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I nod. “Yes. I’d like that.”
“What’s your bedtime ritual?”
“Before I stopped painting, I would lay in bed and listen to music and think about what I might put on the canvas. What about you?”
“I go to bed.”
I laugh. “That’s pretty basic.”
“I keep what I can simple.” He kisses my forehead and stands up. “I’ll be right back.” He walks into the bathroom, and it hits me that I haven’t taken off my makeup, but right now, I just don’t care. I slip under the blankets and flip out my bedside light, inhaling the spicy, wonderful scent of Nick clinging to the blankets.
Nick reappears in the bathroom doorway, still shirtless, his hair tied back again, his jeans replaced with pajama bottoms. He flips out the bathroom light, and it’s not long before he’s in bed with me, propped against the headboard, his phone in his hand. “Music,” he says, and with a punch of his finger, the soft, soothing sound of Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata” fills the air.
My lashes lower a moment, and I take in the delicate notes. “I love it.”
“I remember,” Nick says, flipping off the light. A moment later, he’s lying on his back and pulling me to his chest.
“Name one movie this music was featured in,” I challenge, snuggling close to him, my hand on his chest.
“Interview with the Vampire,” he says correctly. “Your turn.”
“Nineteen seventy.Love Story. And it was a tragic love story that my mother loved.”
“What’s your favorite movie, Faith?”
“I don’t have one. You?”
“Me neither.”
“What’s wrong with us?”
He laughs, that low, sexy laugh that is both soothing and arousing. “Let’s find one together,” he suggests. “It can be the first of many firsts for us.”
“The first of many firsts,” I murmur. “I like that.”
He strokes my hair. “Good. Now close your eyes and paint.”
I shut my eyes. “Paint,” I whisper, listening to the music, the delicate touches of piano keys, thinking of my canvas. I can see myself painting, feel myself slipping into slumber. I have red paint, not black, and my brush is moving with purpose, speed. Emotion. The scene fades away, and suddenly I am cold and hot and cold again. I fight to open my eyes, and for a moment I do, feeling myself slipping in and out of a dream or a nightmare, but I can’t seem to escape it. And then I’m back in time, inside the memory Macom and Nick had stirred tonight with that phone conversation. I’m at the dinner club with Macom, and I don’t want to be there again. Not tonight. Not ever again. I don’t want to relive this. But as hard as I try, I can’t stop it from happening now any more than I could then.
In my mind’s eye, I see myself in a short, silk, red Versace dress with deep cleavage that Macom had bought for me that night. Too much cleavage to suit me, but Macom likes to show me off. Maybe this should please me. Maybe it’s pride. It doesn’t please me, though, nor does it feel like pride. Macom himself is dressed in a black sweater and dress pants, his dark, curly hair neatly trimmed on the sides, longish on the top.
We enter the fancy, five-star dining room, his hand at my waist, and men turn to look at me when they would not look at other women in this part of the club—only those whose men allow their woman to be shared. I would not allow such a thing. I expect us to sit down, but instead we pass through a curtain, entering a sitting room that I’ve never visited, complete with a couch and two chairs framing a fireplace. Tom, a young and good-looking investment banker who often flirts with me, is standing at the fireplace. He looks up at our entry, eyes lighting in a way that tells me he’s waiting on us.
“What is this?” I ask, but Macom doesn’t answer. His grip at my waist tightens, and he urges me forward. “Macom, damn it,” I say, digging in my heels.
He rotates me to face him, tangling his fingers in my hair. “A new game.”
“No, I—”
His mouth closes down on mine in a deep kiss I cannot seem to escape, but I press on his chest, and he finally pulls back. “Relax, Faith. Every game we play makes us hotter and better.”
“You want to share me? Is that what this is?”
“You’re mine. He’s just going to borrow.” I shove back from him, and I’m pissed. I start to walk out of the room, but anger gets the best of me. I turn and storm a path to Tom, stepping to him and kissing him. He molds me close, his hand quickly on my breast, but I am done.
I push away from him and find Macom standing almost directly behind me. “He tastes better than you.” I step around him and keep walking, straight out of the club door. And I keep walking, tears streaming down my face. I wanted my man to be protective—possessive, even. I’d wanted him to want me that much. But he doesn’t, and I either have to leave or find a way to deal with the reality: there is no such thing as a fairy tale. And maybe that’s the problem. I wanted that fairy tale romance that doesn’t exist, and I have missed that point. Everyone in that club, including Macom, knows that but me.
The images go dark again, and I feel my heart racing, but the music returns to me. “Moonlight Sonata.” Soft piano playing. My hand on Nick’s chest, his breathing steady. Calm returns, and I slowly sink back into the music, reveling in the feel of Nick next to me. I fade into sleep, and my mind goes blank, a sense of relaxation overcoming me, but somehow I’m now standing in my mother’s garden. Or above it, looking down. My mother and father are there, kissing and laughing like young lovers, the way I remember them from my youth, but then my uncle walks up, taps my father on the shoulder, and my father backs up. My uncle takes my father’s place with my mother and starts to kiss her. My father just watches. I start screaming at him, not them, but it’s like I’m not really there. Like he can’t hear me—or won’t hear me.
