Blue Notes (10 page)

We reach the outdoors. The night is hot and the street is bright. He doesn’t take his eyes from the streetlamp, where humidity hangs low and bugs are out in force. Which car is his? Why won’t my legs work? I’m left feeling like an actress in a play, but he’s not my leading man. He’s my director, watching and dictating from afar. I should hate it. Instead I can’t wait to see what he has planned.

“You know, Keeley, I don’t believe that performance on Friday was all of you,” he says. “You haven’t shown anyone who you really are.”

“No one’s proven that they deserve that right.”

He extends his hand, as if he has a deal in the making—a deal that could mean anything. “You could show me. A little at a time. Starting tonight. Are you that brave?” His drawl is so low and quiet when he says, “I think you are.”

He steps closer and I can’t help it. I take his extended hand in mine.

His features explode into a grin. As he tugs me down the street, away from the club, his grip so strong and steady, I suddenly and irrevocably know two things.

One: Jude Villars holds a rare power over me, the girl who’s been to hell and back.

Two: Even so, he’ll never learn that my real name isn’t Sara Dawson or Lila Reuther—or even my favorite alias, Keeley Chambers, the woman I’m still learning to be.

 Fourteen 

W
e walk around two corners, with the heavy humidity muffling the nightlife sounds. Laughter and music could be coming from anywhere. We’re surrounded by it. Each streetlamp is haloed. The dampness is hot. It’s private. Bright daylight would be garish by comparison. Daylight would make what I’m doing seem completely ridiculous. Why did I agree to this? Why did I practically fight to be here?

Because he’s astonishing. I would’ve lived the rest of my days wondering what I missed out on, had I decided to go home with Janissa instead. All of this—every moment spent with Jude—might be that oncoming brick wall or the roller coaster with missing pieces of track, but this was my time. It was
true
. True time. True feelings. These are things happening to me, not to anyone else, not even to some future version of myself. I’ll never be twenty-one again, walking nervously, a little too stiffly, on the arm of a man as breathtaking as Jude Villars, while the sounds of New Orleans become our soundtrack. One day I’ll be able to compose what I’m feeling and I’ll retire happy.

No. That isn’t true; I could never retire. The piano is my voice when all others fail.

“You’re quiet,” he says.

“Nervous.”

“I like that you’re honest.”

“I don’t do this. Normally, I mean.”

He gives my hand a squeeze, where his body is branding mine. “The thought never crossed my mind, sugar. Innocence is an easy thing to spot.”

I snort a really unattractive laugh. “Innocent? Me?”

He doesn’t watch me. We’re walking, with his face in profile, his nose and brow and chin all so straight and strong. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

“I could tell you a lot about me that isn’t innocent,” I say, although I’m not ready to counter him if he dares me to prove it.

“Then let’s start easy. You ever heard of a purity test?”

I laugh uneasily while nodding. “Quizzes people take when they’re a little lit and want to prove how badass they are. You notice that? The only ones who really push to play a game like that are the ones who want to show off. ‘Oh yeah, I’ve done it on horseback with Miss June and a banana. Haven’t you?’ ”

He’s smiling broadly when we reach the car. With assurance and grace, he turns so that his back leans against the side of the damp metal, then pulls me flush against him. His hands aren’t on my ass. They’re just above, just a tease. He could grab and hold on tight if he wanted. I feel vulnerable . . . and curious.

“I have nothing to prove. Miss June was a crappy lay, the horse threw us both off, and the banana was mushy.”

“I hope that isn’t some phallic metaphor.”

With eyebrows lifted, his eyes shimmer briefly in the strange, fog-drenched light. “Do you want to talk in metaphor, Keeley?”

I swallow, watching where the throb of his pulse beats at the base of his throat. “No. I said I’m nervous. That was just nerves. I’m . . . There’s . . . Okay, purity test. I’ve kissed guys. Sometimes sloppy. Sometimes gropey. Occasionally decent . . .”

“Nah,” he says, that drawl like a fine wine. “We’ll skip the metaphors. I’m too old for college games, and you don’t want to talk about it. I get it.”

“It’s not that I don’t want to talk.” I make a frustrated noise and work up my nerve. “Let’s just say I haven’t done much. And right now, I’d rather just . . .
do.
”

“Make music rather than talk about it?”

I smile despite myself. “Back to metaphors.”

He tightens his fingers around my waist, then leans down to brush his lips along my jaw. He finishes the slow, seductive string of touches when he reaches my mouth, until his lips settle briefly against mine. “Then I’ll skip straight to my big question. Are you a virgin?”

I drop my forehead against his chest. I could get drunk right there, breathing him in, the sting of salt and the bittersweet magic of sandalwood. It’s like he’s brought the best of the club out into the night with us, layered over the scent of him. I don’t know why I feel compelled to tell him the truth, to expose myself to him like this, but suddenly I’m saying, “Yeah.”

He lifts my chin. “Then we do this right.”

“This?”

After fishing keys out of his pants pocket, he opens the rear passenger door to the night black Mercedes. It’s an astonishing car. It reminds me of expensive watches and golf outings and galas where unflashy rich people—not celebrities, but the invisible elite—bid at silent auctions to support worthy causes. The interior is leather, just warm enough that I don’t get goose bumps, just cool enough to give me some relief from the hot, sticky night. Jude follows me inside. The door closes with a definitive sound.

“Here’s the thing, sugar,” he says, leaning back. We’re only touching at the thigh again, like the first time I’d watched Adelaide play. “You’re intriguing. I’ve been with intriguing women before, but they knew exactly what they were doing when they got into my car or came home with me. And that’s fine. We played accordingly.”

Play
.

Play with Jude Villars. Such a harmless word.

