Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
TALLY
I’m sprucing myself up for tonight’s date with Cameron.
He’s crashing here through tomorrow, so I sent him out to grab clothes and an overnight bag—and now that he’s actually gone, I can’t help missing him.
Missing him! His flawless physique, those piercing eyes, a jaw sharp as glass, the grin that reveals perfect dimples, and his dark, tousled hair that’s begging for a trim.
I’d love to be the one to cut it—because I’m pretty good with scissors—but that feels way too boyfriend-and-girlfriend-y for me.
Not now, not ever. I even find myself craving the warm notes of his sandalwood-and-bergamot cologne, some high-end scent that only Ivy Leaguers like himself knows about.
But I’ve drawn a hard line: nothing beyond sex.
No hand-holding at the jazz club, no gentle strokes on my forearm—or god forbid he brushes my bangs out of my eyes with that look he gives me.
If he does, I’ll lose it. I’m a wreck, he’ll get tired of my rules and my mess, and eventually he’ll settle down with his Elizabeth or Sarah or Claire, hand in hand in a Volvo, driving just under the speed limit.
For now, though, I’m here for the mind-shattering sex and the multiple orgasms—pardon, “pain-killing sessions.” He’s right: we “worked out” for hours today, slamming against walls, lathering each other in the shower while he worshipped me with his mouth and I returned the favor, christening every piece of furniture in my place—twice.
And dammit, he’s also right that since he first relieved my back pain yesterday—his lips, fingers, and tongue going deeper than I ever imagined—I haven’t had a single spasm.
But I can’t grow attached. He’s here only until tomorrow, then back to his ER shifts—and next month he’s off to Sicily for a year with Doctors Without Borders. So I can’t get used to him or count on him. If my back remains a chronic issue, I’ll just have to find another kind of relief.
Cameron shows up at my door looking like he stepped out of a men's magazine.
The distressed jeans hug his thighs just right, and those leather captain lace-ups add an inch to his already impressive height.
His dark t-shirt stretches across his chest under a perfectly tailored blazer.
I can tell he wanted to bring flowers—his hands keep fidgeting like they're missing something—but thought better of it. Points for reading the room.
"You look beautiful," he says, his eyes traveling from my face down to my legs in the black dress I chose specifically because it shows off everything I've earned at the gym. The fabric clings to curves I've sculpted through countless squats and planks.
"Hmmm..." I say, checking my watch. "Where are we eating?"
“At the jazz club. No reservation needed."
One raised eyebrow is all it takes.
Two hours later, we're hunting for our scattered clothes, and my stomach is growling loud enough to drown out any jazz band.
Then we get into his car, which surprises me.
I expected he'd be driving an Aston Martin or some other gleaming beast with an engine that purrs like a pampered tiger, the kind his brother Max drives.
But he doesn't. It's a base Porsche Cayenne in white, all clean lines and understated luxury.
The leather seats cradle me like butter-soft gloves, and the dashboard glows with subtle blue lighting.
A beautiful car, expensive even, but it's less than $100,000.
Max would consider this car slummy, like something you'd donate to a charity auction.
We get to the club, a place that practically begs for a haze of cigarette smoke hanging in the air—even though indoor public smoking's been banned for years.
The exposed brick walls are stained with decades of nicotine ghosts, and between them hang these vibrant, electric-blue and hot-pink Warhol knockoffs of Coltrane and Holiday with their eyes half-closed in musical ecstasy.
The only illumination comes from amber-tinted glass lamps on each table, casting everyone's faces in that perfect golden-hour glow that hides flaws and deepens shadows.
On the center stage is a gleaming black baby grand, its lid propped open like a shark's mouth, waiting for Cameron to run those long fingers across the keys and croon into the vintage microphone that dangles above it.
God, I hope he doesn't suck—nothing worse than watching someone you know bomb.
But something tells me he'll be brilliant—men like him always are, infuriatingly perfect at whatever they decide to try.
I pick the burger, Cam goes for the fried chicken, and he orders wine for the table.
