41. Time After Time
CHAPTER 41
Time After Time
DUSTY
I need him. I need all of him.
In one swift movement he grips beneath my thighs and I instinctively wrap my legs around him. We’re simultaneously so close and too far. His kisses cover my face and neck and I gasp when I feel the tip of his cock brush against my pussy.
“Oh god, Key, I need you.”
“Not in here,” he says, fumbling for the tap, and I plunge into scattered shivers as the heat flies away from me. He wraps his fist in my hair and squeezes out the water before stepping out and carrying me with ease. As if I’m only a doll.
I can’t stop touching him, my hands caressing his back and shoulders while my teeth gently snag the edge of his ear. I’m aching for him. Some long and hidden feeling bursting through me like a suppressed and forgotten dream. It’s not enough.
“Please,” I beg, “I need all of you.”
His eyes are dark but hazy, like he’s lost in the fog too. “Condoms?”
I nod and point to my nightstand. My heart thunders along as I wait for him to get ready, then he’s over top of me, lining himself up and sinking into me so perfectly I cry out louder than I ever have before.
Sex with Joel is incredible and it’s different. It’s slow and methodical and builds to an insane euphoria—like being high. Sex with Key is desperate, needy and animalistic—it’s grounded in the earth. Like two wild animals we ride each other. His body hits and pulses into mine and before I even know it’s happening, I’m coming hard and fast, my nails scraping down his back as he grasps a fistful of my hair and groans against my ear.
“ Fuck! ” he cries, holding me tighter against him.
He collapses over me a heartbeat later, but it’s not suffocating. It’s the opposite. It feels freeing. As if not having him in my life has caused me great strain. My body knows this was always what was needed. Him and me.
“Are you okay?” he asks. “Sorry, I couldn’t hold back.”
I smile and push the dark curls away from his face. “Me either.”
And then the giggles start. My body vibrates with deep, belly laughter. He’s confused at first—or concerned, I suppose—but I know he feels it too: this has been a long time coming. I feel like a teenager again, giggling like a schoolgirl who just walked into class and caught the boy I’ve loved my whole life staring at my underwear.
“I wanted you to look, by the way,” I whisper.
He rolls to the side and props up on his elbow. “What do you mean?”
“That day in school when you looked at my underwear,” I admit. “It wasn’t an accident.”
He pinches the skin at my ribs. “What! You had me thinking I was a pervert for weeks.”
I lift my hand, my palm facing him. He raises his own, his fingers gently sweeping across my palm before our digits entwine.
“I can’t believe we’re here,” he whispers as though thinking out loud. “It feels like the most beautiful dream.”
“We got lost,” I say, letting sleep consume me. “Took the long way home.”
* * *
Even though Key and everyone else in the boardroom is confident, I can’t help but shake a little.
“It’s going to be okay,” Key whispers in my ear.
I nod stiffly as we wait for the others to arrive. On my left is Key, who holds my hand under the table, and on my right is the band’s lawyer. I’m the only woman in the room, and I tried my best to look professional, but with my job history . . . I mean, I don’t just have pantsuits hanging in my closet.
My heart is fluttering and my fingers tap nervously on my thigh. Oh god, what if this doesn’t work? What if we waited too long and they want more evidence?
The door creaks open and in walks a man with light brown hair and the smuggest smile on his face. That is, until he sees Key.
“Keith,” he says, the note of surprise in his tone clear. He takes his seat at the table across from us, rolling his shoulders back and doing his best impression of a man who didn’t just have the rug pulled out from under him. He did not expect Key to actually show up. “It must be so embarrassing for you and the band to be going through this. I believe even the local radio stations have stopped playing those songs.” The two men at his sides—his lawyers, if I had to guess—exchange a look that says Get this kid under control .
Heat flares in my face, a rage brewing in my gut, but Key squeezes my hand and simply smiles.
“Logan,” he says. “I wish I could say it’s nice to see you again . . . but, here we are.”
Logan rolls his eyes, and thankfully, an older man in black robes enters.
