Read Online Coming Attractions by Bobbi Marolt - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Bobbi Marolt
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you a knight or something?” She stepped up to Cory. “Are you trying to make a fool of me?”
Cory stood erect, surprised by Helen’s anger. “No. Helen, I—”
“When did you plan to tell me? You said you’re a musician and I’m thinking, okay, a local with talent, but this—” She glanced around the room, shook her head, and pounded out, through the double doors. Cory followed.
“You don’t understand. Let me explain.”
“Do you know how foolish I feel? You’re an international celebrity and I didn’t recognize you. Obviously, I’ve had my head up my ass for three years, but you didn’t have to keep this from me.” Helen found the kitchen and grabbed her jacket. She turned to Cory. “I prefer honesty to half-truths.”
“Helen, performing for the Queen was a great gig. It doesn’t mean—”
“Last night I marveled at how real you were.” She looked into the eyes that began to pull her under again. Along with her anger, she felt arousal, which left her with two options: either get the hell out of the building or begin to remove those sweats that looked adorable on Cory. Helen hoisted her pocketbook over her shoulder. “I’ll find my way out, thank you.”
Pushing past Cory, she wouldn’t look at her. Embarrassed, she wanted first to run hard and then deal with the anger.
“Wait,” Cory said as Helen blindly made her way toward the entrance. “Let me explain.”
“You have nothing I want to hear.” She closed the door firmly behind her, loud enough that it echoed in the hallway. “‘A musician,’” she said sarcastically and entered the elevator. “‘Known to dabble,’” she mocked. “All of a sudden I have fucking nobility on my hands.” She pounded her hand against the back wall of the elevator. “Damn it. I never say that word.”
The Carnegie Hall poster, those green eyes. Helen thought she’d probably passed the music hall a dozen times while those eyes watched. She remembered the poster now, the way Cory seemed to beckon her. She’d never given those eyes a second thought. That would have been a slap in the face to her devotion to Chelsea.
Helen hurriedly walked the distance to Lincoln Center. She sat at the edge of the fountain and pigeons gathered around her. They cooed and seduced her for a possible meal.
“Don’t tell me,” she said to the feathered creatures. “You’re really doves incognito.” She reached toward a bird that had ambled close to her feet. “Don’t be afraid,” she said, and the bird took flight. Helen leaned her elbows on her knees. She buried her face in her hands and tried to justify how she felt.
What are you afraid of?
“She lied to me.”
She didn’t. She is a musician.
“She held back. I don’t like her ways.”
You like pain?
Helen looked at the granite walkway beneath her feet. “I’m fine.”
You’re a spider web. The dead cling to you.
She looked at the steps across from her. “How can I trust her?”
She meant no harm. She’s been used.
“I won’t be her savior.”
You could be her lover.
Helen bit her lip. “There’s plenty of women for her to lure into her life.”
Don’t be afraid.
“Of what?”
To admit how lonely you really are.
Helen wanted to cry. Not for half-truths but for the three years she’d lost. Dead time. Safe time. Now this woman had barged in and slammed her life into a tailspin. She spiraled downward, faster and faster. She closed her eyes. Tears spilled from them.
“I am lonely.” She wiped the tears with her palm and breathed a sigh of relief.
Intimacy was a ghost for her. Sex had become four minutes of self-gratification on the nights when she had felt emotionally close to Chelsea. And now, this woman, this Cory Chamberlain, had her feeling that another human’s touch had no equal.
No equal. She wondered about Cory’s breasts. She could feel their smooth curves warm her cheeks and palms, could feel them pressed against her own breasts. She laughed at the irony,
Cory stood erect, surprised by Helen’s anger. “No. Helen, I—”
“When did you plan to tell me? You said you’re a musician and I’m thinking, okay, a local with talent, but this—” She glanced around the room, shook her head, and pounded out, through the double doors. Cory followed.
“You don’t understand. Let me explain.”
“Do you know how foolish I feel? You’re an international celebrity and I didn’t recognize you. Obviously, I’ve had my head up my ass for three years, but you didn’t have to keep this from me.” Helen found the kitchen and grabbed her jacket. She turned to Cory. “I prefer honesty to half-truths.”
“Helen, performing for the Queen was a great gig. It doesn’t mean—”
“Last night I marveled at how real you were.” She looked into the eyes that began to pull her under again. Along with her anger, she felt arousal, which left her with two options: either get the hell out of the building or begin to remove those sweats that looked adorable on Cory. Helen hoisted her pocketbook over her shoulder. “I’ll find my way out, thank you.”
Pushing past Cory, she wouldn’t look at her. Embarrassed, she wanted first to run hard and then deal with the anger.
“Wait,” Cory said as Helen blindly made her way toward the entrance. “Let me explain.”
“You have nothing I want to hear.” She closed the door firmly behind her, loud enough that it echoed in the hallway. “‘A musician,’” she said sarcastically and entered the elevator. “‘Known to dabble,’” she mocked. “All of a sudden I have fucking nobility on my hands.” She pounded her hand against the back wall of the elevator. “Damn it. I never say that word.”
The Carnegie Hall poster, those green eyes. Helen thought she’d probably passed the music hall a dozen times while those eyes watched. She remembered the poster now, the way Cory seemed to beckon her. She’d never given those eyes a second thought. That would have been a slap in the face to her devotion to Chelsea.
Helen hurriedly walked the distance to Lincoln Center. She sat at the edge of the fountain and pigeons gathered around her. They cooed and seduced her for a possible meal.
“Don’t tell me,” she said to the feathered creatures. “You’re really doves incognito.” She reached toward a bird that had ambled close to her feet. “Don’t be afraid,” she said, and the bird took flight. Helen leaned her elbows on her knees. She buried her face in her hands and tried to justify how she felt.
What are you afraid of?
“She lied to me.”
She didn’t. She is a musician.
“She held back. I don’t like her ways.”
You like pain?
Helen looked at the granite walkway beneath her feet. “I’m fine.”
You’re a spider web. The dead cling to you.
She looked at the steps across from her. “How can I trust her?”
She meant no harm. She’s been used.
“I won’t be her savior.”
You could be her lover.
Helen bit her lip. “There’s plenty of women for her to lure into her life.”
Don’t be afraid.
“Of what?”
To admit how lonely you really are.
Helen wanted to cry. Not for half-truths but for the three years she’d lost. Dead time. Safe time. Now this woman had barged in and slammed her life into a tailspin. She spiraled downward, faster and faster. She closed her eyes. Tears spilled from them.
“I am lonely.” She wiped the tears with her palm and breathed a sigh of relief.
Intimacy was a ghost for her. Sex had become four minutes of self-gratification on the nights when she had felt emotionally close to Chelsea. And now, this woman, this Cory Chamberlain, had her feeling that another human’s touch had no equal.
No equal. She wondered about Cory’s breasts. She could feel their smooth curves warm her cheeks and palms, could feel them pressed against her own breasts. She laughed at the irony,
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