Control (Songs of Submission #4) (4 page)

“Are we going to watch the game from your bed?”

“Nope.”

“Damn. Brad Chance is pitching.”

“Why bother watching? He’s going to overuse his screwball and wear out his elbow by the third inning.”

“It’s fun watching guys swing at them. Especially Den Adler. He practically falls over,” I snickered.

“So,” he said definitively, stopping at a light, “you’ve avoided this ‘piece’ thing for exactly three minutes, and I’ve been very good about it.”

I put my hands on my knees. “Kevin asked me to collaborate on a thing with him for the B.C. Modern. We’re on a tight deadline. I brought Kevin and Gabby in.” The light changed to green, and I was relieved of the weight of his stare.

“Why?” he asked.

“Because they’re family, and I like working with them.”

“Not as a buffer between you and Kevin?”

“No.” I wasn’t sure if I lied to him or myself.

He pulled the car to a wide space on the side of the road and put it in park. He faced me. “Why did you agree to work with him after what he did at the Eclipse show?”

Layers of emotion masked his face. The top was a cold calm, an understanding bordering on parental. Under that, something wilder, but laser focused and powerful, pushed to the surface. I took a nervous breath. He was pissed, and I’d never seen that before. Goose bumps rose over my arms, and I rubbed my thumbs against my forefingers. I wondered if he could hear the clatter of my heart.

“Having music at the B.C. Modern could make my career. Everyone will hear it. Everyone will review it. It was like being handed a gift, and if I’d refused, I would have regretted it the rest of my life.”

“Your ambition outweighs your sense.”

I tried to match his anger with my own, but I felt puny and unjustified. “We were pretty clear that my work is my work. That hasn’t changed.” I kept my eyes level with his even though I felt the weight of his stare. He didn’t like Kevin. I knew that, but I wouldn’t abdicate my right to live my life as I pleased.

“Everything’s changed, Monica.”

“Not that.”

With those few words, I felt two wills pressing against each other, hard, straight, still. Nothing moved. No friction was created between them. His hands clenched the wheel, and mine were wound into fists. I couldn’t bear it. I touched the top of his hand.

He grabbed the back of the neck and pulled my face to his, drowning me in a kiss so hard and hot, I almost forgot what I’d seen in his expression. What had he seen in mine? That my heart could be broken? That I was falling in love with him, and if I tried to stop, the inertia would crack me in two? I pulled my face off his.

I said, “I know you don’t like Kevin.”

“Understatement of the year.”

“He’s harmless. And I’m trustworthy.”

“The latter, I believe. But men know other men.” He stroked my cheek. “Can you not be alone with him? Can you promise me that?”

It was a lot to ask. Darren was involved, but who knew what situations would arise? I covered his hand with mine. He needed me to make an honest effort. I could do that. “Yes.”

“Thank you.” He kissed me and got back onto Los Feliz Boulevard. We made the rest of the trip in hand-holding silence. Whatever anger had manifested in his face got pushed away. He pulled into his driveway, and the gate shut behind us with a clang. He walked around the car and opened my door. I had never seen his house in daylight, never seen the art deco woodwork on the windows or the detailing of the roof shingles. He took my hand and led me up to the porch. The front door was open, and he went in, expecting I’d follow. But I stopped at the threshold.

“What?” he asked. “Cat got your feet?”

“I’ve never entered your house with my clothes on before.”

“Ah. Well, first time for everything.” He tugged on my hand until I crossed into his house. The living room was as it had always been but bathed in light from the setting sun. If the room could look warmer, more inviting, I didn’t know how. He looked back at me and the sunlight dashed off the tips of his eyelashes as he pulled me through rooms and out to the backyard.

The pool was a huge, bean-shaped expanse in the center of the yard. Close to the house, a flower garden, sectioned by paths of flagstones, spanned from the main house to the pool house. Smaller, cozy areas with benches lined the right hedge, and on the left, wall-sized sliding glass doors opened into the sitting room where I’d had tea.

Aling Mira approached us in a modest black suit, carrying a tray of white wine.