“Good afternoon, everyone,” the judge says as he seats himself at the head of the conference table. “I take it from the several new faces here today that this is the infamous Keith Prentiss.”
“Yes, sir.”
The judge tilts his head and looks right at me. “And you might be?”
I swallow down the nerves and open my mouth. “I’m Dusty Connors.”
“And your purpose in being here today?”
The lawyer on my right clears his throat and leans forward. “Will be introduced in due course.”
The judge furrows his grey brows and opens his file. “I see that we’ve left things a little last-minute. You had fourteen days to provide contradicting evidence for your case and this is the final day. I assume then that either you have nothing, or you have something quite significant.”
At this, I feel eyes on me and look across the table to where Logan sits. He is glaring at me. If looks could kill, I’d be dead a hundred times over, but the throbbing pulse in his neck tells me he’s also nervous. Good.
“We must apologize,” Key says. “One of our bandmates was very gravely injured in a car accident a week ago and it has been a very difficult time.”
The judge’s eyes widen. “I’m very sorry to hear that and I hope he is doing better. You could have requested an extension.”
“Unnecessary.” Key smiles. “He’s coming home from the hospital tomorrow.”
“Very well.” He turns to Logan. “Mr. Samuels, you have already presented your evidence for the songs in question, do you have any further evidence to provide this court?”
Logan chews his lip, then turns to his lawyer who shakes his head. “No, we don’t.”
“I see. And, Mr. Prentiss, is there new evidence you wish to submit on your behalf?”
Key turns and looks directly at Logan, a smirk pulling at his cheeks. “Yes. There is.”
The lawyer leans across the table and passes down a folder I know all too well. The judge grabs it and flips it open. His brows grow tighter the more he reads.
“What is this?” he asks.
“Those are the only original copies of the songs in question. Written before Mr. Prentiss and Mr. Samuels met at military school.”
The judge flips through more of the papers. “But half of this is nonsense. It’s barely legible. How does this prove anything?”
“Because I have dyslexia, sir.”
I blink and look at Key with confusion.
The judge’s eyes open wider. “Dyslexia?”
“Yes, sir, it’s a neurodevelopmental condition that?—”
He raises his hand. “Yes, I know what dyslexia is. My grandson was just diagnosed with it.” Something skips in my heart—a connection. “Please, continue.”
Key clears his throat. “When I was a kid, no one could figure out why I couldn’t read or write. I said all the right words and understood when things were read aloud but the moment I had to read something off paper or write an answer down, it just got all jumbled. My teachers thought I was just stupid, so did my parents, but then I met Dusty. She told me that no one who composed songs the way I did could be stupid. It’s very possible that is the day I fell in love with her.”
My chest tightens. He’s never told me that before.
“I had gotten in the habit of anticipating answers or memorizing things to avoid reading and writing at all costs. And not just school—even when it came to writing songs. However, I always wanted to share my songs with one particular person.”
His hand squeezes mine and I smile.
“As you can see, they weren’t the most legible, and some of the letters are jumbled, but Dusty was always able to read them and miraculously, kept them after all these years.”
The judge looks again at the yellowed paper.
“You mix up your b s and d s the most,” he says. “My grandson does the same. And, young lady, you are willing to testify to the authenticity of these?”
I nod. “Yes, of course I am. They were given to me as a gift. You can see the dates they were written on each of them. It spans years of us knowing each other, as early as nineteen seventy-four.”
The judge sits back in his chair and sighs. “We will have to verify the handwriting first . . .”
Key’s lawyer stands up and pulls another few papers from his binder. “Actually, I can provide that now. Here is a copy of the contract that Mr. Prentiss signed with Megaloud Records, as well as other official documentation. These are from just a few years ago, all of which have been witnessed. As you can tell, the handwriting is identical, as well as the common spelling errors.”
The judge considers them, his brow relaxing as he takes it all in. Then he pulls out another file of paperwork where there are several bundled papers stuck together with a paperclip. “Mr. Samuels, you entered these documents into evidence to prove that you were involved in the writing process; however what Mr. Prentiss and Miss Connors have just brought forward contradicts the timeline in which these songs were written. What do you have to say about that?”
