Read Online A Little Night Music by Kathy Hitchens - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Kathy Hitchens
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being locked in their cases and goodbye mumbles. Charlie shuffled by on his bad legs pushing a broom. Jon locked his trumpet in its case and climbed off the stage.
And froze.
Elli stood before him, the faint glow from the white lotus the only light reaching her bare skin and her oh-so-plain, oh-so-perfect dress. In red, she had been stunning. As herself, she was a thief, stealing his breath.
Every bone in Jon’s body ached. His throat tightened, threatening the earlier sob he had wrestled away. He pushed it down. He couldn’t do this. Not with her. Not now after he had felt her pain.
“Where did you go? Just then?” she asked, her fingertips casually twined before her, knees pressed primly side-by-side, red toenails hidden beneath a pair of worn cowboy boots.
She was achingly beautiful. And, he had vowed, not his. Never his.
He shook his head, afraid to speak for fear his voice would betray him. The street beyond the neon lotus drew his stare, but he saw none of it.
Her boots clomped closer. He repositioned his grip on his case for something, anything to do to appear unaffected. Like a guy who could take or leave any woman who stood before him with those eyes - God , those eyes.
She took his free hand, her touch as smooth and warm as the valves of the trumpet and he considered, not for the first time, how they would feel against his bare flesh.
“Tell me,” she urged.
“Your mother was…” Christ, he couldn’t do this.
Elli squeezed his hand, an unspoken telegraph of support.
Jon cleared his throat to bring his voice back. “She locked away the trumpet. And you were…”
He couldn’t finish; he didn’t have to. Elli knew.
“Screaming,” she whispered.
Jon nodded.
The radio’s song died. Count Basie began Body and Soul . Elli lifted the case from Jon’s hand and set it gently on the floor beside her. She wound her arms around his neck and touched every part of her swaying body to his.
“Elli,” Jon said, no strength behind his pleas. “Go home.”
But he moved with her, his eyelids unable to stay open. He had seen too much, a red dress walking away, the yellows of a man’s eyes who insisted she belonged to him, her hem lifting on a breeze—the first real breeze he had felt in so long. He had seen too much, he needed to feel.
And feel he did. From the graze of her breasts absent a bra, nothing but two thin cotton shirts between them, to the brush of her hips against his arousal. She had her hair pinned up. Lips that had found a home in a brass mouthpiece found a sweeter resting place against the delicate line of her neck. He found her earlobe and whispered against it, “Are you sure?”
She answered with a trail of feather-light kisses along his cheek to his mouth. This time when their lips connected, the primal pull was gone, replaced by an exploration of time and space and a music all their own. Lost as Jon was in the texture and pillow of her lips, he barely heard Charlie’s not so subtle, “Ahem,” to get the hell out.
Elli smiled against Jon’s lips and severed the kiss, only to place her forehead to his, that same reluctance to let go as he had at the park. Jon picked up the trumpet that had brought Elli’s parents together, now very much responsible again, and led Elli out the door and through the sticky dense night.
Six
Elli had four minutes of few words, stolen kisses and a gentleness of which she would have thought Jon incapable after their first encounter, from The Lotus to his apartment to change her mind. She didn’t. She told herself she didn’t care which Jon he was, but that wasn’t true. She reminded herself that he had one suitcase and another life, but that wasn’t true either. He had music and New Orleans. And a chance to start somewhere fresh.
But that was the worst lie of all.
Jon was an escape artist. When he was
And froze.
Elli stood before him, the faint glow from the white lotus the only light reaching her bare skin and her oh-so-plain, oh-so-perfect dress. In red, she had been stunning. As herself, she was a thief, stealing his breath.
Every bone in Jon’s body ached. His throat tightened, threatening the earlier sob he had wrestled away. He pushed it down. He couldn’t do this. Not with her. Not now after he had felt her pain.
“Where did you go? Just then?” she asked, her fingertips casually twined before her, knees pressed primly side-by-side, red toenails hidden beneath a pair of worn cowboy boots.
She was achingly beautiful. And, he had vowed, not his. Never his.
He shook his head, afraid to speak for fear his voice would betray him. The street beyond the neon lotus drew his stare, but he saw none of it.
Her boots clomped closer. He repositioned his grip on his case for something, anything to do to appear unaffected. Like a guy who could take or leave any woman who stood before him with those eyes - God , those eyes.
She took his free hand, her touch as smooth and warm as the valves of the trumpet and he considered, not for the first time, how they would feel against his bare flesh.
“Tell me,” she urged.
“Your mother was…” Christ, he couldn’t do this.
Elli squeezed his hand, an unspoken telegraph of support.
Jon cleared his throat to bring his voice back. “She locked away the trumpet. And you were…”
He couldn’t finish; he didn’t have to. Elli knew.
“Screaming,” she whispered.
Jon nodded.
The radio’s song died. Count Basie began Body and Soul . Elli lifted the case from Jon’s hand and set it gently on the floor beside her. She wound her arms around his neck and touched every part of her swaying body to his.
“Elli,” Jon said, no strength behind his pleas. “Go home.”
But he moved with her, his eyelids unable to stay open. He had seen too much, a red dress walking away, the yellows of a man’s eyes who insisted she belonged to him, her hem lifting on a breeze—the first real breeze he had felt in so long. He had seen too much, he needed to feel.
And feel he did. From the graze of her breasts absent a bra, nothing but two thin cotton shirts between them, to the brush of her hips against his arousal. She had her hair pinned up. Lips that had found a home in a brass mouthpiece found a sweeter resting place against the delicate line of her neck. He found her earlobe and whispered against it, “Are you sure?”
She answered with a trail of feather-light kisses along his cheek to his mouth. This time when their lips connected, the primal pull was gone, replaced by an exploration of time and space and a music all their own. Lost as Jon was in the texture and pillow of her lips, he barely heard Charlie’s not so subtle, “Ahem,” to get the hell out.
Elli smiled against Jon’s lips and severed the kiss, only to place her forehead to his, that same reluctance to let go as he had at the park. Jon picked up the trumpet that had brought Elli’s parents together, now very much responsible again, and led Elli out the door and through the sticky dense night.
Six
Elli had four minutes of few words, stolen kisses and a gentleness of which she would have thought Jon incapable after their first encounter, from The Lotus to his apartment to change her mind. She didn’t. She told herself she didn’t care which Jon he was, but that wasn’t true. She reminded herself that he had one suitcase and another life, but that wasn’t true either. He had music and New Orleans. And a chance to start somewhere fresh.
But that was the worst lie of all.
Jon was an escape artist. When he was
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