Teacher's Pet (22 page)

Strange, the sadness that accompanies that statement. I shouldn’t be so disappointed about the termination of a non-existent one-night-stand. My blood sugar must be low or something. I was too busy packing to eat lunch today. That’s totally what it is—I need food. “Should we grab a slice of pizza after this?”

Alex gives a lackadaisical half-shrug. “Let’s see how the night plays out.”

The server arrives with our next round, preventing me from asking what she means by that. I hope she’s not planning on dragging me to one of those after-hours places again. The sampled strings over the crashing beats was too painful to listen to let alone want to dance to.

When he sets her beer in front of her, Alex pulls the waiter close, whispering something in his ear.

Ah, now I get it. She’s making plans of her own tonight. No wonder she’s been trying to pawn me off on a stranger. The server’s cute enough, maybe a bit skinnier than the guys she typically goes for, but definitely not outside her wheelhouse of interest. While it’s our last time to hang out, I’m fine with her hooking up with someone later. Even if I’m the tiniest bit jealous.

And I’m certainly going to turn the tables on her. I wait for the server to leave before waggling my eyebrows. “You little minx.”

She stops grinning and tears her gaze from the server’s retreating ass to look at me. “What?”

“What was
that
about?”

Her brow furrows. “What was what about?”

“Hitting on our waiter? Are you trying to give me a real world example of how it’s done?”

“That your mind went directly to that tells me how desperately you need to get banged. I wasn’t hitting on him. I was telling him to make sure that I got the bill.”

I hesitate, not sure if I believe her. I decide that I don’t. “I may spend way too much time alone with a stringed instrument, but that didn’t look like ‘I’ll get the tab’ to me.”

She stands and stretches. “I plead the fifth. I’ve got to hit the ladies room, watch my purse?”

“Sure.”

I watch her as she walks away. Then, I can’t help myself, I look back at Tattooed Guy. He winks at me.

Shit! He’s seen me staring!

I
look away
as quickly as I can, not wanting to give him the wrong idea. But, also, I kind of do want to give him the wrong idea. Or, at least I want him to keep doing this—keep sharing gazes across the distance, winking and grinning and sending delicious bolts of electricity through my nervous system. It feels better than it should to just flirt. I can’t begin to imagine what it would feel like if we ever touched. Or kissed. Or fu—

“
I
’m back
, what did I miss?” Alex adjusts the strap of her tank top and sits down again.

“Nothing?” My voice sounds higher than I meant for it to sound.

“Nothing at all? Not even with your friend over there?” She sips her beer oh-so-casually.

Prompted, I look over at him again as the waiter sets a full beer on the table. Tattooed Guy raises it in a private cheers and winks again.

A shiver runs down my spine.

Alex cackles.

Which makes me suddenly suspicious. “What’s going on?”

“Seems like the perfect badass is trying to get your attention.”

Sure enough, when I look over this time, he gives a small wave. Another shower of tingles falls over my body, but I don’t wave back. “What did you do?”

Alex holds her hands up, feigning innocence. “
You
bought him a drink. Go over there and take credit.”

“Alex! Why would you do that?” I fiddle with my scarf, suddenly too warm with mild mortification.

“Oh, come on, it’s harmless.” She dismisses my argument, waving her hand like it’s no big deal.

“He thinks I like him!”

“Don’t you?”

I can’t like someone I don’t even know, even if he does do amazing things to my body without even touching me. “I—that’s not the point.”

She sighs, suddenly serious. “Rachel, I knew you’d never open the door yourself, so I created an opportunity for you. That’s all it is. You just have to walk through it. What’s the worst thing that could happen if you go and talk to the guy?”

I raise an eyebrow. “You bought him a drink and said it was from me so I’d go and talk to him?”

She giggles. “For starters. And then I want you to ravage him! I want you to leave this place with a big, dirty fuck you’ll still remember when you’re eighty. I know there’s a secret naughty girl inside you screaming to come out and play. A lady doesn’t spread her legs that wide on stage in front of everyone and not have a nasty streak.”

I close my eyes and shake my head. “I eagerly await the day you run out of cello jokes.”

“And I eagerly await you getting it on with that scruffy delight. Just once in your life experience someone who cares more about your body than your bowing technique.”

“Hey, I’ve—”

“Nope. You never follow your baser instincts. For tonight only, be impulsive. Instead of comparing resumes and five-year plans, listen to your body and treat him like…like lust is a song you’re playing together. Not overplayed, over-practiced, lifeless notes you know by heart. Spontaneous like jazz.”

I blot my palms on my jeans. “You know how I feel about jazz. It breaks too many rules that are there for a reason.”

She stops what was going to be a longer rant with a hand on my forearm. “I’m trying to speak words you’ll relate to. Throw me a bone here.”

