“Still composing?”
“Yes.” His fingers reached out to brush lightly along the curve of her shoulder, his eyes narrowing. “I want to play you.”
She gulped down a mouthful of wine. “Play away,” she said, feeling her face blaze.
“But first, I need to talk to you.”
She took another sip. She braced herself for his words. He could only be lost in such deep concentration over one thing. Here it goes. It’s all been grand, but…Stupid, stupid, love struck girl, she chided herself. You walked into this with both eyes open; you only have yourself to blame. It seemed horribly ironic that Vandin’s words would reverberate in her mind. You, an obscure little college student. An almost-famous rock star is really going to drop everything and remain here for you?
“When we were talking with S.J. today—”
“Is she pretty?”
“Pardon?”
“This S.J., is she pretty?”
“Well, she—”
“That pretty, huh.”
“For a blonde, yes.”
“Ah, a blonde.”
“I prefer auburn-haired women with wicked jaws, myself.”
She grumbled and looked down. She didn’t want to be handled or placated; she wanted the truth. Just get it done with.
“Are you going to let me talk or are you going to have her in the sack with me before we order dessert?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You’ll want dessert. It’s a homemade cherry tart.”
He took her fingers in his and raised her chin with their joined hands. It was apparent that whatever he was going to say was difficult for him at least; he seemed to struggle to find the words.
“We’re going to have to start touring again. As much as I never want to leave this city, I have to. Goes with who I am, I’m afraid.”
Her heart fell to the pit of her stomach. The last few weeks began to flash before her eyes; everything seemed large, loud, and out of focus. He was saying goodbye.
“No!” The forcefulness of her voice caught the attention of some other patrons. He tightened his grip. He must have known how she would react, and he was trying to soften the blow. He seemed embarrassed, tongue-tied, and a sense of humiliation filled her. She swore to herself she would not make a scene. Her eyes flew to the nearest exit sign. She had to get out of there. Instead, he took a deep breath, and when he spoke again, the lines of concentration deepened around his eyes.
“I found something today. I believe it belongs to you.”
He reached back into his coat pocket and took out a small velvet box, and placed it on the table.
Emily sat unmoving. Her hands had gone quite cold.
“It’s better if you open it,” he added quietly as she sat there staring at it.
Louis Armstrong crooned from far away, and she could hear someone breathing more heavily. She raised the lid slowly. Nestled within the box lay the ring she had adored, the ring from her shop, its platinum and diamonds reflected the candlelight. “My ring, how did you know?” she mumbled incoherently, the lump in her throat making speech difficult. “And the pattern, the pattern, my God, I never noticed, it’s the same. The same as the urn. And the box.”
“Yes, it is. It’s fate.”
Andrew took the ring from her and gently put it on her left ring finger. He then clasped her hands to his, raising them to his lips. He was shaking. Holding himself steady, he let out a long breath.
“Emily,” he went on, his voice seemed to have dropped an octave. “I have something to ask you. I know I’ve only been with you for a heartbeat of time. But you’ve always been with me…I’m asking you…what I want to say…what I mean…I would very much like for you to wear this. Always. I don’t have much to offer right now, not living the ideal kind of life for us, I’m afraid, but I will someday, I promise you. And if you’ll wait, if you want to wait, I never want to lose you…”
She was already in his arms before he could finish; she grabbed him around the neck and hugged him within an inch of his life, and they laughed so hard they nearly fell out of the chair. Andrew took her hand and kissed it again.
“I’ll take that as a yes. I’m total rubbish at these things, I’m sorry.”
She was crying now in earnest. Andrew was chuckling, alternately kissing away her tears and pulling back to look at her in complete adoration. They were lost in time, kissing, laughing. Happiness as she had never before felt swelled inside her. Andrew looked how she felt, coupled with perhaps a huge wave of relief. She had never seen him smile like this; he looked on top of the world, like he could scream and shout. Like he did on stage.
