Off Bass

by KC Enders

  I have the bigger balls.

  “Alexis Thompson,” I say. “The broken bitch from New York. It’s lovely to meet you.” I square my shoulders and offer her my hand to shake.

  She scoffs and takes my hand, shaking with not the slightest bit of strength behind it. “Pleasure,” is all she says, floating away to the far side of the room.

  “Wow,” one of the dancers whispers. “I’ve never seen anything like that happen. It was beautiful. Tell me you like it here and you’re staying?”

  I laugh, feeling lighter than I have in ages despite the passive-aggressive walk-off by the lovely Cari.

  27

  SICK PUPPIES

  NATE

  I slip into a seat in the back row of the small performance hall. My plane was delayed in takeoff, and I’m sure Alex has been running since she got here.

  Stress. Nerves. Attitude. That’s what I imagine she was sporting when she walked through the door this morning, but none of that is apparent now. Not a hint of it.

  Down on the wooden floor, she is the epitome of poise and grace, looking stronger than she did when I left. Proving she’s progressed even further, there’s not even a hint of past injury as she spins and leaps across the stage.

  It’s not long before heads start turning. Subtle stares, low whispers, and the occasional nod in my direction. The dude on the stage claps sharply, the sound echoing through the mostly empty hall.

  “I have you for fifteen more minutes. Do you understand me?” It’s obvious he’s not looking for a response when he continues, “Miss Thompson, will you lead us in the next sequence? Mr. Portner, you as well.”

  The flimsy skirt wrapped around Alex’s waist flutters as she presents herself on the left side of the stage. I’m far from an expert, but I’ve been watching dance in some capacity for as long as I can remember, and the line these two artists present is stunning. Perfect. They complement each other and look like they have been dancing together for years instead of maybe a scant handful of hours.

  “She would be a huge asset to our program.”

  Leaning forward in my chair, I turn my head to see a refined middle-aged man standing behind me. “She would be an asset to any program,” I respond, standing.

  The gentleman offers his hand, and I shake it. Firm grasp. Meets my eye. Commands respect without demanding it. I like that.

  “Denton Raspeau, director of the Kansas City Ballet. Thank you for your availability on such short notice. We appreciate your support, Mr. Calloway. Much as I hate to start out this way, I have to ask.” He takes a step to the side, zeroing in on the stage and the beautiful dancer there. The one we evidently both want claim to. “Are we in fact on the same page regarding Miss Thompson? Because I noticed the room we reserved for her was canceled.”

  I laugh softly. Jealousy is not an issue here. I have no illusions that the man next to me is looking to steal Alex romantically. I did my homework; he’s been happily married to his husband for well over a decade. But I do know that he wants to take Alex away from me. He wants her here. Halfway between my house and my job, but one hundred percent not in my everyday life. Not convenient.

  “Sir, I want what is best for Alexis. Whatever it is that she desires, I want that for her. A premium position with your organization or a teaching position in the tiniest ballet school—if Alex wants it, I support her. As for the room, I have certain requirements for secure accommodations. And I would never take from the arts when I can contribute instead.”

  Silence hangs pregnant between us, threatening to thicken the air and suffocate us both.

  “Excellent. I expect you’ll be joining us this evening for dinner?” he asks, though there’s little doubt that it’s more of an assumption.

  Because I have connections in town, but more because I can, I say, “I would be honored, though I’ve arranged a private tour of the Kauffman Center for her later this evening. I hope that won’t be a problem.”

  Am I partaking in a bit of proverbial dick-measuring? Yes. Yes, I am. But I meant it when I said it; I will do anything to give Alex whatever it is she wants.

  “Impressive,” he says, a touch of admiration, maybe a little bit of awe in his tone. He gives me the details of dinner—where, what time.

  I didn’t mess with the specific hotel they chose for Alex to stay in. It’s nice enough in Crown Center, convenient to the ballet, but I upgraded us to a corner suite. Easier to have security covered and a much better view of the city. Though the next time we’re in town, I’ll reserve something a little more memorable. Because if the smile slashed across her face is any indication, she likes it here. And we’ll be back.

