17
The next morning, I wake to Elijah’s heavy arm thrown over me. I turn on my side, watching him sleep. And I chew on my lip in thought, wondering exactly what he meant last night on the bridge when he told me there was something about me that made him feel good. I could read into that so many ways, and the thing that’s the most upsetting ishowI want to read intoit.
I want it to mean something more than sex. More than an egostroke.
Shit! This isbad.
I sneak out of bed and slip into one of Elijah’s T-shirts, inhaling the familiar scent as I tiptoe across the living room to the windows. My breath fogs the glass when I press my palms to it and stare out at the concrete city. The massive gray structures lay hidden behind dawn’sshadows.
Slowly, I crack the door and step out just as a chilled breeze howls around the corner. The halo of pink and red creeps around the silhouette of the city as the sun slowly rises behind the skyscrapers. And while I should enjoy this beauty, my mind is lost on what an anomaly Elijahis.
Sex is his hobby, yet he shows a level of attention not common in most men. It’s as though he craves affection more than he does sex. A foghorn blares as the first of the tour boats pulls away from the dock on its way to Ellis Island, and I’m no closer to figuring things out than when I first stepped outside. All I want to do is crawl back in bed withElijah.
Sighing, I turn around and quietly step back into his apartment where everything is so put together it looks unlived in and staged. A place like this is unaffordable for ninety-nine percent of the population, and here I am, invited in by a beautiful man who promises to be myundoing.
The magnetic, all-consuming pull I feel to him is beyond explanation. Even though he’s only two steps away from a stranger, a piece of my soul seems well acquainted with him. It’s completelyirrational.
So I’ll pretend to be blindly dangerous while knowing this is safe, because he’ll be leaving in no time, andwewill no longer be apossibility.
On my way to the stairs, my eyes land on the cello in the corner. I wonder why he hates the instrument. Men like him—dominant, powerful—they seem as though emotions can’t touchthem.
But touch him theyhave.
The light gleams over the smooth, cherry-colored curves of the instrument as I make my way to the corner of the room. When I sweep my fingers over the strings, a muted pluck echoes into the tallceiling.
“Did you sleepwell?”
My heart leaps into a sprint, and I jump at the unexpected sound of his voice so close behind me. “Yes. Did you?” Iask.
His warm, bare chest presses against my back, and his arms wrap around me gently. “I did. I enjoy sleeping next toyou.”
Trailing my fingertips over his forearm, I think about how much as I adore sleeping beside him. But that is something I will neveradmit.
He kisses along my neck, causing my muscles to loosen and my head to drop to the side while I relish his lips against my tender skin. “When you play an instrument,” he whispers, “you must be willing to expose your soul, your innermost demons.” He reaches for the cello and methodically plucks over the C string. “If you can’t do that, it’s not music; it’s just emptynotes.”
I bite my lip to hold back the countless questions I’m afraid to ask, and I settle on: “It sounds as though you lovedmusic.”
He crosses his arms over my chest and rests his chin in the crook of my neck. “It’s what saved me, and ruined me all at the sametime.”
“It’s such a shame. How long has it been since you’veplayed?”
The muscles in his chest tense against my shoulder blades, and I swallow. “How long has it been since you looked at the stars?” He unwinds himself from me and takes a step back. That was too far, I guess. “Would you like some coffee?” he asks, already halfway to hiskitchen.
“Yes,please.”
I take an uneasy seat on the sofa, my gaze locked on the instrument. There must be some strange connection between music, the cello, and his need to fulfill fantasies, but trying to figure that puzzle out is like trying to play connect the dots without any numbers. I have no idea where tostart.
_____
The scentof saltwater and funnel cakes blows in with the warm breeze drifting across the boardwalk. Heat radiates from the wooden planks sprinkled with sand. A whirlwind of music, rattling rollercoasters, and the subsequent screams of thrill seekers swirl around me, mixing with the rumble of the waves crashing ontoshore.
Coney Island has a certain magic to it one can only appreciate while they’rehere.
A group of girls loiter outside one of the boardwalks’ public restroom. Nudging each other, their eyes all aimed at Elijah. Shortly after we pass by, there’s a gaggle of girlish giggles. Even with his windblown hair, white T-shirt, and black board shorts, Elijah looks like he stepped off a high-end, fashion runway, and here I am in a pair of cut-off shorts, an Aerosmith T-shirt, and my Converse. We’re quite thepair.
Eventually, we stop underneath the entrance of Luna Park. The red and blue pinwheels seem to float above the metalarchway.
Elijah studies the sign. “This wasn’t here when I was akid.”