“Hi,” I said when I took a glass. She nodded and walked toward a little table set for two. A middle-aged man lit the last candle on one of the flagstone paths and then the two on the table. I told Jonathan, “You have a nice yard.”

“Come walk with me.” He held out his arm, and I took it. We headed toward the pool on the candle-lined path. “Aling Mira cooked a Filipino specialty for you called kare-kare. It’s made from—”

“Oxtail stew?”

“You’ve had it?”

“I live in Los Angeles.”

He smiled and squeezed my hand. “She saw you slept in my room. So she’s very impressed with you.”

“How long has she worked for you?”

“A long, long time. She’s seen it all. She wants me to be happy as much as my own mother. Well, maybe an aunt or something.”

We strolled around the pool while the staff set up dinner. The sun was setting fast, and the candles lining all the pathways became more visible as the sky darkened.

“You lived here with your wife?”

“Yes. Why?”

“The bed?” I cringed. “Was that…?”

He laughed. “New bed, don’t worry. You’re the only woman I’ve had in it, actually.”

“I feel like a groundbreaker.”

“You’ve broken some ground on a few things.”

“Such as?” I swung to face him.

“This date?”

“And?”

“And showing you off at the L.A. Mod.”

“And?”

“And taking care of you. And wanting to see you again and again. And dressing you for my eyes.”

“You’re making me feel very, very good.” I kissed him gently and breathed in that leather and sawdust smell that was his choice, not his ex-wife’s. “I have to talk about you dressing me.”

He put his arms around my waist and pulled me close. “Yes?”

“It makes me uncomfortable when you buy me expensive stuff.”

He kissed my jaw and neck, as if to belie my discomfort and turn it into heat. “But the diamond was all right?”

I pursed my lips. “No, it wasn’t, but before I could think about it, stuff happened. So you got that one in under the wire. Don’t let it happen again.”

He put his lips to my ear and said, “I have a piano. A Steinway. Would you play it for me after dinner?”

I kissed him and whispered, “I’d love to.”

“And you’d sing for me?”

“Yes.” I dragged my lips across his cheek, listening to him breathing and feeling his hands at my waist. The idea of making music for him was so intimate, so arousing, I didn’t think I’d be able to make it through dinner.

“When we met, you said you wouldn’t,” he said.

“Things changed.”

“So, you’d take this talent, gifted to you from birth, and use it as an expression of how you feel about me?”

I pulled away. “Aren’t you clever.”

“Money is a blunt tool for expression. It’s vulgar compared to art, I agree, but it’s all I have. I want you to accept it. It would make me happy.”

I didn’t know how to argue without making the gifts he was born with somehow coarse and ugly, while mine were worthwhile enough to give. He really had me cornered. “You just did a number on me,” I said.

He bowed. “Captain of the debate team at Loyola.”

“Ah, a good Jesuit education,” I said, walking away. “I suppose now I get to wear all my new underwear without guilt.”

He grabbed my hand and pulled me back. “You said you were Catholic, so you have guilt somewhere.”

“Only until eighth grade. I performed ‘Invictus’ for my graduation recital and earned my escape from parochial school. I entered Los Angeles Unified guilt-free.”

He took me in his arms and kissed me. “‘Invictus.’ Classic. We did that in sixth. Eighth grade was Kipling. ‘If.’”

“Oh, that’s a long one.”

“I had to recite it with
feeling
.”

I smiled. “Yes, me too. ‘
Out of the night that covers me, Black as the pit from pole to pole
—’”

He completed the stanza. “‘
I thank whatever gods may be, for my unconquerable soul
.’” He grabbed the base of my braid and pulled my hair as he drew his mouth to mine. He was so sweet. His kisses were hard and passionate, a controlled lack of restraint in every flick of his tongue, every grasp of his fingers. I pushed into him, feeling his erection against me. He pulled away at the sound of a throat clearing.

Aling Mira stood behind me. “I’m sorry to interrupt. You said I should let you know when dinner is ready.”

“Thank you,” Jonathan said. He rattled something off in Tagalog. Aling Mira nodded to each of us and went back to the middle-aged man who stood in a secluded area.

“What did you say?” I asked.