it doesn’t mean we’re going to start seeing each other again. If that happens, it happens, but I’m guaranteeing nothing.” I raised a second finger. “Two, I reserve the right to come back to New York when I want for any reason.” The third finger joined the others. “And three, if I feel like you’re lying or shutting down on me again, I’m cutting off all contact with you, and I don’t want you to call me or see me ever again.”
Because it’s too damn hard, I added to myself.
“Deal?”
He exhaled into the phone, causing a loud, blustering noise that made me tilt mine away from my ear. “Deal. So, you’ll come with me?”