  The activity down on the stage comes to a halt as the ballet master prepares the dancers for dismissal.

  After a few encouraging words and a beautiful, “Thank you,” to Alex for spending the afternoon with them, the company is released.

  And in a rolling wave, every single face turns, seeking out the back corner that I currently occupy with Monsieur Raspeau. It’s not him they’re looking for—they see him on a daily basis and probably shy away from such interactions.

  Whispers filter up through the air, and Denton leans closer to me. “Looks as though they’ve found their mark. From the sound of the buzz, you might have a difficult time navigating your way to our Alexis.”

  I know his intent is to show solidarity, mutual interest, but I slap my media smile across my face and shove my hands in my pockets. “Our Alexis? I don’t think so, Denton. I am happy as fuck, downright giddy for her to dance at the top of your lineup, but make no mistake. I do not fucking share. You feel me?”

  I don’t like the fact that I’m pulling this macho shit, but the feeling, when it reared its ugly head, was too hard to squash. I suck a breath through my nose, pushing it out forcefully, calmly.

  I smooth my features and bite the bullet. “I apologize. That was unnecessary.”

  Denton chuckles knowingly. “Oh, dear boy, I understand. And I am glad for it.” He takes a step backward, out into the hallway beyond. “I look forward to chatting with you further this evening, Mr. Calloway. Until then …” And somehow, it doesn’t bother me at all when he leaves the sentence dangling, unfinished, between us, the way it does with my manager.

  Maybe there are more changes that need to be made.

  • • •

  “Nate.” My name uttered breathlessly by Alex is my favorite sound in the entire world.

  “Hey there, sweet thing.” I pull her to me and kiss the corner of her mouth. I should have gone for the cheek, but it’s been so long since I’ve seen her that I couldn’t resist. I had to taste her. “You looked amazing down there.”

  “Yeah?” Her face absolutely lights up. Cheeks flushed, eyes bright. Chest heaving.

  This is my favorite look on her, but right now, I just want the stripped-down version, where she’s wrapped around me and I’m buried in her as deep as I can be.

  “Absolutely. The best, most accomplished,” I murmur in her ear. “What more do you have here today?” I trail my fingers down her arm, unable to keep from touching her. It’s been far, far too long.

  “Nothing. I just need to change, and then we can go to the hotel before dinner. You’re coming to dinner, right? It’s with the director and his hus—”

  “I wouldn’t miss it. I’m here for you, Alex. Whatever you need.” I told the same to Gavin and Ian, to Denton Raspeau. It’s time for me to say it to Alex—to make sure she knows that whatever she wants is what I want too.

  “We can make it quick—I’m sure they’ll understand—and we can keep things short. I have more to discuss with you about it …”

  And there it is. The hint at what she’s thinking, what she wants. I lean in and kiss her again, stealing another taste to tide me over until I can get her alone.

  “Change, and let’s get out of here. We have a lot of shit to work out, and I’d rather do it privately.”

  I glance at the small, barely contained group of people hov
ering. They’re just out of arm’s reach but still way too close for all the things I need to say.

  Alex quickly peers over her shoulder, turning back to face me, a knowing smile pushing her cheeks high. “See? You do have a fan club.”

  I grasp her delicate shoulders in my hands and squeeze softly. “Hmm, it appears that way. I’ll hold them off, so you can get what you need, and we can bolt.”

  Her filmy skirt flutters in her wake as she stalks down the hallway to change her clothes and grab her suitcase.

  For fifteen minutes, maybe twenty, I paste my media smile on and play the part of a rock star. It’s never been my favorite thing, not something I strived for or desired. But for Alex, I’ll do anything.

  When she returns, we make our way to the lobby of the building and step out into the Midwest evening. The sun has gone, and the air is crisp and clean. I grab her suitcase and wrap my other hand around hers.

