The bass was a bruise against my ribs and West was looking at me like I was the only drink in a dry county.
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MAREN
The air in the Blue Note is thick enough to chew, a humid soup of expensive bourbon and cheap clove cigarettes and the ghost of every sad song ever played on that stage, and I am sitting in the corner booth with a glass of neat rye that I haven’t touched because my hands are shaking just enough to make the ice click against the glass like a warning. I shouldn’t be here, not on a Tuesday, not in this dress that shows too much of my collarbones, and certainly not to watch West play because West is twenty-seven and he was my late husband’s favorite student, the boy Julian used to bring home for Sunday dinner when he was just a skinny kid with a trumpet case and a hungry look in his eyes. But Julian has been in the ground three years now and the skinny kid has grown into a man with shoulders that take up too much room and a mouth that seems to know exactly what I’m thinking when he looks at me over the bell of his horn. The stage light is a harsh, smoky yellow that catches the sweat on his forehead and the way his fingers move on the valves is too fast, too rhythmic, it’s a language I don’t want to translate but my body is already leaning in, the silk of my slip dress sticking to the back of my thighs in the heat. The bass player is doing something low and dirty and the vibrations are coming through the floorboards and up through the soles of my heels and settling right in the pit of my stomach where everything feels hollow and heavy all at once. I see him look up, his eyes finding me in the dark behind the glow of a dozen tea lights, and the music doesn’t falter but the air between us suddenly feels like it’s been vacuum-sealed. He knows I’m here and he knows I’m not supposed to be, and the way he’s playing that solo is a direct challenge to every respectable thing I’ve ever done in this town.
WEST
I can taste the copper of the mouthpiece and the salt of my own skin but mostly I can taste the fact that she’s sitting at the back table under the neon Exit sign, Maren Calhoun, looking like a goddamn saint in a house of ill-repute. I saw her the second I stepped onto the riser, that shock of dark hair and the way she holds herself so straight like there’s a ruler taped to her spine, but I know better than anyone that she’s soft where it counts because I remember the way she used to laugh at Julian’s jokes when the wine got low. I’m blowing so hard I think my lungs might burst and I’m pushing the notes into the back of the room, aiming for her, trying to make her feel the things I can’t say because Julian was a father to me and she was the woman I wasn’t allowed to look at for ten years. But Julian is dead and I’m alive and the way she’s watching my hands makes my blood run hot and thick, a slow-moving river of fire that’s settling right in my groin. I finish the set with a long, trailing note that sounds like a question and I don’t even wait for the applause, I just set the horn on the stand and wipe my face with a towel, my heart hammering a syncopated beat against my ribs as I step off the stage and start walking toward her, the room blurring into a haze of smoke and faces that don't matter.
MAREN
He’s coming toward me and my first instinct is to grab my clutch and run out the side door into the humid Savannah night but my legs are made of lead and I can’t look away from him, the way he moves with this liquid, predatory grace that he definitely didn't have five years ago. He smells like brass and cedarwood and honest sweat when he slides into the booth across from me, not asking permission, just taking up the space like he owns it and Lord, his eyes are so dark they’re almost black in this light. He doesn't say hello, he just reaches out and takes my glass of rye and drinks the whole thing down in one go, his Adam’s apple moving in his throat and I find myself staring at it, thinking about the pulse beneath that skin. “You’re late, Maren,” he says, and his voice is a low rasp that scrapes against my nerves in the best possible way, his Georgia drawl thicker than usual, heavy with the effort of the set. I try to find my voice, the one I use for board meetings and garden club luncheons, but it’s gone, replaced by a tight knot of desire that I’ve been trying to drown for months. “I shouldn't be here at all, West,” I whisper, and the words feel like a confession, like I’m admitting to a crime we both committed a long time ago just by thinking about it. He leans across the table, his hand flat on the wood, and I can see the calluses on his fingertips from the valves and I want them on me, I want them everywhere.
