Eternal Heat (Firework Girls #3) (7 page)

“What does he mean ‘level’?” I ask Erik, leaning close to him.

“It’s like age categories, but for skill level instead.”

“Oh, that’s what that was?” I’d seen a question about levels on the application, but didn’t know how to answer. Erik had told me he’d fill that in for me.

The emcee announces honorable mentions and winners for the first level. The winners are all young, under ten at least. The girl who wins honorable mention looks no more than eight. I’m again jealous of all these people who’ve had such a jump start on me. But it’s not enough to kill my high. Even though I’m not winning anything, playing on stage in front of an audience has given me such a jolt it’s still inside me, stirring me up.

I think about my fantasy of being a concert pianist. That wish, which has always been as vague and fuzzy as a wish on a star, is right now solidifying into something more real.

I’ve had a taste of that dream. I want it now, in a whole new way. I don’t know how I’m going to make it happen, but as I sit here watching kids half my age climb on stage and get their awards, I’m feeling a level of determination I’ve never felt before.

That can’t be the last time I get up on a stage.

I want to do that over and over again until the day I die.

As the emcee advances through the different levels, the winners are getting older, though there are the occasional standouts. “What level are you in?” I ask him. I want to know when to root for him.

The emcee announces there’s one last group of awards, the highest level apparently.

“This one,” Erik says, straightening in his seat.

I cross my fingers and grin at him. “First place, baby. Four times in a row.”

He looks nervous, which I think is completely adorable, but he smiles at me. He can’t seriously be nervous. There were some great pianists up there today, but no one touches Erik.

The emcee says there are three honorable mentions for this level, and starts rattling them off. When he gets to the last name, my mouth falls open: “Ashley Morrison.”

The audience starts their polite clapping. Erik joins in, elbowing me. “Get up there.”

I turn my disbelieving stare at him. “I thought this was your category!”

“Yours too!” he says, grinning. “Get up there silly!”

I stand and make my way down the row feeling a bit numb. But then it hits me. When I get to the aisle I look at Erik and grin.
Holy crap!
It’s all I can do not to run up to the stage.

They’re already announcing the remaining winners as the assistant on stage presents me with a certificate.

At the top it says:

Idaho Piano Association
Music Fest
Honorable Mention

Below that it reads:

Ashley Morrison.

Right there! I can’t stop grinning like an idiot.

The emcee says, “And in first place,” my breath catches in my throat, “Erik Williams.”

I grin even wider and watch as he makes his way to the stage. He collects his medallion from the assistant, gives me a wink and a smile, and joins the line of winners. And me. I’m one of them! I don’t even care that I don’t get a medallion. Honorable Mention
totally
counts.

We all bow and start to exit the stage. Erik falls in next to me and we smile at each other. He looks so composed.

Half way down the aisle, I say, “Congratulations!”

“You too,” he says.

“Look!” I say, holding my certificate in front of him like a little kid showing her parents her kindergarten drawings.

He laughs. “Now do you believe me?”

“About what?”

“About how good you are.”

I don’t answer. I just grin down at my certificate. I can’t say whether I believe him or not, even though something in me has shifted. I do feel more confident, no question about that, but it feels too new a thing to give voice to it. I don’t want to chase it away.

I want it to settle inside me, and give me the courage to do whatever comes next.

The following Wednesday, Erik and I are sitting on the floor in front of the couch, an ominous sheet of paper on the carpet in front of us. It’s a print out of the admission requirements for the Juilliard School of Music.

I’ve admitted I want to try to be a concert pianist, and attending Juilliard would be a dream come true, but after looking at the list of requirements, I’m feeling doubtful about my chances.

For starters, there’s the audition tape. I have to play a selection of three pretty advanced pieces for a minimum of 45 minutes, by memory. One has to be an etude by Chopin, one from a list of sonatas by the likes of Mozart and Schubert, and the last by a “substantial composition” from a short list of classical composers. Though the thought of playing these for a Juilliard admissions board is more than intimidating, I already have enough pieces memorized to fulfill two of the three requirements.

It does not escape my notice that the piece Erik selected for me for Music Fest is one of them.

I’d only have to learn and memorize one more, which is a good thing since the deadline is only three and a half weeks away.

If that’s all I had to do, it wouldn’t be so bad, I guess. But there’s this whole other list of requirements and one in particular is tripping me up: the artistic letter of recommendation. This is supposed to be from a teacher or coach who can speak to my musical abilities, discipline, and leadership. God, the whole thing just makes me feel ridiculous.

Erik’s been trying to convince me to apply anyway. “You just write your essay explaining the situation so when they get your letters of recommendation, they can take that into consideration.”

“Who’s going to recommend me?” I don’t think a letter from Erik is going to sway the admissions board.

Erik takes a deep breath. “Okay, listen. I’ve been telling Mr. Lamont about you and he’s agreed to give you lessons.”

“Erik, my parents can’t afford—”

“He knows and he’s not going to charge you.”