  “Mr. Raspeau said the hotel is right over there.” Alex spares only a fleeting glance in the direction she indicates before the softly lit buildings capture her attention.

  “I have my car,” I say, guiding her to the curb.

  It’s a beautiful night, and we could walk, but I am far too impatient. I need to get Alex alone, in our suite, and lose myself in her.

  We swing through the massive intersection and turn into the circle drive of the hotel. We are that fucking close.

  I grab Alex’s hand and pull her along behind me to the secure elevator that leads up to our suite.

  “What about my bag? Don’t we have to check in?” she asks, stumbling slightly behind me.

  The elevator doors ping open almost immediately after the attendant swipes his access card.

  “Have our bags brought up, please,” I tell him as the doors slide closed, tucking us away.

  “Nate. We have to—”

  I pull Alex toward me and stop her protests, whatever she was going to say, with a kiss. I slant my lips across hers and lick into her mouth. Stealing her breath away. Devouring her.

  The only thing keeping me from peeling her out of her clothing and pinning her to the wall of the elevator is the camera up in the corner. I’m not going to be the member of the band to get slammed with a leaked sex tape. Hell to the fucking no.

  But when the doors open to a small, private vestibule with only a handful of doors, I scoop her up and carry her to ours. I stalk through the suite, not bothering to make sure the door closes behind me, and go straight to the bedroom. I kick the door shut, hit the lock, and throw her into the soft cloud of the bed.

  Alex moans low in her throat as I crawl my way up her gorgeous body. Peeling away filmy layers of dance clothes mixed with whatever she threw on afterward.

  Her skin is salty and sweet, the scent of her driving me out of my goddamn mind.

  “Nate, I need a shower. I’m all sweaty and gross.” Her protest is weak, as feeble as her attempt to push me away.

  I wedge my shoulders between her legs and wrap my arms around her thighs, pinning her in place. Holding her exactly where I want her. I worship her pussy, licking and nipping, kissing and sucking until she winds her hands into my hair and holds on for dear life.

  “Don’t care,” I murmur against her clit. Her taste explodes on my tongue, making my dick so fucking painfully hard that I’m afraid I might die.

  I’d much rather live.

  Live a long, beautiful life, buried balls deep in this woman.

  Alex claws at me, her fingernails scraping across my scalp. Pulling at my hair. The bite of pain so delightfully complementary to the bliss of making her come.

  Her back arches off the bed; her mouth opens in a silent scream.

  Mere seconds after she catches her breath, my dick slides into her slick heat, and I lose all regard for time.

  I shove my knees under her thighs. Tilt her hips between my palms, so I bottom out with each and every thrust.

  I show her all the love. All the devotion I have for her.

  Everything we’ve been missing.

  28

  POETS OF THE FALL

  ALEXIS

  My heart.

  My soul.

  Everything that means anything to me is right behind me. Literally.

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  I have danced in some beautiful theaters, but this—this theater—is spectacular. The style is reminiscent of the Sydney Opera House. The acoustics are astounding. And here I am, standing in the center of the stage that supports the ballet.

  I push up onto my toes, the tap of my shoes resonates against the wood of the stage, sliding through the air and around the hall.

  “God, that carries,” I mumble, dropping back down to my feet.

  “What are you thinking?” Nate asks softly from the edge of the stage.

  It doesn’t matter how much space separates us; I can hear him perfectly.

  I turn my head, taking in his soft smile. The way he stands there, so confident, so comfortable. Of course, it’s second nature for him. He performs in much bigger venues, on much bigger stages, in front of crowds of tens of thousands. This? This is nothing to him.

  “I didn’t want to like it. I really wanted to hate it here,” I say, turning to face the front of the house. “But I don’t.”

  Mr. Raspeau smiles broadly and pulls his husband in for a hug. When they separate, he nods to me, saying, “We’ll talk more tomorrow.” And then he ushers his husband out the door, leaving me alone with Nate.