Logan’s face is as red as a brick wall. “They—they’ve obviously manufactured those documents to disprove mine!”
“Or”—Key addresses Logan directly—“you could tell everyone how you wrote down the songs I dictated to you under the pretense that you were helping me overcome my ‘challenges,’” he says, his fingers making quotation marks. “That I might need them someday. Only to claim you were a cowriter when you were nothing but a scribe.”
“You son of a bitch!” Logan says standing up, spit flying from his mouth. “Those songs are mine!”
“No. You wish they were yours and you stooped lower than the lowest sub-species of human being in order to pretend they were,” Key says, standing up to face him across the table. “But it ends here. I just wish I had the courage to stop you eight years ago. Face it, you are a mediocre guitarist who saw an opportunity to make money and ran with it thinking because of my disability I’d never have the courage to write down the songs. But you were wrong. My only regret is that Joel isn’t here to finish you off this time around.”
“Counsel, please control your clients,” the judge says over the noise. Logan’s nostrils are flaring with every breath like a raging bull as he’s wrestled back to his seat. “Very well,” he continues, “if Miss Connors is willing to provide a written declaration to the documents’ authenticity, then I’d say this matter is closed.”
“Closed?” Logan shrieks.
“These documents are clearly written by Mr. Prentiss. With Miss Connors stating they were given to her as a gift prior to you ever having met each other. So yes, I would say they have effectively proven no wrongdoing in this case.”
“But—! But . . .” Logan splutters.
“Very well,” the judge says. “This matter is settled. May I suggest bringing a claim against Mr. Samuels for defamation. He said himself that your songs have been taken off of the radio—I’m assuming due to the false allegations made.”
“You can’t do that!” Logan yells.
“Something to think about,” the judge says, a subtle smirk pulling at his lips.
Logan’s hands are fists, and he begins to shake in his seat. Meanwhile the judge hands the lawyer my statement explaining the letters, and the room is silent as I sign them. With a short nod, he takes them and heads through the tall oak doors.
After he’s gone, there’s a moment where I worry Logan might actually try to hurt one of us. He’s convulsing with fury, and after the tense seconds that follow, he abruptly stands from his chair and bursts through the doors into the lobby.
Key squeezes my hand, and I turn to see him give me a gentle smile. “You did amazing,” he says.
“No, you did. It’s over.”
“Congratulations,” Key’s lawyer says, stretching out his hand to both of us and shaking it. “Miss Connors, you really saved the day with those songs. Thank you.”
I smile. “I’m glad they could help after all these years.”
“I think celebrations are in order,” he says, then pushes out the door.
I turn and wrap my arms around Key for the tightest hug I can manage. “You must feel so relieved.”
He lifts my hand and kisses the backs of my fingers. “In a lot of ways. What do you say we meet up with everyone for a drink?”
“I really think we should get back to the hospital. Joel will?—”
He squeezes my hand. “Joel will be fine for two more hours. Besides, I want to properly introduce you to our friends.”
“I’ve already met them all at the hospital?”
“That was at the hospital and all we ever spoke about was Joel and how he was doing. I want everyone to get to know you .”
My stomach jolts. “What if they don’t like me?”
“They will,” he insists.
He squeezes my hand and together we walk out toward the elevators. The doors ding and we get in, pressing the button for the lobby. Next thing I know, Key has me pressed up against the mirrored walls, his lips locked on mine. That nervous jolt turns into butterflies as my arms snake their way around his neck. His lips are like a drug—my whole body feels alive at their caress, my nerves tingling.
The elevator dings again and we walk outside into the cool early evening air. Only it’s anything but peaceful as we notice Logan waiting for us with a menacing stare.
“This isn’t over, Prentiss,” he half shouts. Several onlookers on their way home from work slow down to watch.
Key sighs. “Samuels, enough. You lost. Deal with it; you’re never going to get any money out of this.”
