Kyle nodded. “Check out the brain on Aubrey. Yeah. So what if Gary sells the company? If the game fails, the doors close anyway.”
“Because that’s what people like him do,” Quinn answered. “He buys it to sell for a profit. When he does, it’s the beginning of the end of Emono as we know it. Crane will go the way of shareholders, and even worse, he’s not committed and won’t just make us all contractors. He’ll give our work to a studio willing to do the work cheaper. I mean, Gary is already trying to show Emono isn’t bleeding money. He cut staff and merged departments. Next, he’ll be coming for our benefits. All to show he can play their game. He’ll be mega rich, and we’ll all be out.”
I slumped in my chair. His theory didn’t sound so far-fetched. “What choice do we have? If Absolution doesn’t sell, we close—but if we stay open, we’ll suffer because Jonas Crane will implement Draconian policies just before giving our successful game to an inexpensive team and closing us.”
“Yep, we’re all screwed,” Quinn said, polishing off his Fiji water. “Do you want to walk to the train with us?”
I nodded and decided not to tell them about the party. I didn’t want to hear any more of Quinn’s negative theory on what the implications might mean. But undoubtedly, Paul Crane’s arrival at Emono Games could well be our beginning… and our end.
Quinn, Kyle, and I grouped over to the train. Once there, we separated for the weekend. They headed over to their place on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, while I left for my place on the lower. A two-bedroom apartment in a renovated high-rise with neutral carpet, stainless steel appliances, and marbleized countertops. Most of the furnishings belonged to my roommate Destiny, who spent little time here since she worked as a flight attendant. Her style was minimalist though upscale, meaning we had restoration hardware couches and seats, a flat screen television, and locally known artists’ paintings in frames—but very few accents. That is, until I’d bought two used bookcases from a last-minute apartment sale in the building. My furniture was still in the basement at my mom’s house. The belongings that didn’t take up too much space, at least. I didn’t blame her for making me throw away a lot of my stuff. There was no room. Like there wasn’t room for me to stay at my mom’s house.
That hadn’t been the truth.
I ignored the wave of sadness washing over me and walked into the apartment, putting away the catered food from work and throwing my interview clothes in the laundry hamper. Then I did what I had wanted to do since Paul Crane had come to Emono Games. I turned on my computer to listen to his music. I could’ve checked Spotify, but I wanted to watch him too, so I chose YouTube.
With a quick search, a bunch of listings came up. Some included the songs of top stars he’d collaborated with. He played many instruments but exceled at the piano. And I knew just the song I wanted to watch him play: Rachmaninov’s Piano Concerto No. 2. There was nothing hotter, and Paul Crane didn’t disappoint.
The video listed was one of his concerts in Los Angeles, in an open outdoor arena that showed capacity. A full orchestra was poised and ready behind the raised platform where he was seated before a sleek grand piano.
The light of day and of the stage shone down upon him in his tuxedo, dark curls damp in the sun’s heat. His head was slightly bowed and his eyes half-lidded as he played. Paul’s hands moved with exquisite fluidity and elegance as he steered the music, and I followed.
My eyes were fixed on the screen, not daring to blink should I miss the slightest nuance in his presentation. I floated when he glided over the piano keys. His fingers danced as light as a brush of feathers on skin. Then the piece climbed. My veins filled with adrenaline when he pounded the keys in forte. The camera closed in on his face. His eyes dark, his face taut. The slight opening of his full lips. I flushed. So sensual. It mesmerized me. He was wildly arousing. Undoubtedly, I would say watching and listening to Paul play Rachmaninov 2 was better than sex—at least the times I’d tried sex.
With this musical inspiration, I found my own. In my imagination, my chin was in position. My hands held the bow. I played my violin along with him.
When the video ended, I glanced around, even though I was alone, and laughed as I dared click on the button for a repeat. I was hot and breathless just watching him play. Perhaps Kyle was right. I needed to get laid.
It wouldn’t be Paul Crane to do it with… I was hardly his type.
But just who was Paul Crane’s type? A quick Google search left me more puzzled than anything else. The women they pictured him dating were diverse in appearance and age, but after reading their background, I found their common trait: success. Besides being gorgeous and stylish, they had résumés to die for. One was the CEO of a startup company, another a child rights advocate. He dated women that not only had their shit together, they worked to change the world. Although his most recent conquest was a deviation: Siena, whom I’d deemed a nauseatingly far-too-positive songstress long ago.
I had no reason to compare myself to them. Paul had been kind, but he hadn’t acted like he was interested in me on a personal level. And even if he were, he might work with Emono Games, and the conflict of interest could jeopardize my job, which was the very last thing I needed.
Still, despite the impossibility of Paul and I, I spent more time with his music, going from song to song. I would think I’d found my favorite, but then another one started, and I soon realized it would be hard to choose. He was extraordinary.
I forced myself to move away from the videos to begin my usual routine of showering away the day. I headed to the bathroom, but not before I turned up the volume of Paul’s music. Under the spray of water, desperate to relieve the pressure, I slid a hand between my thighs and stroked my clit as I listened. But then I remembered I might have to work with him, and having a sexual fantasy would not make me any more comfortable, if anything it would make it doubly more difficult. I turned the knob to a cooler setting.
The music was loud, but I couldn’t mistake the chime of my phone. I let it go into voicemail. However, when I climbed out, it rang again.
I pursed my lips. Who could it be? Destiny was still flying, and Quinn and Kyle hadn’t transitioned to outside-of-work friends. The only person left that might call was Ryan. He must have heard from Logan and was ready to chew me out for ratting about his plan to place me in Quality Assurance. He’d rarely ever waited to contact me about whatever upset him.
Snatching my towel from where it hung, I dropped my robe but carried them both along with me as I rushed over to answer the call.
My voice came out as a vicious bark. “Hello?”
“Hello, Aubrey.”
My mouth dropped open. This was not Ryan.
I rushed and turned down the music on the computer. “Hello? Who’s calling?”
Please be a wrong number.
“It’s Paul Crane. I called to, first, apologize for what I said to you earlier. I don’t like underhanded tricks against colleagues. I never tolerate it in my company. You were under fire, and you didn’t lose your cool like I would have. I admire that.”
I smiled, even though he couldn’t see me. “Thank you.”
“Did I catch you at a bad time?” he asked, his rich voice carrying through the line.