Caressa's Knees (16 page)

Chapter Eight:

Heartless

Kyle could only stare.

They’d found a dress, and it was stunning on her.
Ivory, not white.
The bodice was sculptural silk, embroidered with very delicate, almost invisible pearls. He remembered tiny buttons on her bra, and this was that effect, only heightened. The dress was high-
waisted
, with a full skirt that rustled around her in elegant drapes and made her look even smaller and more delicate than she was. She wore no other adornment, only a small rhinestone comb he’d used in the back when he swept up her hair. She was spectacular. Denise looked as shocked as he felt, and told Caressa over and over how lovely she looked.

He felt quite suave and elegant too in his best tux. It was an important night, not least of all because she was going out there as someone new.
A talented musician, yes, but a beautiful woman growing into her personality.
She wasn’t meant to be dark and tailored. She was blinding brightness. It thrilled him to see her that way.

But she paced. He knew Lincoln Center was a big deal venue, perhaps the biggest venue on the tour. They were still almost forty minutes out from her performance, too much time for her to get nervous.

“Caressa,” he said. “Enough. Sit and take some deep breaths.” He told her things like that every so often as they waited in these backstage dressing rooms, and she ignored them. He felt obliged to say them anyway. He could look at her and give her an order in his
dom
voice.
Sit, girl.
But that only worked in the bedroom. Here, he was the submissive one, as much as he wished he wasn’t. She yanked at the carefully pressed folds of her gown.

“How can I sit in this anyway?” she fussed.

He suppressed a sigh, looking at Denise. “We already practiced sitting, remember? We practiced playing. It worked fine. You’ll be fine. It’s beautiful.”

“It’s not me. I feel stupid.”

“It is you,” said Denise in that cloying, patronizing way of hers. “You picked it out and you loved it.”

It was true. She’d been like a starry-eyed child earlier, trying on thousand-dollar dresses and turning in front of the mirror. But he saw her starting to fray. He saw the unraveling before it even began. “Caressa—”

“This is—I can’t wear this. I need my other clothes. Kyle—”

“Cara, no.”

“I want them! Go get them. There’s time.”

“It’ll take half an hour,” Denise protested. “Forty-five minutes. Caressa, be reasonable.”

“I can’t wear this! Go downstairs and get some clothes then,” she said to Kyle. “Black pants, black shirt. Go to Columbus Circle.”

“You’re kidding me, right?” He was exasperated, but she was frantic and ratcheting up.

“Why aren’t you listening to me?” she wailed, in tears now. “Don’t you understand? I can’t perform this way.” She spread her arms and gestured at her dress as if it were a time bomb about to go off. “Why won’t you help me?”

“God damn it. You are fucking crazy, you know that?” He spun on his heel and did the only thing he could do, which was run to Columbus Circle and run back with a black Armani top and pants he prayed ran true to size. By the time he returned, Denise was gone. She always left the meltdowns to him.

He pulled at the zipper of
Caressa’s
dress, tempted to rip it off her, wanting to tear it to a thousand pieces in his frustration.
Just do your job. This is your job.
Whatever it takes to get her on that fucking stage.
She dressed in silence, putting on the new garments as he ripped the tags off. They fit, but nothing like the dress, which lay discarded now on the floor. “Do you want your hair down?” he ground out.

She didn’t answer. By this point it was already nearly time for her to head out the door to the stage. Still in a temper, he reached for the comb and yanked it out. She spun on him. “I’ll fucking do it.” She ripped the pins out and brought the whole thing down. She had no elastic to pull it back with, and he didn’t either.
Bad assistant.
Her hair stuck out from her head in all directions, a mass of unruly curls, gorgeous in its own disheveled way. He seethed and stared at her.

“You do not understand me,” she screamed at him.
The monster, his lover.
“Stop looking at me that way! You don’t understand!”

He bit his lip, wanting to hurt her. This wasn’t kink though, this wasn’t the cue for him to whip out the riding crop and give her an attitude adjustment. This was real life. This was someone he cared about out of control, a feeling sickeningly familiar to him.

She turned and left, heading to the stage. He followed at a distance, hating and loving her. She walked to her place front and center to vibrant applause, accepting her cello from the stagehand. She began to play, and even Kyle could see it was heightened, sharp. She put him in mind of a warrior, her hair like some wild headdress. He stalked back to the dressing room, leaving Denise to mind the prodigy. She was so frustrating. The most frustrating thing of all was how much he cared about her, and how little she cared back. He’d been there, done that. Read the novel all the way to the tragic end, blinked out on alcohol and cocaine.

She returned to the dressing room after the performance, looking exhausted but noticeably happy. At least there would be no post-concert meltdown today, no need to drag her to the cocktail party in the throes of artistic anguish. He’d already hung the dress away in the closet, tired of battle. He’d taken off his tuxedo jacket and thrown it over a chair. “I’m sure Denise is already there waiting for you.”

She hesitated, scrutinizing him. “You’re not coming?”

“I don’t particularly feel like coming. No.”

She looked down, then back up at him with a frown. “You only want me in that dress. You only want the elegant lady on your arm.”

He paused, the temper like a living thing inside him. He couldn’t let it out. He fell back on factual, impersonal phrases. “You wanted to go buy a dress. You asked me to help you. If you don’t want to wear it now, don’t.
Whatever you like.”

“I’d like you to come with me.” She almost sounded apologetic.
Almost.

“I’m not in the mood.”

“Because you’re angry about the dress.”

“Fuck the dress, Caressa. Listen one more time.
I'm not in the mood.
Go on. Denise will be there.”