“Is this really that important to you?”

“It’s not important for me. It’s important for
you
.” Her expression grows serious. “Look. You’re getting the job you want, and that’s great. But you’re young. You’re supposed to be floundering around a bit before you settle down, screwing up and taking names. Taking names and screwing people. I’d hate to see you so focused on the end result that your life becomes a means to an end.”

I didn’t know she was so worried about my goal-oriented nature. I feel like her words should sting, but they resonate instead. “Thank you for caring so much.”

“Someone’s got to be the voice of chaos in your starchy life.” She grins. “Now are you going to go get him or not?”

“I’m not.” But I sound unsure. “He’s not even interested in me.”

“Oh, he’s interested. Snow White. With a tight ass. Remember?” She moves her hands like a conductor drawing the song to a close.

“Don’t make that my catch-phrase.”

“You should have business cards made.”

The thing about Alex is it’s impossible to get mad at her—even when you want to be. And it’s almost impossible to say no to her. This time when I sneak a glance, Tattooed Guy smiles at me, revealing even, white teeth and a dimple on his left cheek. God, he’s delicious.

“Careful, Rachel. He might think you’re going steady if you keep looking at him like that. Time to raise the stakes and flash him an ankle.”

“Excuse me, girls, sorry to interrupt,” the waiter interrupts my search for a witty retort.

“Yes?” Alex trills like she was expecting this all along.

He leans closer to me and gestures at the Tattooed Guy, who jerks his head up in a nod of recognition. “That gentleman has requested you join him.”

F
or three shaky
inhalations I’m frozen by possibility, by temptation. By his naughty mouth.

But my new job…

I swallow hard. “Please thank the gentleman for his invitation, but tell him we’re on a girls’ night.”

“Rachel!” Alex looks like she wants to catapult me into his booth.

“Thank you,” I say more firmly to the waiter, dismissing him. “I can’t, Alex.”

“I know no such thing,” she pouts. “Do you care to explain?”

If she knew the conditions I’d agreed to in order to secure my position on the symphony, she’d drop the whole thing and for half a second I consider telling her.

But I’m not supposed to say anything about it. And, honestly, I don’t want her to know. Also, there’s a chance that if she did know, she’d encourage a one-night fling even more.

So I give her other equally good reasons that I can’t hook-up tonight. “Let’s say I go over and talk to him and he’s not a complete jerk. Maybe he’s even interested in me.” And we go to his place and have amazing sex that blows my mind and changes me.

No, no. Don’t go there.

I shake my head. “Then what?”

Alex snaps her fingers and waggles her head. “Then you leave here with a spring in your step and a twinkle in your eye.”

“No. Because it sets me up for disappointment. It kills the fantasy. Right now I can pretend he knows female anatomy and has a dick wider than my pinkie. What’s the point of finding out I’m wrong?”

“You are not wrong. That boy is hung, I promise you. You can tell by that cocky glint…” She trails off and I follow her stare to his table where a woman is sliding into the place next to him with a giant smile. Her tank top is dangerously low cut, jeans painted on, but she looks completely in her element, breezy smile on her glossy lips. He doesn’t object to her presence.

“Right. And I’m supposed to be his type?” Obviously, Tattooed Guy isn’t that sad about my refusal, because he nods and smiles at the woman, letting her hand wander up his shoulder.

“She took your open door.” Alex is more disappointed than it’s worth.

“She can have it. I’m moving and don’t have time for dalliances.”

“The fact you just called booty calls ‘dalliances’ only further argues my case.”

“Whatever. I’m going to the bathroom.” I take my clutch with me, planning to refresh my lip-gloss while I’m in there. Because it’s wiped away on my wine glass, not because of him.

Okay, also because of him.

Unfortunately, the hallway to the Ladies room is right next to Tattooed Guy’s booth. I feel like a high school girl trying to slip past my crush after my friend went and sent him a ‘check yes or no’ note on my behalf. Keeping a casual pace—I don’t want it to look like I’m sprinting to the bathroom—I manage to get to his table without him noticing me. Then again, it isn’t that hard seeing how distracted he is by his visitor, now practically draped across his lap.

He’s even more attractive up close, his chiselled features less perfect but more stunning in their flaws. His shirt hugs his chest and arms hinting at spectacular muscles hidden underneath.

And that mouth. That sinful, seductive mouth.

I memorize every part of him I can in the few seconds it takes to pass him. Like I said to Alex—he’s perfect fantasy material. I want to remember as much of him as I can when I recreate him in my head alone in the dark later tonight. The scene is already starting to form in my mind—he unbuttons his jeans, that sassy smirk on his lips as he lowers them and his boxers just enough to spring out, hard and stone and definitely bigger than my pinkie.