WEST
“But you are here,” I say, and I can see the way her chest is rising and falling, the silk of that dress shimmering with every breath, and I want to reach out and hook my finger in the strap and see if it slides down as easily as it looks. She’s terrified and she’s wanting, and the combination is making me so hard it’s an ache, a dull throb that matches the rhythm of the drums still echoing in my head. I reach out and cover her hand with mine, her skin is so cool and soft compared to the heat of the stage and she flinches for a second but she doesn't pull away, she just lets out this little broken sound that makes me want to wreck her. “The back room,” I mutter, my voice sounding like it’s being dragged over gravel, “where they keep the old upright and the crates. There’s no one back there, Maren. Not for another hour.” I’m pushing her, I’m being a bastard about it because I’ve spent a decade being the good boy, the protégé, the one who stayed in his place, and I am finished staying in my place. I see the conflict in her face, the ghost of Julian and the weight of her reputation, but then she looks at my mouth and I see her pupils blow wide and I know I’ve won. She stands up first, her movements jerky and stiff, and I follow her, watching the way her hips sway under that silk, my hands itching to grab her and pull her against me right here in front of everyone.
MAREN
The hallway is narrow and smells like floor wax and old beer and my heart is beating so fast I think I might faint but then we’re through the heavy velvet curtain and into the storage room and the door clicks shut behind us and suddenly there’s no music, just the hum of the refrigerator in the corner and the sound of our breathing. It’s dark, only a sliver of light coming from the crack under the door, but I can feel him, he’s like a storm front moving in, all heat and pressure. Before I can even turn around his hands are on my waist, his fingers digging into the silk and the skin beneath, and he spins me around and slams me back against a stack of instrument cases. The impact jars me but it’s the good kind of jar, the kind that wakes up parts of me that have been numb for years. He’s kissing me then and it’s not a polite kiss, it’s a collision, his tongue tasting of the rye and the metal of his horn and I’m sobbing into his mouth, my hands clawing at his shoulders, pulling him closer because there’s not enough of him, there’s never going to be enough. He groans, a deep, guttural sound that vibrates through my teeth, and he lifts me up so my legs wrap around his waist and the friction of his denim against my bare thighs is almost enough to make me come right there. “West,” I gasp, “West, we can't, we shouldn't,” but I’m unbuttoning his shirt as I say it, my fingers fumbling with the buttons because I need to feel his heart against mine.
WEST
I don’t give a damn about ‘shouldn't’ anymore, I just want her, I want to bury myself in her until I can’t remember my own name. Her hands are all over me, frantic and hot, and I’m tearing at the straps of that dress because I’ve spent too many nights imagining what she looks like under it. The silk gives way and then she’s bare to the waist in the dim light, her breasts pale and perfect and her nipples are already hard, peaking for me, and I take one into my mouth and suck hard, wanting to leave a mark, wanting her to remember this every time she looks in the mirror. She cries out and arches her back, her fingers tangling in my hair, pulling me tighter, and I can feel her wetness through my jeans, a hot damp patch that’s calling to me. I let her slide down my body until her feet hit the floor but I don’t let go, I just spin her around and press her face against the velvet curtain, pulling her dress up over her hips. She’s wearing a thong, just a string of black lace that’s disappeared into the crack of her ass, and I growl at the sight of it, my hand coming down hard in a smack against her cheek. The sound is loud in the small room and she gasps, her head falling forward, her neck exposed and vulnerable. “You’ve been thinking about this,” I whisper into her ear, my hand reaching around to find her, my fingers sliding over the lace and into the heat. “You’ve been sitting in that booth every Tuesday for a month thinking about me doing exactly this.”
