Chapter 21
D ucking into Dunkin’ Donuts, I race for the bathroom, feeling Luca’s freaking cum dripping down my inner thigh.
I suck in a sob and lock the door behind me, peeing and cleaning myself up.
It’s a single bathroom and I have nowhere else to look but at the giant mirror across from me that’s broadcasting my reflection.
“You look like you just got fucked in an alley.”
I groan, my face falling into my hands.
I can’t believe I did that. That I allowed him to do that.
That once again I’m sans panties and my hair is a mess and yup, that’s a nice red mark on my lower neck.
A tear falls down my cheek. Thank God for birth control.
Oddly enough, I didn’t need him to tell me he was clean or that I’m the only woman he’s ever been bare with. Somehow, I already knew that.
Luca Fritz might have hurt me, but he’d never hurt me.
“Hot mess, girl. You are one hot mess.”
That La Perla bag had been taunting me like the devil she was and even Jesus’s mother couldn’t stop me last night from opening it.
I had a glass of wine or three and peeked inside.
Then I tried everything on and this next morning I picked out the panties, garter, and thigh-highs he bought me because they made me feel sexy.
Knowing he had gone to the store and picked them out himself, picturing them on me when he did.
I felt beautiful and confident in them and that’s what I was aiming for heading into my interview.
Now, I feel… I don’t know what I feel.
I told him I hated him. And his response… “But God, Raven, do I love you.”
I shudder, shaking. More tears fall and I can’t make sense of them.
That look in his eyes as he begged me not to regret it. As he told me he would give me space. I want you. Only you. Always. I will wait and I will fight, and I will try to be patient, but don’t run from me.
How do I reconcile this?
How is this the same man who stared directly into my eyes and told me he didn’t love me? That he didn’t want me. Who told me to move on because he had.
Flushing the toilet, I stand up, pull down my dress, and head for the sink. I wash my hands and then run my fingers through my tangled hair before applying some concealer from my purse onto the red mark he gave me and removing the mascara stains from beneath my eyes. But I still don’t look like me.
Someone knocks on the door, and I exit, heading back out into the cold November day. I need to be at rehearsal in a half an hour now and my plan had been to walk. It’s not too far from where I am, but I’m running out of time.
And my hands are shaking.
And my body is too.
Making a decision, I duck into a bar on Huntington.
It’s a college bar, dark and aggressively reeks of stale beer and crappy cologne, but I don’t care.
“May I have two shots of…” I pause. What won’t stink on my breath?
“Fireball?” I begrudgingly ask because I have cinnamon gum in my purse, and I can play it off well enough.
“You got ID?” the bartender asks and after I show it to him, he pours me my two shots.
I slam them both, toss him some money, and then race out, as I hear the T rumbling up the street.
Somehow, I didn’t miss it, I climb on, and shove two sticks of gum into my mouth while not making eye contact with anyone.
I’ve just had public sex in an alley beside a children’s hospital.
A strange sort of smile curls up my lips. I did some wild things with Luca Fritz that summer, but I have to say, this takes the cake. Don’t regret it.
Do I?
How can a human regret two mind-blowing orgasms all within the span of ten minutes?
In truth, I could go down the dark and slippery path of self-doubt and what this all means, but frankly, I just don’t have the mental energy for it.
It doesn’t have to mean anything I don’t want it to.
I got off. He got off. He said some stuff.
I’ll pray like hell I don’t think about it until tonight when I allow myself a five-minute mental freak-out.
There.
Hopping off the T at Symphony Hall, I rush into rehearsal, grateful things haven’t started yet.
The performances we had done before were a special charity event, lasting four concerts in total and raising a lot of money for Dana Farber.
But now we’re back into regular symphony mode.
Well, holiday symphony mode since Thanksgiving is a little more than two weeks away.
“Hey,” Catarina greets me without looking up, her eyes fixed on her oboe.
“Hey.” I head for Azrael, unzipping her from her case, and sag in relief. This is what I do. This is what I know. God, I wish I were wearing panties right now. Or pants since I have to spread my damn legs and stick a cello between them in front of a hundred people.
“Jerimiah wishes you luck today. I saw him before I came in.”