  I feel the air shift as he approaches. His hands settle on my hips, and he turns me, so we’re face-to-face.

  “You’re staying, going to take the position,” he says. It’s not a question; he already knows.

  “I don’t know what it is, Nate. There’s just something here …” I pause, searching for the exact words to express what I’m feeling. Anything I manage to come up with is woefully inadequate.

  “What?”

  I roll my lips inward, licking them as I collect my thoughts. “I pushed so hard, for so long. Worked my ass off and sacrificed things—people—that I didn’t want to. I just about killed myself to get to the elite level, and I almost lost it all. By all rights, I did.

  “It took falling, failing miserably, to find you again. For fate to bring you back into my life.” I inhale and then sharply push that lungful of air through my nose, fighting tears. I don’t want to cry. I don’t want to think about walking away from Nate again. Of what this change, this move, will mean to us. To our relationship. “I don’t want to lose you again. I would rather give up—”

  “Uh-uh. You’re not giving up anything, Alex. You know what you want. You know where you want to be, and it’s right here. If this is where you feel you belong, where your heart is telling you to be, then that’s it. That’s all that matters.”

  “But—”

  “Nope.”

  “How will we—”

  Nate kisses me silent, stopping whatever negativity was about to tumble from my lips. “We’re at a totally different stage of life here, Alex. Fucking night and day comparison. I was eighteen and couldn’t get over myself and follow you to New York. We were kids. Now? There’s no fucking way I’m letting anything get in our way. Nothing. So, make your decision, the one you want, and I will be right there with you. I will support you, no matter what you choose, because I love you.” His fingers press into the flesh of my hips, pulling me closer until we’re a breath away. “I fucking love you.”

  His eyes dart up over my head, and he gives a subtle chin lift before the house lights dim even further, leaving us illuminated onstage. Music fills the stage, soft and sensual.

  “What?” I glance around, not seeing another soul backstage or anywhere.

  With a lazy smile slashed across his face, his eyes soft, Nate leads me to the middle of the stage. And we dance sweet and slow, like we would have at our graduation night if I hadn’t left Virginia.

  “This,” he says. “Just this.” And with that, he spins me out and back,
catching me and pulling me close with his hand at my lower back. “And so much more. After we meet with Denton tomorrow, what should we do?”

  We. After we meet with Mr. Raspeau.

  He said it so simply, like there is no question that we are in this together. That this change, this move, involves both of us.

  “I don’t know. We could explore the city more. See what there is to see.”

  Nate nods, swaying back and forth with me, spinning me in another turn around the stage of this stunning venue. “Or …”

  I pop an eyebrow high and add a little body roll and hip sway to our dance, eliciting a quiet, “Mercy,” from him before he responds.

  “Or we can look for a place for you.” He tries to mimic my moves and does way better than I would have thought. “For us.”

  I stop in my tracks. “What do you mean? You live in New York. You work in California and tour—more than a lot. You have your brownstone.”

  Pulling me closer again until my front is pressed against his, his muscular thigh wedged between mine, Nate says, “I do. But none of that has to change for me to buy something here.”

  It’s silly, but I still and just stare at him for a moment.

  “You’d … you’d do that? For me?” I ask.

  Nate stops moving and grasps my face between his massive palms. He threads his fingers in my hair, finding his curl, like he’s drawn to it. Like he couldn’t not find it. “Don’t you know? I’d do anything for you, Alex. I’d give up whatever I need to in order to be with you.” He presses his mouth to mine, sweeping his tongue along the seam of my lips, seeking entrance. “I’d give it all up for you. Everything. There’s not a damn thing in the world—not the guys, not the band, nothing—that’s worth more to me than you, Alex. You are my everything.”

  I melt. I fucking melt into him as he hums a little sound of pleasure. A tiny little hmm that zings through my heart and makes my panties uncomfortably wet. Because it’s that sound, and suddenly, I can’t get out of here and back to our hotel fast enough.

  “Let’s go,” I whisper, my lips against the hollow of his throat.