“…the music video.”
Oh, yeah. That. Fuck work right now. I want to talk about her. “I didn’t say anything to the guys about what happened at Baroque.”
“Thank you. I didn’t think you would. What do you know about Stravinsky?”
I stare at her, literally nothing going on between my ears other than, Who the fuck is Stravinsky? Someone at the club the other night? After a moment, the cogs come unstuck and a name comes whirling out of the machinery. “The Russian composer?”
“Yes. He wrote the scores for several ballets. One of them was so controversial it actually caused a riot.” Dree pulls her phone out of her pocket and asks me how she can cast some music from her phone.
There’s a speaker network throughout the house and I tell her how to connect to it.
She’s doing what I asked her not to do. Pretend she never said what she said to me in that hyper-vulnerable state and now I’m being held at arm’s length.
A gentle bassoon solo fills the room. Several minutes of woodwind sounds twisting and turning like snakes, gradually growing more and more discordant as other instruments join them until there’s a rapid and intense pulse of strings.
We listen to it together in silence. It’s an interesting piece and one I vaguely recognize from my dance days, but I haven’t a clue why she’s playing it for me.
“That was the opening movement and a bit more of The Rite of Spring. When it debuted in Paris in 1913, it nearly brought the house down, but for all the wrong reasons.” Dree gets a tablet out of her bag and shows me some clips from the same ballet. “I was thinking about what you said about summer and sacrifice and it made me think of this ballet. I’d like to reference the moves and costumes for the video.”
“I saw Striker yesterday.”
The tablet falls from her fingers and I grab it just before it hits the corner of the table and the screen shatters.
Dree’s professionalism cracks and she stares up at me open-mouthed, her eyes filled with panic. “What? Why?”
“Why do you think?”
“Rush, you didn’t. I asked you not to do anything.”
“I didn’t do anything.” Doing something would have involved a shotgun, heavy plastic bags and a shovel. “He was at a café and I just happened to cross paths with him.”
“You didn’t just cross paths with him,” she scoffs.
I put the tablet aside and cup her elbows. “All right. But I couldn’t just do nothing. Every time I think about what he did to you my blood boils.”
She pulls out of my grip. “Then don’t think about it. I’ve put it out of my mind and I’d like to get to work.”
So that’s what she’s decided to do with the weekend. Pretend the entire thing didn’t happen. Even the parts that happened between us.
Dree grabs the tablet and flips it open again. “I want to show you those costumes.”
As she taps the screen, I notice the shadows beneath her eyes. She’s exhausted and her brain is probably still fried from the K. I take the tablet from her and close it. “Another time. You should take a rest.”
“I just got here. I’m fine.”
She can say she’s fine a dozen more times, but I still won’t believe her. “How much sleep did you get last night?”
She rubs her fingers under her eyes. “I knew it. I look like shit.”
“You don’t, but you’re tired. It’s only natural after the weekend you’ve had.” I pass the tablet back to her. “Go and sleep.”
As she turns away, she makes a face and mutters, “Yes, Daddy.” So soft that she probably thinks I didn’t hear her.
But I’ve got really fucking good hearing.
The urge to wrap a hand around her throat and push her against the wall is almost overwhelming. Say that again, but drop the attitude.
“What was that?”
“Nothing. I’ll go upstairs for a few hours. I was like a zombie on the train this morning. Thank you.”
Anytime, babygirl.
“Dree?”
She pauses by the door, but doesn’t turn around. Gratitude expands in my chest as I look at her. She’s been put through the wringer yet again, but she still came here to me.
“Yes, Rush?”
I think I could get addicted to the way she says my name. “I was worried you wouldn’t come back here.”
There’s a tiny mole on the nape of her neck. Just the right spot to be kissed. Better yet, to lay the flat of my tongue there before licking slowly up her throat, and then turn her head to claim her mouth.
I can’t stand this. I cross the room in two long strides and take her waist in my hands. “What you said to me in your bedroom—”
Dree turns in my grip and clutches my shoulders, panic flashing through her face. “Let’s pretend the weekend didn’t happen. The whole thing was a horrible mess.”