“About that... I’m sorry—”
She shook her head. “You’re good with them. I was surprised.” She was floored. She was agonized.
“You know me, Sofia,” he chuckled. “I know how to kiss babies and press the flesh. I should run for president.”
She was surprised by the mockery in his voice. “Those kids can smell mierda; they’re not sweet to frauds.”
She felt a miniscule tug on her skirt. He’d reached over and taken an inch of the plum velvet near her thigh between two long fingers.
Heat like a summer breeze blew through her.
“Then maybe you could listen to my music with them sometime.” His voice was dropping low, dipping into the depths of her.
“Why is that so important to you?”
He slowly moved those tactile fingers until he’d pleated her skirt around his knuckle and held it between three fingers. “You have good taste in music.” She watched as his thumb stroked an inch over the fabric. “I’m hoping you’ll be a fan.”
“A million adoring fans aren’t enough for you?”
She made the mistake of raising her eyes. She made the mistake of feeling want when he—lightly, letting her deny the pull—tugged her toward him.
“You were the first fan that mattered.”
Self-destruction was a practiced art. She put her talents to work as she allowed him to reel her in between his thighs, as her mouth fell open at the feel of him running his big hot hands, never-forgotten hands, up her hips and sides.
She slid her hands into his thick, finger-encasing hair and tugged his head back.
He groaned a guttural sound of shock and pleasure against her lips. The warm burst of his breath felt like relief. The grip of his hands around her waist felt like law. All of her rules, all of her scripts and machinations, had been useless. They’d been careening toward this since the second he’d stepped out of the car.
A cloying tang of cologne made her wrinkle her nose, made her jolt back with its odd familiarity. Laughter burst into the room and then choked off as a group of people rounded the corner.
Sofia leapt out of Aish’s hold. She squeezed her eyes shut and froze, wishing those ghosts would carry her away.
She heard the group murmur and leave.
“Sofia,” Aish said.
She turned and fled. She tried to appear calm as she escaped the bar, but once she was outside in the deserted streets, she slipped out of her boots and ran. She ran over cobblestones and vineyard roads until she reached a secret side entrance into El Castillo, ran until she could shut herself in her childhood bedroom.
It was a room she hated. No matter how many times she’d ripped the silk and lace canopy down, her mother had always forced the staff to put it back up. But it was here, staring at its detested flounce, that she could remind herself of all the things she never wanted to need.
September 11
Aish was sitting barefoot on his balcony, plinking at his guitar and watching sunrise turn the mist and mountain gold, when the balcony door opened.
“Hey, man, you need to—”
Aish turned and nodded at his manager. “Morning. I ordered us coffee.”
Devonte’s eyes stuttered as he took in the two cups and coffee service, the fruit and the sliced meat and cheese set up on a table; he’d been the one making room service orders.
“I, uh...” Devonte slipped his phone back into his inside suit pocket. “How ya doin’?” His question was tinged with concern.
“Great. Awful.” Aish smirked at his own stupidity and ran his hands over the strings. “Who the fuck knows.”
He’d been using the view since dawn to even him out after a night of roller-coastering from peaks of hopefulness to pits of dread. The morning sun made the delineated green vineyard rows, lush hillsides, and the craggy mountain yellow and hopeful, birds twittered, and he’d heard snatches of workers giving each other shit as they headed to a field. The air was warm and soft against his T-shirt-exposed arms. The day was going to end up hot, but he’d dress proper before he saw Sofia.
Devonte made himself a coffee then unbuttoned his suit jacket to sit next to Aish. He nodded at Aish’s guitar.
“Haven’t seen that in your hands in a while.”
Aish nodded. He’d watched phenomenal Arabian musicians play in tiny teterías in Granada, and jaw-dropping taiko drummers play with the New York Philharmonic, and the Rolling Stones from the front row. But it was the band last night that had rocked him. To hear her music from her people in her village, to be at the source of what had made it click for him musically, had lit an urge that he hadn’t felt in a long time.
“I stayed up most of the night working on a couple of things.”
“That’s good,” Devonte said, surprised and gruff. “Real good.” He paused before he said, “Make sure you write it down.”
As kids, John used to record them practicing and performing all the time, already prepping for documentaries about the band. Once they were signed, the chronicling stopped, and, when the actual documentary makers came knocking, John told them he’d lost all the audio and video several laptops back. Aish had always worked out lyrics, chords, progressions, in his head, and the first lyrics-and-music-sheet draft he put into his computer was the final version. He’d never questioned when John presented songs to him the same way.
It meant that Young Son had no proof of drafts or revisions, and no time stamps of their early stuff, to battle the plagiarism claims against them. Aish had no proof of songs that were solely his, that carried his heart and soul, beautiful babies that now looked like someone’s second-class clone.
He inhaled the spicy evergreen scent of growing things and said, “I tried to kiss her last night.”
“I know.”
Aish blinked. “You know?” He’d told Devonte to mingle and his manager had hung out with Namrita most of the night.
Devonte pulled his phone out of his jacket pocket and