“We need to celebrate properly.”
“How?”
“A holiday.”
“A what?”
“God, you Americans. A holiday. A weekend away. As in this weekend when, for once, we don’t have any gigs. As in I can’t wait a second longer to finally roger you senseless in a bed.”
The waiter placed down the cherry tart at that exact moment, his eyebrows raised into his hairline. He gave a short cough signaling his discretion and disappeared.
“How did you know?” she finally managed to ask. “I mean about the ring. You know I had it on reserve. I must really rate with Myra. She sold it to the first pretty face that walked in the door.”
Andrew smiled wickedly. “She didn’t. It was a fierce negotiation. And she had already seen my pretty face once.”
His eyes darted briefly to the tart.
“You haven’t eaten all day, have you?”
He shook his head, grinning madly as he cut off a massive piece. “Bloody nerves.”
A quiet descended over them. Over Andrew’s mandatory tea, Louis Armstrong sang on about kisses and dreams, and she was sure his fingers played the melody on the side of his cup. As the song ended, his eyes narrowed, his gaze trailing across her body almost possessively.
“Let’s get out of here. Now.”
She nodded.
The bill and her coat arrived. Andrew rose and helped her with her coat, drawing his touch across the nape of her neck as his long fingers drummed seductively on her shoulders.
“Composing?” she asked hoarsely.
“Always…Ready?” he whispered, brushing his lips against her neck and sending a cascade of chills down her spine. The maître d’ escorted them from the room. “There are five secret exit tunnels from our establishment,” he explained. “The one specifically designated as a Ladies’ Exit is the most obscure. These other tunnels allowed for a quick underground getaway all the way up to Geary Street, further up at Jones Street, and two exit to O’Farrell Street. But the Ladies’ Exit grants safe passage all the way to Leavenworth Street, a full block away. Would you like to use it?”
She nodded to the maître d’ and hazarded a glance back. Andrew slipped on his coat. She halted, unable to move another step. It was the same coat, the same coat as from her dream this morning. She grasped onto a nearby doorframe for support as the wave of memories crashed into her. Andrew glanced at her, and she swallowed, sure her face betrayed her thoughts.
A partially open bookcase led down into a bricked tunnel. The maître d’ gestured ahead. “Continue on this way, you’ll find an exit at the other end. A most pleasant evening to you both.”
In silence they walked, hands laced tightly, hearing only the sound of their footsteps and the roughness of Andrew’s breath. Emily fought the urge to look at him, torn between the need to touch him, to feel his skin underneath her cold fingers, and the need to explain what she had dreamed, not just today but ever since she had moved into the house. Every second she wanted him to stop, to turn to her, but he continued on.
He halted as they reached the door at the end of the passage. Her heart sped up in her chest. Here is where he had kissed the other woman in her dream, taken her savagely against these brick walls. The realization made her begin to shake. His hand grasped the doorknob, and he shut his eyes. His jaw tightened as he wrenched the d
oor open.
As promised, the tunnel led them close to the alley where they had been dropped off by the taxi. They neared the darkened end, and Andrew reached out to hail a cab. No. This was not how it was supposed to be. Unable to control herself any longer, she clenched her fingers about his other hand and pulled him toward the alley.
Once they were lost to the darkness, she dropped her forehead to his shoulder. “Andrew, please. I’ve been here before. We’ve been here before.”
His touch was hesitant at first, tracing the curve of her cheek. Her heart pounded near her throat as his fingertips brushed across her lips and slid down to rest on the nape of her neck.
“I know.”
“How do you know?” she whispered, her hands clasping the edges of his coat. “Andrew, my dreams, it’s not déjà vu, they’re too real. Like right here, right now, I know what will happen. Please tell me you don’t. Please tell me you haven’t been dreaming.”
“I can’t.” He looked anguished; whatever he had seen he was not about to share it with her.