“I don’t want to go if you don’t go.”

“You
have
to go. I don’t.”

“Don’t you work for me?”

He narrowed his eyes.
Don't say it. Don't say anything rash right now.
He let out a long, deep breath and picked up his jacket from the back of the chair. “After you,” he managed to say in an almost normal voice.

* * * * *

Caressa lay in bed, wanting to cry but not quite able to. It was late, nearly two in the morning. Kyle had just dropped her off at home after staying with her at the party until the bitter end, long after Denise had surrendered to peace and sleep. He’d stood beside her through the endless blathering conversations, the praise and inane questions.
How did you come to love the cello? How much do you practice? What are your favorite songs?
She’d desperately wanted some of the champagne, anything to take the edge off, but he’d said no. He’d stood at her elbow the whole night and hadn’t let her take a drink. Well, she supposed it was because of that red wine incident…

But there was more to it. What had he told her the night he found her in the bar?
Trying not to have a drink…
He hadn’t taken one drink, while everyone around them grew progressively drunker.
A cola.
Some water.
Nothing more.
Why had he gotten so upset about the dress?
It wasn’t the dress, Caressa. You screamed at him.

She’d ordered him around.
Again.
She liked when he did it in the bedroom, but he didn’t like when she did it back to him. But the bedroom was the bedroom, and outside the bedroom she had shit she had to do. It wasn’t negotiable. He didn’t understand that. The cool, reproachful look he’d given her at the door had taken away any of the pride she’d felt at her concert performance, as well as any pleasure she’d found as the center of attention at a Lincoln Center benefit. She tried to tell herself it didn’t matter, but it
did
.

She rolled out of bed and picked up her phone. She scrolled to his number,
then
put it down again. It was late. He was mad at her. She picked it up a moment later and dialed his number anyway. When it went to voicemail she hung up. Then she dialed again.

“Hello, Caressa.”
Angry, gritty caramel this time.
Not sweet.

“Kyle. Are you sleeping?”

“Not anymore.”

“I’m sorry.” She fell silent. That was the extent of what she’d planned to say. Silence on the other end. “Kyle, are you there?”

A big sigh.
“What do you want?”

“I’m sorry,” she repeated. “I’m sorry.”

“Okay, you’re sorry. That really doesn’t comfort me because this thing you’re saying sorry for—you’re just going to do it again.”

“I know. You don’t understand, though—”

“Next time you tell me I don’t understand something, I’m quitting. Do you understand
that
, you little nutcase?”

“I’m not a nutcase, I’m just…” She swallowed the impulse to once again say
you don’t understand
. “I miss you,” she said instead. “I wish you were here. Or that I was over there.” Suddenly she ached to be with him. She wanted to touch him and apologize to him face-to-face, body-to-body. “Can I come over there?” She waited, afraid he would say no, but he said yes and had her write down his address. She took a cab, and was there a half hour later.

He answered the door in boxers and nothing else, leaning against the doorsill looking tired. He took her hand and led her through his darkened apartment to the bedroom, and she was kind of relieved he didn’t say anything, or
expect
any words from her as he took her clothes off and dropped them on the floor. He pulled the covers up over them both and cradled her close to him in the dark.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered against his neck. “I don’t know why I act that way sometimes.”

He was still, not offering any perspective beyond a light, soothing caress up and down her arm. Finally he said, “You’re like something running through my
fingers, that
I keep grabbing at.” He sought her wrist and his fingers tightened around it almost painfully. “I want to catch you. But I’m not sure that desire is coming from a healthy place.”

They lay in silence for a moment. Caressa tried to gauge his mood. She remembered his rigid stance at the party, his clipped conversation.

“Why don’t you drink, Kyle?”

“Do you
want
me to drink?”

“I’m just curious.”

He laid back, away from her, stretching one strong, sculptured arm to rest behind his head. His lips drew down in a frown and his gaze was distant. She thought he would close his eyes and sleep, leaving her question unanswered, but eventually he spoke in a soft, ironic voice.

“I used to be as obsessive as you are.
Over something.
Some
one
,” he corrected, looking over at her.

Caressa felt a pang of jealousy. She pretended nonchalance.
“A girl?”

“A woman, yeah.”

“She was your girlfriend?”

“I’d rather not talk about it.”

“
Your
submissive?”

“Caressa.”

“Was she beautiful?”

His hand slid over her hip and down between her legs. She tensed, wanting his skillful touch but assailed by a thousand different emotions. He pressed his face against her cheek. “She was beautiful, yes. She was
very
submissive. She was nothing like you.”

Caressa felt an inexplicable rage, pounding chords in her head. He could so easily leave her. Any woman could make him happy. He was only with her out of circumstances. There were probably thousands more sexy and personable than her, women who were submissive just the way he liked, women happy for his control. He could have his pick of any of them.

“Why didn’t she want you?” she asked, specifically to hurt him.

His hand stilled between her legs and he pulled away. “It wasn’t meant to be. I used alcohol to numb myself, to try to get over her. It didn’t work and I just ended up more miserable, so I don’t drink anymore.”

“Ever?”

“Ever.
It’s best if I don’t, and probably best if you don’t too. Promise me you’ll never use alcohol that way, just to deal with life.”

“I won’t. I don’t like the taste of it.”

“Promise me. Not just alcohol.
Drugs.
Whatever.”

“Did you use drugs too?”

She regarded him, seeing him in a whole new light.
Stern, upstanding Kyle, who always lectured her.
Perfect, capable Kyle.
A user and a drunk.