“What?” As much as I’ve always wanted lessons, I don’t think I like this. I don’t want to be somebody’s charity case. It must be written all over my face because Erik presses ahead, trying to reassure me.

“He
wants
to. He’s been begging me to bring you in for a while now, but I knew you’d never agree so I didn’t even bring it up. After he saw you play at Music Fest though...” Erik grins.

I’m softening in spite of myself.

“He said either I can bring you in or he’ll show up here and wait for you.”

My eyes widen and he shrugs.

“I don’t think he’d actually stalk you, but he
really
wants to work with you before you go off to college. It wouldn’t be for that long. He said he wants to talk to you first, but he’d probably be willing to write you a letter of recommendation.”

I look over the list of requirements again. “I don’t know. I think they’re looking for people with more experience.”

“You have it.”

“I don’t think
one
performance is quite what they have in mind.”

“You won honorable mention in the highest level right out of the gate. Come on, you have to know how impressive that is. I say we frame you as a prodigy and let your audition do the rest.”

Okay, that’s what worries me. I’m willing to admit I have some natural talent, but we can’t go overboard with the whole prodigy thing. Talented or not, there’s no getting around the fact that I’m starting late and there’s plenty,
plenty
of people in front of me.

I take a deep breath and look Erik right in the eyes. I’m calm, and firm. “Juilliard is the best school in the country. People like you from all over are going to be trying to get in. Only the best of the best are going to make that cut, Erik. They’d be stupid not to take you. You blew everyone out of the water on Saturday. But I’m not even the best of the best here in Boise. I’m sorry, but I don’t stand a chance. I think I need to stick with BSU.”

I’ve already been looking at colleges that might have music programs I can get into. I need to stay in state, to keep tuition low. That means Boise State. I have so much catching up to do, it’s probably just as well.

Of course, there’s the matter of the person sitting next to me and the likelihood that he
will
be heading to Juilliard in the fall. As if Juilliard weren’t already the ultimate fantasy, Erik would only make it that much better. But I can’t think about that now.

Erik sighs. “Look, you can apply to BSU too. But why not give Juilliard a shot? You can’t just apply to one school anyway.”

“You can’t?”

“No. You have to have a safety school, at least. So BSU can be your safety school. With your GPA and SAT scores, there’s no way you’re not getting in.”

He’s probably right about that, but applying to colleges isn’t cheap. At least, not when you live in a family where $100 is sometimes hard to scrape up. It seems foolish to waste my parents’ money on a long shot.

“What’s your safety school?” I ask him.

“Probably Hartman College.”

“Hartman! That’s some safety!”

He shrugs. “My parents want me to apply to the top ten conservatories. They figure at least one of them has to say yes. But Juilliard’s the one we want.”

“You’re applying to
ten
schools?”

He cocks his head at me. “You know, you should apply to Hartman too, while you’re at it. If you don’t get into their conservatory, you can still go to the university side.”

“I don’t think I’m any more likely to get into Hartman’s conservatory than Juilliard. And, look, I can’t afford to apply to
three
schools.”

“Two then. Hartman is your safety and Juilliard is where you’re really going and then we can go together.” He slips his hand around my waist and rests his forehead on mine. “Come on, baby,” he says, “I was right about Music Fest. Give me some credit.”

I smile. Yes, Music Fest was amazing. Fucking
amazing.

“What do you have to lose?” he asks.

A reckless feeling takes flight in my chest. “Oh hell.”

He breaks out into a grin and gives me a kiss so enthusiastic we end up falling back on the carpet. I start giggling. “I didn’t even say yes yet.”

“Yes, you did,” he says, planting kisses all along my neck, “I heard you. We’re going, baby, I just know it.”

He comes up and kisses me, then leans on his elbow and grins down at me.

I’m smiling too. Maybe it’s stupid, but he’s right. I don’t really have anything to lose by applying to Juilliard. I’ll look into Hartman to see if I think that’s a good idea or not.

“New York,” he says, his eyes lighting up and his fingers lightly trailing on my stomach. My body reacts instantly. “Can you see us in New York together?”

“That would be incredible,” I say. I don’t ask what will happen if he gets into Juilliard and I don’t. I’m not ready to think about that, and hell, if I’m going to apply, I may as well give it all I’ve got. “You really think your teacher will write me a recommendation?”

Erik nods and says quietly. “He’s bound to love you as much as I do.”

My eyes widen but before I can respond he leans in and kisses me. And kisses me. And kisses me. Maybe he’s afraid of what I might say to his confession, or maybe he has a hard time stopping these kind of kisses just like I do. I don’t know, but when he finally comes up for air I put both hands on his face and lock eyes with him. “I love you, too.”

It feels so strange to say that to someone I’m not related to, but I know it’s true. I’ve known it for a while.

He gives me the most vulnerable smile. “You do?”

I nod and kiss him. And kiss him. And kiss him. It feels different than it has before. We’ve only just started, but I already know I don’t want to stop this time. We’ve been so close to going all the way a few times now. After the last time, he even went out and bought a package of condoms so he’d be prepared when we’re ready.