Moisture pools beneath my legs and I pick up my step.

I duck into the bathroom and firmly slide the lock into place, breathing in the cooler air in the stall. I never think about strangers’
packages
. Especially not so vividly. It’s got to be the wine, or the move. Or the situation with my job. All of it. I know I’m making the right decision—it’s the only decision I
can
make. But tonight for some reason, I feel certainty swirling away from me.

No pun intended
, I chuckle, and flush with my foot before exiting the stall, glad the bathroom’s empty.

A few tendrils of hair have escaped my ponytail, and once I’ve washed my hands, I smooth them down, noting my flushed cheeks. Snow White indeed. I waffle about the lip-gloss, deciding to reapply in the end. Because I feel confident wearing it and I need that right now.

Even with the ego-boosting shine on my lips, I hesitate with my hand against the door.
Okay, I’ll just walk out and not even look at him on the way past, no big deal.
He’s just a random guy.

The bar’s filled a little more, gotten a little warmer and louder. I sidestep a woman heading to the bathroom and get nudged closer to Tattooed Guy’s table in the process. My accidental arm flail when attempting to right myself seems to catch his attention and I’m pinned with his eyes—gorgeous stormy teal eyes so shocking I’m almost knocked off balance again.

“Hey.” He grins and I melt at the sound of his voice, rough and raw and scratchy like a needle on an old record.

And now I have to respond. Pretending I don’t know he’s talking to me would be rude, and I’m already half-turning toward him like a flower to the sun. “Hey,” I manage in return.

There. We exchanged greetings as I passed. It’s all good. Now keep walking on.

Except, he says more. “Thank you.”

“For?” He’s alone again, I realize, his overfriendly visitor gone.“For?”

He holds up his bottle. “You bought me a drink. And then refused my invitation.” His head tilts to the side. “That’s kind of contradictory, isn’t it?”

“Sort of?” Dammit. Now I have to explain. “Okay, here’s the thing.”
God, this is embarrassing.
“I really didn’t buy you the drink. It was my friend.”

“Oh.” He looks back at Alex, alone at the table. Is it my imagination, or does he sound disappointed? “So she’s the fan then?”

I
s it my imagination
, or does he sound disappointed? “Excuse me?” If by “fan” he means “the girl who’s strangely, inexplicably drawn to him”, then no. That would be me. Total fangirl here.

He doesn’t repeat himself, turning his focus back to me. “Nothing. Sit down for a minute.” He’s so authoritative as he says it, as if he knows there’s no way I’d say no.

It’s not the way men usually talk to me. And it does something to me—makes me light-headed and dazed. Makes me want to do anything he tells me to do.

I bite my lip. I should politely decline and go back to the table with Alex, and then go home to finish packing. I should forget how the husk in his voice makes my insides quiver. I should definitely not think anymore about what’s under his clothes. I should—

His deep, teal eyes focus on my scarf for a long, lingering moment. Most women would kill for eyelashes that long and thick. Most women would kill to be looked at with such a lingering stare. “That’s a nice scarf.”

Even if Alex hadn’t explained what she had earlier, the tone of his voice says it all. He’s most certainly not talking about my scarf.

And for the millioneth time tonight, I find I can’t help myself. I slide into the booth beside him. “Thank you.”

“So.” His thigh is close to mine, radiating heat that makes me want more and is too hot all at once and I wonder if its too late to sit across from him instead of next to him, knowing that even if it’s not ,I’ll never move.

“So.” I repeat, unable to look anywhere but at my hands fidgeting on the table.

His eyes are on mine though. I feel them, warm and curious. “Why would your friend buy me a drink and say it was from you?” There’s a hint of teasing in his tone, and it’s obvious that he’s guessed the answer.

I throw a glare at Alex, who beams my way. “Well.” I lick my lips, stalling. “I’m moving soon and she was trying to find me a date before I left.”

“Why bother if you’re moving?”

“She wasn’t thinking long term.”

“Hmm.” The simple sound reverberates through my body like I’m a string that’s been plucked. “And why did she choose me? There are plenty of other single men in the bar tonight.”

You were the only one I noticed.

But I shrug. “I’m not sure. I guess you looked like the kind of short term guy who’d fit the bill for a short term thing.”

He leans in. “That’s funny. I was thinking the same thing about you.”

All words leave my vocabulary at the dark, brazen lust in his voice, at the words that can’t possibly be true. There’s no way anyone would peg me for a hook-up type of girl, no matter how much I might secretly want him too. “I, uh—”

“Why are you leaving town?” he asks as he straightens, creating a more comfortable distance between us.

Even though he’s lightened the mood, my belly is tight and my head confused.

“Work.”

“Don’t tell me. Let me guess what you do.”