The beads of her dress rustled in the wind passing through the vacant alley. “Andrew, talk to me. I’m losing my mind. What have you dreamt? What have you seen? Please tell me.”
“They’re simply dreams. That’s all.” He wrapped her in his arms and kissed her, pressing his chin forcibly against her cheek afterward. “That’s all.”
“Then is this a dream?” Her voice challenged him. With unexpected daring, she took his hand and skimmed his fingers along her stockings, closing her eyes in desire as she dragged his hand to the bare flesh above her garter. “Feel me. Feel what you do to me.”
“Emily,” he hissed, his lips lost in her hair.
His fingers hesitated, his breath stormy and torn. She ran her lips along his neck and kissed him passionately. He muttered a curse, and she could feel his body clench. His hand twitched against her, his fingers and thoughts betraying him. Yes, come to me, you’re mine now, not hers, I won’t let you escape.
“Be still,” Andrew whispered, his mouth on hers. “Don’t move, understand?” She could feel the war rage on in him. Suddenly, his hands held her wrists to her sides and he shoved her against the side of a nearby car, burning into her.
“I love you. Fucking hell, you know I do. I always will. But if I took you now, it would be like an animal. Do you understand?”
Their foreheads pressed together, his hands hauled her onto the hood of the car, her dress thrashing against it like rain, and he roughly hitched her leg over his hip. She could hear the metal creaking below her as he kissed her hard, his mouth slowly lowering to claim her neck. His breath panted along her throat, his hands caressing her shoulders. With a growl, he shoved her dress aside. His teeth raked across her collarbone to her breasts, making her throw back her head in rapture, her hair wild shadows in the night air. He kissed her again, not wanting to be parted from her mouth.
With every touch he told her what he would do to her, in obscene detail, his words mixing with grunted curses that made her nails claw for a hold on the metal grille.
They moved as though possessed. Somewhere a saxophone was wailing; a siren blared. She curled into him, gasping his name and obscenities to the night air, and the words swirled around them like untamed phantoms. He was feral and merciless. She fisted his hair in her hands, the stubble of his clenched jaw burning her neck.
Soon she trembled helplessly, so close to the edge she could only whimper. Her hips had begun to buck hard against him, matching his fierce rhythm. She held her breath as she arched her back, trying desperately to hang on. His fingers plunged inside of her body, and she exploded, waves of ecstasy pulsing through her as she slammed her drenched body against his, her legs stiff, every muscle taut and screaming. Wave after wave after wave. His mouth wet and unrelenting on hers, his fingers demanding she come again and again.
Inhuman, divine, all love, everything.
Shattering, she screamed out, falling…falling. Her body would have collapsed onto the cold metal of the hood, but a pair of strong arms caught hold of her. For countless precious, perilous minutes he held her roughly to him, cocooning them together. Panting, desperate to hold on to each other, they felt the earth whip by underneath their feet.
“I’m sorry,” he kept whispering into her neck, his voice nearly breaking, his forehead drenched in sweat. “I’m sorry. I know you wanted it, but I couldn’t take you here, not here, not here.”
“No,” she kept repeating back to him, still shaking. “No. God, that was—I love you, love you. No.”
Their strangled voices echoed in the stillness, leaving ghostly halos of breath about them.
“God, I love you,” he said, rocking her back and forth in his arms. “I love you so.”
She raised her eyes to the night sky and breathed in a huge lungful of cool air, letting the fog envelop her, damp and soothing on her feverish skin. The street lamp bathed the air in gold. For the first time she noticed the street sign on the alley.
Dashiell Hammett Street, it read.
When they were able to move, they gradually, reluctantly, fumbled their clothes back into place. Andrew kissed her, a slow drugging kiss, not stopping until their bodies and hearts were quiet, calm. One.
“I love you,” she told him, unwilling to let him go.
“Oh, sweet girl, you have no idea—”
Without warning, a voice came from behind them. It cursed loudly.
Immediately, Andrew tensed. His eyes found hers—don’t move, they warned.