Christ, my stomach's in knots watching the first few performers, knowing he'll be up there soon.
Fifth in line, and the bastard looks cool as ice.
Relaxed. Like he's done this a thousand times.
Meanwhile, my heart's doing the cha-cha in my throat.
I'm sweating through my shirt for him, and he's just sitting there sipping his Pinot Noir like he's not about to bare his soul at that piano.
Maybe I should take his calmness as a good sign? Hell if I know.
It's finally his turn. He mounts the stage in three deliberate steps, his gaze locking onto mine through the amber light that makes everything feel like a fever dream.
"This is an original," he announces, voice low and rough against the chrome microphone, fingers already commanding the keys like they're extensions of his nervous system.
The crowd doesn't just applaud—they erupt, a volcanic recognition that sends vibrations through the floorboards beneath my feet.
While others tonight offered the comfort of familiar classics—the flirtatious tease of "Ain't Misbehaving," the raw wound of "God Bless the Child," the soaring escape of "Fly Me to the Moon"—Cam is about to cut them open with something they've never felt before.
The first chord slams into the room like a fist, a minor seventh that doesn't just hang but suspends time itself.
His fingers attack the keys with violent precision, each note a confession torn from somewhere primal.
The melody doesn't just unfurl—it claws its way through the room, a wounded animal both dangerous and beautiful.
I see him not just practicing but exorcising demons in his house, transmuting the death of the two people he loved most in the world into this brutal, gorgeous catharsis.
When he finally sings, the room doesn't just fall silent—it stops breathing.
His voice isn't just bourbon but lightning in a bottle, electric and devastating, burning everything it touches.
This voice couldn't exist anywhere but here, in this moment, between us.
Each syllable feels ripped from his chest, secrets he's kept locked away now bleeding into the open air, and somehow—God help me—directly into my veins.
Yes. He has the fucking goods. Every note he sings rips straight through my chest. The melody crawls under my skin, the words punch me in the gut, and that voice—God, that voice—rough like whiskey and broken glass, shattering at the edges when he can't hold back the pain anymore.
I feel the devastation pouring out of him, the raw wound of losing his wife and baby girl bleeding into every syllable.
This isn't just a song—it's his soul being torn out through his throat, and I can barely breathe watching him survive it.
Holy shit. I'm getting chills watching Cam pour his soul into that piano.
His fingers dance across the keys, building this intense crescendo that reminds me of all these classical composers I used to listen to with my mom when she was sober—Mahler, Moszkowski, Chopin, Rachmaninoff, Liszt, Schubert, Ravel, even a piano version of that haunting Max Richter piece I've always loved, “On the Nature of Daylight.” But he's not just copying them; he's channeling something raw and personal through those notes.
The jazz bassist behind him catches my eye, nodding along as he adds these perfect off-beat punches that make the whole thing come alive.
Before I know it, I'm wiping my cheek and standing up, hands stinging from clapping so hard—and I'm not the only one on my feet.
When Cam weaves his way back to our table, I get my answer about whether he's a regular. "Doc Cam!" someone calls out. At least five different people high-five him or grip his shoulder as he passes. This is definitely his territory.
He eventually sits back down while more people swarm the table to congratulate him.
Cam's all smiles, chatting everyone up like it's nothing.
I gotta hand it to him—I'd be crawling out of my skin with all this attention.
Put me in a crowd and I turn into a human panic button.
Like that time my paintings somehow ended up in this underground gallery that got invaded by punks.
They circled me like leather-jacketed vultures, five or six deep, telling me I was "revolutionary" or whatever.
First off, compliments make me want to dive under the nearest table.
Second, back the fuck up and give a girl some breathing room, especially when I'm trapped in a basement that suddenly feels like someone sent up the punk bat signal.
The whole thing was bizarre anyway—my stuff is basically fancy portraits with blurry edges, total John Singer Sargent knockoffs.
No idea why the safety-pin crowd lost their collective shit over it.