Max comes over and sits beside me on the wide stool, and his thigh presses against mine. “More important than music? There’s no such thing.”
He plays a few jazz licks, and I realize why I’m having such a hard time with this date; well, apart from being so goddamned turned on, I can barely see straight. My issue is this: there’s nothing in Max’s manner or speech that seems even a little bit insincere. He sings and plays the guitar like a pro. Right now, he’s playing the piano like he’s done it his whole life. And I have zero doubt that if I asked him to break out some hot violin or rock-and-roll tuba, he could do that, too. Surely he hasn’t learned all of this just for his business. It seems too natural. In fact, if someone told me that Caleb is his real personality and Max is the fake one, I’d believe them. His acting is impeccable.
Why the hell he’s wasting his time being an escort in New York instead of getting on the first flight to L.A. and landing a movie deal, I’ll never know.
He stops playing and looks at me. “Okay, your expression is hard to read. Do you just hate jazz or ...?”
“The jazz was great. I’m just thinking that with all your talents, you should be on a Hollywood billboard somewhere.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not going to deny that getting a record deal is my dream. Maybe it will happen one day.” Once again, I’m not sure if this is Caleb or Max talking. I make a mental note to ask him about his real-life musical aspirations in our post-date interview.
“Will you play something for me?”
He smiles. “I have a better idea. You play something.”
“I doubt your ego could withstand my epic rendition of Chopsticks. It’s twelve minutes long, and I perform part of it with my nose. You’d be shamed beyond belief and never play again.”
He chuckles. “Maybe you should play something less impressive.”
“Sorry. Impressive isn’t a choice for me. I was born this way.”
“That’s becoming more evident each moment I spend with you.” He stares for a few moments then clears his throat. “Still ... maybe I can help with your pianist aspirations. Stand up.”
When I stand, he slides over to the center of the bench and pulls me to sit on his lap. When I hesitate, he whispers, “Trust me. I promise I won’t violate you. Well, not unless you ask me to.”
Gritting my teeth against the flood of lust I feel, I perch on his thighs, and he moves his arms forward and places his fingers on the keys. “Put your hands on top of mine.”
I do as he asks and line my fingers up with his. The spark of his skin against mine makes my heart race and my breath quicken, and a gust of warm breath skates over my neck as he leans forward.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Yeah, fine. I’m just not used to this.”
“What? The piano?”
“No, sitting on a man while fully clothed.”
There’s a beat before he chuckles. “Well, I’d invite you take off your clothes if it would make you more comfortable, but that would annihilate my concentration, so ...” He moves his fingers over the keys, and my fingers follow. “What do you want to play? Old-time rock and roll?” He plays some Jerry Lee Lewis. “Or some pop.” I laugh when I recognize Britney Spears. “Or perhaps you’re more of a classical girl. Mozart?” He launches into something complicated and pretty, and I’m amazed how proficient he is.
The Mozart morphs into some slow, contemporary chords. “So, what’s your choice?”
“Did you write the music you performed tonight?”
“Yes. Some of the songs were collaborations, but they’re mostly mine. Why?”
Note to self: Also, ask him about his songwriting abilities tomorrow. “How do you even do that? Create something out of nothing?”
“It always starts from something. An emotion. An image. Something you’ve seen painted on someone’s skin.” He plays a couple of more chords then softly sings:
“Screw you, and all the reasons you wouldn’t love me.
Screw you, and all the ways you didn’t care.
You’re the one who killed my heart in stages …
every time I found that you weren’t there.”
His lyrics send goosebumps up my spine. How can he just do that? Pull out phrases that are the exact shape of my pain?
He keeps playing as he whispers, “Now, it’s your turn.”
“I can’t.” I don’t have his talent for lyrics or emotional awareness.
“Just try. It doesn’t have to be perfect. It just has to be how you feel.” He plays the chord progression again as I close my eyes and think. There are so many memories I usually suppress. It feels strange to let them come to the surface.
I can’t even open my mouth. The only place I ever sing is in the shower, and even then, not loud enough for my neighbors to hear.
“I don’t care what you sound like,” Max says. “Just take the plunge. It will feel good, I promise.”
I take a breath and try to follow his melody in my mediocre, quavering voice.
“You taught me love was like a weapon.
You made me see-through from the start.
Now all I have is faded pictures,
and this hard, bomb-shelter heart.”
Max sings the chorus again, and I join him, my voice stronger when melded with his. He finishes the song with a slow run up the notes, and when he’s done, we both don’t move. For three breaths we stay silent, and then he opens his fingers to allow mine to slide between them.
“I don’t know about you, but I thought that left Chopsticks for dead.”
I close my eyes as I try to shut the floodgates on my emotions. “How many women have you done this with?”
“One. You.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
“I’m not. The thing onstage? Yes, I’ve done that with others. This? Never before. Only you.”
His words and his convictions do something strange to me. I feel ... special. And then a lump forms in my throat, and I push down an urgent and disturbing need to cry.
I know he’s just playing a part, but it still feels good to hear that. Way too good.
I stand, and he pushes back the stool as he follows. Before I can move away, he places his hands either side of me on the piano.
“Wait, what’s wrong?” he asks.
“Nothing.”
“Was it me? The song?”
“No, I loved the song.” And that’s true. It’s like that song pierced some of the anger I’ve carried around for most of my life and softened it, but I don’t think that’s a good thing. “The song was amazing.”
“Then, what?”
I shake my head and try to regain my equilibrium. “I’m sorry. This isn’t like me.”
“It’s fine. Don’t worry.” He pulls me into his arms, and stupidly, I let him. “There’s no judgment here.”
I press my cheek into his chest as he tightens his arms around me. Why does this feel so good? Why do I feel so safe with him?