I don’t know if he’s ready. It’s the first for him, too. But I’m almost certain I won’t be the one putting the brakes on things today.

He’s kissing me deeply, his hand up my shirt and under my bra. I have one leg hooked loosely around him. He starts kissing behind my ear and I shiver from the tingles he’s giving me. “Let’s go upstairs,” I whisper.

It’s not the first time we’ve moved a make out session to his bed. He kisses me again, then sits back on his knees, taking me by the hand. We get to our feet and jog up the stairs, casting glances out the window the whole way, to make sure we’re not spotted by the rare passersby on the lawn.

As we cross the landing and head to his bedroom, I take out one of my braids. When we get to his room and he closes the door behind us, he helps with the last one. Something about making out with my hair down just adds to the whole thing. I know he likes it too because of the way his eyes get that burning look when he first sees my hair loose.

It’s the same look he’s giving me now. He puts both hands through my hair at the scalp, running his fingers down until he reaches my waist. He grabs my hips and pulls me to him, kissing me so expertly I’ve decided it’s as natural a talent for him as playing the piano.

His erection presses against me and I return the pressure, holding him firmly around his lower back. There’s too much material between us though, so we pause just long enough to slip off our jeans and tops. I’m only in my bra and underwear, and he’s in his boxers. His length is straining against the material. The sight of it increases the heat of the blood coursing through my body even more.

He takes my hands and walks backwards, leading me toward the bed. I lay down with him willingly. We’re on our sides, facing each other. I press my chest and stomach against his as his tongue dives into my mouth again. I wrap one leg around him. Now that there’s so little fabric between us, the pressure of him against my mound is more intense.

I feel a little flutter of nerves, thinking about how far I want to go if he’s willing, but I don’t want to stop. In fact, the further along this goes, the more sure I am.

He unhooks my bra and we work together to slide it off and toss it aside. He rolls over on top of me and I wrap both legs around him. We grind against each other rhythmically. It still amazes me that such hardness against otherwise sensitive areas should feel so good, but it does. He feels amazing. He squeezes both my breasts, then leans down to take a nipple in his mouth. I arch my breasts up to meet him. As he sucks and works my nipples, the heat and aching between my legs only increases.

I rub my hands all over his firm back and shoulders. When he increases the sucking on my breast, I grab the back of his hair and push him into me. I’m panting heavily and trying not to moan too much, but sounds of pleasure escape me anyway.

He comes back up and we dive into a deep kiss, holding each other firmly. I run one hand down his back and slip under the band of his shorts so I can squeeze his bare ass. He cups one hand on my cheek, kisses me deeper, and thrusts his erection against me even harder.

He hits my clit just perfect, and a spike of pleasure zips through me. He thrusts me again, in the same spot, and we both moan. He does it again and I’m getting so shaky I wonder if it’s possible to come just like this.

At this point, he lifts off me a bit, breathing hard. He has that heavy-lidded look I’ve come to recognize. He’s as worked up as I am.

“If we’re going to stop,” he breathes, “we should probably stop.”

“I don’t want to stop,” I say.

He pulls back half an inch more, looking me right in the eye. I hold his gaze. Just looking at him makes my heart flip over. “Are you sure?” he asks.

I nod. “Unless you’re not ready...”

Still breathing heavily, he looks at me for just a moment. Maybe he’s not there yet. I’m careful not to let my disappointment show. He’s never pushed me and I won’t do that to him either.

“No, I want to,” he says.

I give him a shy smile. “You do?”

He nods and kisses me. My nerves kick up again. What if I do it wrong? But I haven’t changed my mind. Maybe he’s feeling something similar, because now that we’ve committed to it, there’s a bit more hesitancy from both of us. But it doesn’t last long. Soon we’re groping and tasting each other’s mouths and necks eagerly. He squeezes one breast and we angle our hips to press hard against each other.

Then I’m ready. I’m ready right now.

“Do you have a condom?” I whisper, even though I know he does. It seems the best way to say I want to start.

He pulls up, plants a firm kiss on my lips, and says, “Hang on.”

His bedroom has its own bathroom, just like the master at my parents’ house, but he doesn’t go in there. He starts digging around on a low shelf in his closet. I’m sure he’s kept the package well hidden.

Watching him, I slide my panties off with faintly trembling hands. I drop them on the floor and wait with my legs slightly bent, knees together. I’m not sure how I should position myself. Should I be in a sexy position or something? But I stay how I am.

He must have found the box, because I hear the crumpling of a wrapper. He turns toward me, a little package in his hand, and stops when he sees me. I’m nervous for only a split second. Seeing the desire on his face sets me at ease. Still taking me in, he pulls his boxers off and I see him for the first time. It seems I shouldn’t stare, but I get in a good look. I can’t believe that’s going to be inside me. I think he must be well-endowed, but with nothing to compare him to, I don’t know for sure. I wonder if it’s going to hurt or how it’s going to feel, and these thoughts stir up my nerves a bit more. But the rest of me is still hot and eager and I can’t wait for him to come back and be in my arms again.