A figure stepped into the end of the alley. Emily’s heart pounded in fear, and feeling it, Andrew turned, blocking her from view and holding her against the car. She dared a peek over his shoulder and saw four bodies in the shadows. They were outnumbered.
One stepped out into the light. Emily stiffened into Andrew’s shoulder.
“Bloody hell, do you two ever do it anywhere normal?”
17
* * *
SIMON STEPPED INTO THE LAMPLIGHT that bathed the entrance to the alley. His bowtie hung undone around his neck, his tuxedo flapped open in the breeze, and his arms stretched out in the same mocking disbelief that matched his words.
“Crypts, alleys? What do you suppose is next? Crawlspaces? For God’s sake, get a bloody room, why don’t you.”
With a stifled string of curses, Andrew relaxed his stance, though his arms still held Emily against the car. Her head dropped onto the heated muscles between his shoulder blades, and she could feel his heartbeat pound out the same jagged rhythm as hers.
Andrew turned, and completely ignoring Simon, he gently raised his hands, cupped them about Emily’s shoulders and looked her full in the face, his eyes brimming with concern. Caressing the side of her cheek with one hand, he straightened her coat with the other. “Ignore him,” he whispered.
“But—” She could feel the embarrassment blaze upon her cheeks and didn’t know where to look. How much had they heard; how much had they seen?
“But nothing. He’s probably just jealous.” He smiled, and she couldn’t help but smirk a little in response, especially when he gave her a clandestine wink. “Crawlspaces?” Her smirk widened, and he drew her into hug. “You’re mine, girl, all mine. Nothing else matters. Understood?”
She nodded and laughed into his chest, lost in the folds of his coat. “Good. Now take my hand. Brilliant. Deep breath. Ready?” With that they turned around and exited the dark alley to face the crowd and the music.
Zoey was apparent first. She had her hands shoved deep into the pockets of her purple faux-fur coat, and her face appeared awestruck as she rocked from foot to foot on the sidewalk. Next to her, Christian was staring at his own feet, his dreads swinging as he fought back a round of sniggering. Simon had lit up a cigarette while waiting for someone to say a word, but Margot, in her Giants T-shirt and leather jacket, swiped the cigarette from his hands took a deep puff and blew it off to the side.
“And what brings you to this neighborhood, exactly?�
� asked Andrew tersely.
“Well,” ventured Simon, “we heard the screaming from around the corner and we—”
“Idiot!” Margot reprimanded him. “What this moron meant to say is that he and his friend dragged us over miles and miles of crumbling sidewalks to interrupt your romantic dinner thanks to someone turning off their phone. All this to go to this supposed jazz club, since they found out a Mr. Memphis or someone is playing there tonight. I’d like to add that neither of them is wearing goddamn three inch heels.” She pointed to her black boots with a scowl and threw the cigarette into the gutter.
“Memphis?” Andrew said. “Memphis is playing? Where?”
“Over on Columbus,” answered Simon, his grin widening at the effusion in Andrew’s voice.
Before she knew what was happening, Emily was being hauled down the street; she cast a frantic, fleeting look back at Margot and Zoey who looked equally shocked, tripping and tumbling as their dates dragged them down the avenue like just another one of their equipment cases. The moment they started to protest in earnest, a red awning bearing some illegible name came into view and they were whisked inside.
Once stationary, euphoria and vulnerability battled for equal footing inside Emily. She wanted nothing more than to be alone with Andrew, and even the press of his lips to her temple as they passed through a set of thick velvet drapes to the club beyond did little to shake off her ever growing feeling of helplessness.
The room was dusky, as if the smoke that had once permeated every square inch had never truly blown away, and it was packed with people crowded around café tables, their faces illuminated by a collection of mismatched votive candles crammed into shot glasses. The only other light was provided by a nicotine-stained crystal chandelier.
Grave Refrain: A Love/Ghost Story Page 27