I glance up. “Why do I need luck today?”
“You know we’re playing through all the pieces once and then Friday Antonio is letting us know who he wants for his solos, right?”
My hands freeze. As do my insides. “No. I didn’t know that.”
She laughs lightly. “Like you have anything to worry about.”
“Uh-huh,” I whisper absently, though my heart is thundering.
I never had an ounce of stage fright until I moved to London.
I could have played for the Queen before that without an ounce of nerves, but then I entered this amazing school filled with amazing artists and whether I like to admit this or not, my confidence and faith in myself had just been rocked. Severely rocked.
I was suffering once again from a case of I’m not good enough and it carried over to my music.
I quickly learned people in these types of situations, these types of schools are not out to be your friend.
They are your competition. Your frenemy.
They sling anything they can at you to make you doubt yourself all the while doing it with a smile and an “I’m just trying to be helpful” song.
The “you keep your friends close but your enemies even closer” type.
Two months in, I was throwing up before even simple performances and that included most of my classes. It got to be so bad, I was petrified I’d never be able to play in front of anyone again.
I knew I needed to do something about it, so I started with psych classes.
And my world changed. I also secretly met with a therapist there once a week.
I thought I was completely over it. Not even batting an eye about performing toward the end of my time in London or when I was traveling after.
Then I moved back here and started with this symphony, and I don’t know what happened.
It’s not anywhere near as bad as it was when I first started school, but I hate that it’s back at all. However, right now, I’m not as nervous as I would be. Could have something to do with the two shots of Fireball warming my belly. Or the two orgasms before it.
“Why are you making that face?”
“What face?” I respond far too quickly, my voice higher than a cheerleader at a pep rally.
“And is that…”
“What? What are you doing?” I squeak when she stands up, walking toward me with large, purposeful strides. Her black pixie hair is spiked today, and her brown eyes are lined in black, giving her a beautiful evil devil look.
“Is that…” Her voice trails off as she gets closer, her inquisitive eyes lasered in on my neck.
My hand flies up, clapping over the spot I know she already saw, and a triumphant grin breaks out across her face.
“Oh, it is. Oh, it most certainly is. You have a hickey on your neck the size of a quarter that you did a shit job of covering with concealer.” She waves a hand around my face.
“And you’re… I don’t know. Red. Tussled.
You totally had sex with someone, didn’t you?
Hot super orgasmic sex by the look of you. ”
“You can’t know that!” I practically screech. “Maybe I just used my vibrator.”
“And it gave you a hickey?” I get a “who the hell are you kidding” face.
I’m seriously going to kill Luca for that. Him and his damn mouth. That stupidly hot, dirty mouth.
“It’s fine,” she tells me. “Sex is natural, and everyone does it. And the people who don’t and are of age, seriously need to.
You don’t need to be embarrassed. I’m proud of you for getting some.
Hopefully, it’ll help you relax. You’re damn tense, woman.
But who was it? Who put that sexed-up muss all over you?
Do I know them?” She leans in and whispers, her eyes tracking over to the partially open door.
“Was it Antonio? I heard he has a magic penis if you’re into those and can move past the halitosis. ”
“No. It was definitely not Antonio.”
“But it was someone. And by the look of you, they gave it to you good.” She fans her face. “Damn. I’m loving this. Details. I’m gonna need all the details.”
Frantically, I glance toward the door, my eyes wide. “We’re not doing this. We have to go out and play in a minute.”
“Then you have exactly one minute to tell me absolutely every last detail. I may not be into penises, but I can appreciate the sport, if you know what I mean. Come on,” she whines. “Don’t hold out on me. You’re redder than blood splatter in the snow right now.”
“What?”
She waves me away. “I was watching Law & Order reruns before I came in. Unlike someone who has hickey giving, dopey smile inducing, orgasmic sex.”
I shake my head, debating if I should tell her I just had regular bed sex or dirty alley sex when Quill comes busting in. “Bitches, it’s playtime!” She freezes when she sees us. “What? What did I miss?”
“Raven had sex.”
“Catarina!” I smack at her shoulder.
“Oh, please. It’s just Quill. Quill wouldn’t talk shit if she had a mouthful of it. Would you?”