MAREN
I can’t even deny it, the shame of it is swallowed up by the sheer, blinding Need of his fingers sliding into me, two of them, deep and rhythmic, mirroring the way he plays that trumpet. I’m leaning against the curtain, the rough fabric scratching my face, and I’m open for him, my knees shaking, my breath coming in short, jagged hitches. He’s right, I have been thinking about it, I’ve been dreaming about these hands, about the way he looks when he’s lost in the music and wondering if he’d look the same way when he’s lost in me. He pulls the lace aside and his thumb finds my clit, circling it with a relentless, punishing pressure that makes my vision go dark at the edges. “Please,” I moan, and I don’t even know what I’m asking for, I just know that if he stops I’ll die. I can hear him fumbling with his belt, the metallic chink of the buckle, and then he’s pulling my hips back against him and I feel it, the thick, hot length of him pressing against my entrance. He’s huge, larger than I remember Julian being, or maybe it’s just the years of emptiness that make him feel like a mountain. He doesn't wait, he just pushes inside in one long, devastating stroke that fills me so completely I can’t even breathe. I scream into the velvet, a muffled, desperate sound, and he’s holding my hips, his fingers bruising my skin as he starts to move, a slow, heavy grind that hits every nerve ending I own.
WEST
She’s so tight I think she might snap me in half, her muscles clenching around me like she’s trying to keep me there forever. I’m moving deep, my face buried in the crook of her neck, smelling the jasmine and the sweat and the scent of a woman who’s been waiting too long to be touched like this. I can’t slow down, the tempo is picking up, my heart is a drum solo and I’m pushing into her, slamming my pelvis against her ass with a rhythm that’s old and primal. She’s whimpering now, her hands reaching back to grab my thighs, trying to pull me deeper, and I’m lost in it, the way she feels, the way she sounds, the way the forbidden nature of this is making every sensation ten times sharper. I reach around and find her clit again, my fingers working in tandem with my cock, and I feel her start to tremble, that fine, internal shaking that means she’s close. “Come for me, Maren,” I growl, my teeth grazing her shoulder, “forget about him, forget about everything and just come for me.” I’m pushing harder now, my breath coming in ragged gasps, and I can feel my own climax building, a freight train coming down the tracks and I don't want to stop it, I want to let it flatten me.
MAREN
He’s everywhere, he’s filling my body and my mind and the world is just this dark room and the smell of him and the way he’s destroying me from the inside out. I feel the first wave hit, a sharp, electric jolt that starts where his fingers are and spreads out like a drop of ink in water, and then I’m falling, my muscles seizing around him, my head tensed back as I let out a long, silent wail. It’s too much, it’s beautiful and it’s terrifying, and just as I think I’m going to shatter he lets out a choked sound and lunges deep one last time, his body stiffening against mine as I feel the hot, thick pulse of him filling me. We’re both shaking, both clinging to each other like survivors of a wreck, the only sound the heavy, wet thud of our hearts and the distant, muffled sound of the next band starting up on stage, a low, bluesy piano riff that feels like a mourning song. He doesn't pull away, he just stays there, buried inside me, his forehead resting against the back of my neck, and for a second, just one second, the ghost of the man we both loved feels a million miles away. I know when we walk out that door everything will be different, that the town will still be there and the scandal will be waiting, but right here in the dark, with the smell of brass and silk and sweat, I don’t care. I don’t care at all.
WEST
I’m spent, my legs feeling like water and my brain finally quiet for the first time in years. I pull out slowly, the sound of it wet and intimate in the small space, and I catch her as she sways, my arms wrapping around her bare waist. I don't want to let her go. I want to take her home, I want to keep her in my bed until the humidity breaks, but I can already feel her pulling back, the Maren Calhoun I’m not supposed to have reasserting herself. She’s fixing her dress, her fingers trembling as she tries to pull the ruined straps back into place, and I reach out and turn her around, forcing her to look at me. Her eyes are wet and her mouth is bruised from my kisses and she looks more alive than I’ve ever seen her. I lean down and kiss her one last time, a soft, lingering thing that tastes like a promise I don’t know if I can keep. “Tuesday,” I whisper, my hand cupping her jaw, the stubble on my chin scratching her skin. She doesn't answer, she just nods once, a quick, jerky motion, and then she’s gone, slipping through the curtain and back into the light, leaving me alone in the dark with the smell of her and the ringing in my ears.