He steps closer and the hairs on my arms raise in alarm. “Money? That was only half of it.” Logan begins to laugh wildly and I grasp Key’s arm tighter.
“Then what?” Key shouts. “What else could you possibly have wanted from all this?”
“To destroy you and that piece of shit you call a bass player.”
“That’s what this is all about? You’re jealous of him?”
Logan is right in his face now, only a few inches separating Key’s straight nose from Logan’s crooked one. “How do you think it felt to hear those songs on the radio over and over again and know that should’ve been me?”
My whole body is rigid, certain that at any moment one of them is going to swing at the other. Then I feel Key sigh and the tension in his back eases.
“Logan, I’m sorry. I never meant to hurt you.”
My eyes widen, and Logan blinks as though not sure he heard him right.
“I was in a really bad place when we were at Samson Academy, we all were, but I can’t help that I connected more with Joel than with you. And if you recall, we never actually kicked you out of the band.”
There’s a long moment that presses down on all three of us—as though the very breeze dares not to blow. For a minute, I think that Logan will apologize as well, but then his face contorts into a fierce rage.
“You’re such a pretentious piece of shit. And your apology is fucking worthless, just like you. Just like you’ve always been.”
“He’s a better man than you’ll ever be,” I say, pulling Logan’s focus.
His eyes narrow and his lip curls as he looks me up and down. “This is her, isn’t it?”
Key tenses. “What are you talking about?”
“She’s the slut you knocked up. Isn’t she?”
“Enough,” he says with a deadly calm. “You lost. Deal with it. You thought you could take everything away from me and win? You’re a liar who, rather than do any real work for yourself, has to steal it from others.”
“At least I’m not a dumbfuck who had to cheat off me in school just to pass your exams.” Then he turns to me with a cruel smile. “This is the father of your baby? A fucking retar?—”
I’m not sure where it comes from, but suddenly my hand is stinging, a bright-red palm print blistering over Logan’s cheek as he stumbles back. My vision blurs as my eyes fill with tears. There’s a sudden silence that comes over the space. Perhaps it’s because everyone has stopped breathing, unlike me who is gulping down air to try and keep upright.
Logan’s cupping his reddening cheek, looking stunned. “You bitch!” he shouts, his hands whipping out to push me back. His force hits me and I stumble, but before I can even right myself, a loud crack echoes down the street and I watch as Logan falls like a sack of potatoes to the ground. Key is shaking as he stands over Logan’s unconscious body, his fist bloody where the skin on his knuckles is torn open.
“Key,” I whisper. He turns to me, checking me over with trembling hands.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
I nod. “I’m fine, I—I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have?—”
“No, you definitely should have. He crossed a line on so many levels.”
We both stare down at the limp pile of limbs. “We should call an ambulance,” I say begrudgingly.
“Don’t worry, I’ll tell my secretary to make the call.”
Both Key and I turn to find the judge, still in his black robe, smoking a cigarette and eating a hotdog from a street cart. My jaw hits the floor. Has he been there the whole time?
“Sir,” Key says, panicked. “I didn’t mean—he pushed her and?—”
The judge takes another bite of his hot dog and looks down at Logan. “Oh, don’t worry. You were clearly defending the young lady here from this riff raff. Purely defensive. I’ll make sure the police know what really happened when they arrive.”
“I . . . really?” I ask. “But I slapped?—”
He holds up his hand. “Afraid I didn’t catch anything before the push. I would suggest that both of you leave now before anything else happens.”
The judge bites into his hotdog and we, dazed, head toward the parked car. Once out of earshot, Key begins to laugh. He laughs so hard he falls against the brick of a nearby building.
“Key, what are you?—”
He wipes the mirth from his eyes. “I thought the first one was a fluke. But nope.” He pops the P. “He’s still One-Punch Logan.”
He laughs again and this time I can’t help but join. “You okay?” I ask Key as his chuckles fizzle out.
“Better than okay,” he says with a grin. “I’ve wanted to do that for years.”