I set my purse on the table and angle my body so that I can face him. Or maybe so that my knee will brush against his like it is now. “Why?”

“It’s a game. I’m good at playing this one.” His gaze crawls up my body. “You do something important with finances. Banking, maybe?”

I roll my eyes. “You’re terrible at this game. I’m a musician.”

“Oh?” His easygoing smile fades a bit. “Like in a band? Are you moving to Hollywood to find your big break on a television talent show? Or Nashville to lay down some demo tracks?”

I grimace at both suggestions. “Hardly. I’m a cellist, and I just took a contract with a symphony.” I shouldn’t sound as proud as I do, seeing as how it wasn’t merely talent that landed me the seat.

“Interesting. Congratulations.” The smile is back in full force, and it makes my heart do a flip. “So you’re serious about music.”

“Very.” I cross my legs, which is silly. I shouldn’t be getting comfortable.

“I’ve never met a cellist before.”

“We don’t show our faces in public often. We prefer scuttling around in orchestra pits.”

He laughs and holds out his hand. “Dylan.”

I hesitate, not sure of the path I’m staring down. If I give him my name, that’s it. It doesn’t mean I’m going home with him, but it means I’m committing to the conversation.

And what’s the harm in pretending that committing to a conversation could mean committing to something more? I’d never go home with him, but it’s fun to imagine that I could.

“Rachel,” I say, taking his hand. Electricity sizzles up my arm at the touch of his palm against mine.

“So, Rachel-who-is-moving, tell me what made you get into the cello?”

“I couldn’t fit inside the violin.”

“Bah dum chh!” His throaty laugh exposes the strong lines of his throat, and the gentle beginnings of a five-o-clock shadow. I’m stricken by the desire to feel it. With my tongue.

God, what am I doing? Fantasy aside, I am so out of my league with this guy. And I shouldn’t even be thinking about leagues at this point in my life. I need to be league free. League-less.

I open my mouth to tell him I need to go. The words are really just on the tip of my tongue. But then he says,

“So, you’re a fan of the classics, huh?”

And dammit. He’s found my weakness.

I nod. “They’re the only kind of music worth listening to.”

“Really.” He studies me, as if deciding to refute me. “So the rest of the world’s been wasting it’s time and money creating and listening to all the other genres for a couple centuries?”

I know I shouldn’t engage in a musical debate—I’ll be here all night arguing the superiority of Vivaldi and Bach.

But he’s gently teasing and it does something to me, loosens my shoulders and lips. Makes me want to be here all night, arguing with him. Or, just, with him. “Yes.”

“That’s a pretty controversial opinion in this day and age.”

“Is it?” I know it is but the coyness of my response is a challenge—one I don’t recognize. Is this..am I…flirting?

If this is flirting, I should be embarrassed at how bad I am at it.

And why am I flirting? I should be leaving.

But then Dylan’s talking again, and I’m pinned to my seat.

“Most people don’t listen to classical music anymore,” he says. “I’m not saying it’s right, but you can’t call yours the only kind of music worth anything when the consumers aren’t backing you up.”

I turn in the seat to better face him, my knee grazing his again in the process. It goes weak, but I’m staying strong in my opinion. “Are you saying that all that matters is what’s popular in the mainstream culture?”

“To an extent.”

“Because if that’s true, there are plenty of bands who never see commercial success who are amazing musicians. Or grungy little rock bands no one appreciated but you probably love.”

He snags his lower lip between his teeth, slowly releasing it. I’m mesmerized by its shape. “Maybe it’s more about sales instead of fame. Or a combination of both that gives a band staying power.”

If he’s trying to distract me from my arguments, he’s doing a fine job. I blink hard a couple times.
Focus, Rachel
. What’s that band Alex is always making fun of? “Ah! Nickelback!”

“They do not count. At all.”

I point in his face triumphantly. “They’re rich and wildly famous. Even I’ve heard their name.”

“They’re also terrible musicians.” He takes my hand and lowers it, keeping it captured in his, bringing it beneath the surface of the table to rest on the seat between us.

M
y thighs squeeze together
at the way he slides his fingers between mine, lacing our hands together. Focus is a struggle. My whole world has just shrunk to the point of contact between us. “But they, uh, have sales and fame, so by your reckoning, they must be successful.”

“Not all popular things are good, obviously. But rock is classic. It even says so in the name: Classic Rock.”

“Please.” My body isn’t mine tonight. I’m not used to being betrayed by something I’ve built a career by controlling. “No one will know who any of those people are in two hundred years.” But I’m not as convinced by my own argument as I usually am.

“You can’t tell me the Beatles will fade away like that. The Stones.” He strokes his thumb against the back of my hand, and I want that thumb stroking me in other places. I want it so badly that it scares me.