“I get the feeling things are different with you.” He tilts his head to the side. His grin is at half mast. He appears tired, except for the piercing way he’s decided to stare at me, into me. “You’re here in the backseat of a car owned by a man you’ve encountered exactly three times. I’m guessing you’re here because you’re curious, and because you
are
brave. Backing down from a challenge doesn’t fit you.”

“Buttering me up?”

“Do I need to?”

“No,” I say with more confidence. I even smile. “I’m here. Get to the point, Mr. Villars.”

He chuckles. “We went over this, sugar. I’m Jude to you, or I’m nothing.”

“Get to the point,
Jude
.”

“So you’re here. . . . What do you want?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Let’s pretend you’re in charge.” At that, he stops and our gazes catch. I can’t help but match his teasing grin. “What do we do right now?”

“What do we . . . ?”

He tangles his hand with mine and rests them together on the hard, flat plane of his stomach. “That’s a telling squeak. Is it so hard, sugar? To know what you want?”

It’s more the fear that I’ll never get what I want.

“Knowing what I want isn’t the problem,” I say quietly. “Telling you is.”

“Why?”

“Look.” A surge of past anger and nerves whirl together. “I chose to leave the club with you. I chose to get into this car with you.”

“Is that all you need? Or should I lock the doors for an extra hit of danger?”

Deliberately, he trails the finger of his free hand along the polished wooden door frame and slides, slides, slides until he presses the door lock. A sharp snick of sound makes me jump. Locked in together. I should be terrified. I should be running out into the streets, not calling for the cops but for terms of surrender.
I’m done. You got me. I’m a scaredy-cat
. I can’t say how much I want him to kiss me, because then I won’t get it.

If I keep my mouth shut, I won’t get it either.

I swallow hard and try to pull my hand away. “You’re making fun of me.”

He apologizes with his expression. Is a self-respecting woman allowed to let a guy off the hook if he smiles just the right way? “Yeah, a little,” he says. “Do you want to get out? For real?”

“No.”

He blinks. I would’ve too, had I been in his place. It’s the first firm thing I’ve said since leaving the club. “Then what does it matter that I’ve locked the doors?”

Because now things
will
happen. Whatever will happen, I want it more than I’m afraid of it. The fear comes from having it jerked away from me at the last second. But if we’re locked in . . . If he really wants to be here with me . . .

If he’s
not
doing this as some elaborate joke . . .

I take a deep breath and straighten my shoulders. If I’m going to sit side by side with Jude Villars in the backseat of his Mercedes, I’ve got to start with my backbone.
Firm the hell up.

“What happened to
If I want you, sugar, I’ll come find you?
”

“This is me finding you.” He releases my hand and turns on the seat so that we’re face to face. There’s a wild light in his eyes that gleams nearly as bright as a swimming pool on a sunny August day. Ours mouths are so close that I can feel his breath, plus mine as it softly ricochets back from his skin. We’re sharing secrets in the dark. “I already know you’re clever. Learn right now that I hate repeating myself. This is the last time. What do you want, Keeley Chambers?”

“To touch the back of your neck.”

Another blink. I like that. He isn’t very good at hiding that small reaction. I wonder if anyone else has caught on: how to tell if you’ve surprised Jude Villars.

“Tell me why,” he says.

This is getting easier. I can almost breathe when I speak. “From the night last week when I stood behind you on the stairs. You talked to me.”

“Talked down to you.”

“Flirted with me? Can we call it that? I don’t want to think you were being an asshole on purpose.”

“Fine.” That bright blue light shines in his eyes. I feel like I’m being soaked into him, dissolving into smaller and smaller pieces until I coat his skin and slip inside every pore.

“You turned away from me,” I say. “I was tongue-tied. So I just . . . stared at your nape. Where your hair hits your collar. It’s a little long for a businessman, isn’t it?” I angle my head to get a better view. Sure enough, the ends of dark hair carelessly curl around the ridge of his collar. “I wanted to run my fingers through it, to see if it’s as soft as it looks. . . .”

Explaining is one thing. Running my mouth into absurdville is another. I feel like an idiot for going so far until I see what it’s done to him. He’s breathing faster. His nostrils flare. “I’m not stopping you,” he says, the softest dare.

I reach up and twine a curl around my forefinger. But a hesitant touch isn’t what I need. I remember grabbing his collar and practically daring him to kiss me. Practically daring myself.

I lean forward. His upper body supports mine as I slide my hands from his broad, tense shoulders up to his neck, then back around. I dive in. Nails and all. I use his hair to feel deeper—the heat of him. He moans softly. A shudder works up and down his long body.

“You’re shaking,” I breathe, barely daring to believe it.

“Have you imagined kissing me?” His voice is a Southern gentleman’s rasp. It’s astonishingly sexy. I have goose bumps fighting to climb over even more goose bumps.

“Not at the time.” I shift on the seat. I’m so turned on. Being a virgin at twenty-one doesn’t mean I haven’t been turned on before, but it’s never been this pure. “I hadn’t gotten that far in my imagination.”

“But now?” He unthreads my ponytail and pushes my hair back from my shoulders. With his lips peppering my skin with kisses, he answers every touch of my fingertips with the touch of his tongue. “You’ve got more in you,” he says. “I want to hear it. Is it because you want to put your mouth on me?”

“Yes,” I gasp.

“Where? On
my
mouth?”

I shiver, flashing cold and hot. His lips are already near enough that they brush against mine as he speaks. “Later,” I say.

“Then tell me.”

“Right where I’m touching. Here, at the back of your neck.” I tighten my fingers around his arm, his composed strength—an outlet for my nervous, effervescent tension. “We’ve come this far. I’m curious. And I want . . . I want to be memorable.”