11. Shane
11
Shane
W hat would possess a woman to change the entire trajectory of her life in a few short years? How does a college drop-out cam girl with a junkie mom suddenly possess the aura and musical talents of a Juilliard musician, with enough skill to push out a heavily awarded member of the Montgomery Fine Orchestra? The time, the dedication, the skill one would need to possess…
I thought I knew everything about this girl. Every single thing that makes her who she is. Inside and out.
What I don’t know is her why.
Why the need for a new life away from the dark places in which she thrived? Why change everything about who you were before? Perhaps she had a moment of reckoning, where she finally felt the untimely guilt of her many betrayals. A desire to be normal and live a complacent life on paper when she’s anything but complacent. But none of those things explain her reasons for returning to the darkness—searching and exploring the realities of adult film. If she wanted out, why dive back in deeper? I need to know.
After leaving Lana’s tattoo parlor, I’d gotten word Montana was headed to the music hall. I watched her spend an hour attempting to get her piece of shit car to start, only to give up and hop on a bus just in time to make her scheduled meeting. I followed her, dodging onlookers, my hoodie over my head and bike mask covering my identity. Stayed out of sight as she lugged her cello around from the bus stop. I watched from the dark corners of the building as she sat outside that door, taking a breath to calm herself, as if the official introduction to Conductor Hopkins actually made her nervous. Nerves weren’t something I’d thought a woman like Montana possessed.
Now, I’m sitting outside the door to the private music room, waiting to hear her practice.
Minutes pass before she draws the bow against the strings, but when she finally does, the most phenomenal sound penetrates my skull. I’m not sure what I expected, but it wasn’t this. The quickness, the precision, the accuracy of each and every note she plays…it’s haunting. It’s evocative. It’s horrifyingly beautiful in all the worst ways.
Finishing a song with minimal errors, she begins the piece again, charging through the notes more deliberately, meticulously driving the music into her bones and back, exuding nothing but herself in the sound.
She’s playing from the deepest parts of her soul, places no one has ever seen. Not even me. But her passion isn’t simply for the music she’s creating. It doesn’t lie within the same platonic space as her peers. No. Her reasons, her drive—they lie blurred in the emotive notes playing out before me. Hidden beneath something unknown.
The hairs on my arms rise as the eerie tones pierce my being like tiny daggers, filling me with holes and reaching that space within. She’s somewhere hiding within that shell of deceit. I know she’s still there. I offered her my heart, never wanting her to give it back. The woman behind this door still carries it with her every day. The realization of that has me pulling back my hoodie and stripping the bike mask from my face, rubbing my temple along the cool wood of the door separating us.
I need to feel her.
She’s so close to me now.
The woman who captivated my entire juvenile being, luring the primal nature of who I am as a man out of me. Countless nights of us toying with one another, describing to each other what we like, what we need…learning what drives us wild, and fucking ourselves until the resounding breathless sighs filled the silent space.
My fingers rake down the intricate carvings of the ornate barrier, slipping over the tiny knobs, and my hips instinctively flex, pressing into it, remembering those wild eyes on mine. My cock swells against the rough fabric of my jeans, sensitive and in need of a tight hole to plunge into as I rub myself raw, over and over again.
I just can’t stop this. She made me this way. Savage and untamed, continually seeking pleasure only she can provide. As much as I hate to admit it to myself, she controls me. In ways you never want a woman like her to own.
The notes taunt and tease her closeness, those skilled fingers finding new ways to incite the demons within me. Her touch reaches out to me through every note in a soft caress, every stroke, pulling my impending release straight from my inner workings. I flex my hips again and again into the rough door, the head of my cock aching and swollen from need. I grit my teeth, my forehead pressing firmly against the wood, breathing through the quick pulse of pleasure as it hits me hard and fast, and I come on myself, feeling the sticky aftermath sealing my sweatshirt to the skin of my stomach.
With my palm flat against the surface of the door and my forehead lined with perspiration, I catch my breath as I hear the bow part from the strings, effectively ending my alluring dream of a person who no longer exists.
I’m snapped out of the moment by the sound of a door closing down the hall. I shove the bike mask over my head, pulling it down low. My hands find my pockets, and I turn, walking out of the music hall the same way I entered.
She almost caught me again. Almost had me feeling anything other than the hate I’ve grown to find comfort in. But memories of the boy who fell hard flash before me like the electric rage of a brewing storm. The way I got used to being used has me straddling my motorcycle, gripping the handlebar, and tearing away from the musical hall, leaving any shred of respect I’d almost felt for that woman within those cold, dead walls.