Prologue
Quincy
One year earlier
* * *
“And the winner of Best Classical Album is…” There was a drumroll, and the awards presenter waited with fake bated breath. “Bowed and Dangerous.”
Of course.
The bad boys of classical music were bound to walk away with the accolade. I bit my lip to quell the tears that were threatening to flow, plastered a fake-ass smile on my face, and clapped along heartily with the rest of the audience. The last thing I needed on top of everything going on in my life was to be called out for being unsporting, or a diva. That would have just been the final insult in what was shaping up to be the week from hell.
One of the members of the group took to the stage to accept the award, and I wondered idly where the other one was—they were a duo.
“Well, I wasn’t expecting to win. This kind of shit never goes our way. I’m accepting this on behalf of both of us, as King can’t be here tonight, due to the fact that he’s at home shitting and puking his guts out with a stomach flu,.” A snicker blew through the room, then died in the air, presumably when people realized they were laughing at someone else’s misfortune.
“Anyway, there are a bunch of people to thank—you know who you are, but nobody else does, so I’ll just say a big fat thank you to you all. That’s it. Peace, motherfuckers.” He brandished the award aloft and cast his dark, brooding eyes about the room as though looking for someone, before shrugging and sauntering from the stage like he had all the time in the world. Arrogant bastard. Not that he didn’t have reason to be, on a purely looks basis. He was stupidly attractive—all smoldering dark features beneath his mop of thick, dark hair.
It wasn’t that I thought that Bowed and Dangerous were undeserving of the accolade. I hadn’t listened to their stuff, but I knew it was highly regarded in the industry. It wasn’t even that I thought I was more deserving—not having heard what they did, I had no point of comparison. It was just that in the shitstorm that was my life right now, I could have used a little well-timed pick-me-up. A sign that I wasn’t better off digging a huge hole and burying myself in it forever.
As it was, in five short days I’d moved out of the apartment I’d shared with my now-ex boyfriend of four years, due to what he described as “irreconcilable differences.” Though, he’d fundamentally misunderstood the concept, as the differences in question were that I wasn’t his ex-girlfriend and childhood sweetheart, with whom, it turned out he’d never fallen out of love.
To make matters worse, I’d been in talks with my record label, Sonic Bully, regarding my next album. I’d put forward a raft of new and original music—songs that I’d written either alone or with collaborators—for their consideration. After weeks of deliberation, they’d let me know that they had decided against going that route, in favor of the tried-and-tested strategy of releasing an album of covers. Again.
In a nutshell, there were a lot of Rihanna and Beyoncé songs in my future. And then I had to sit around a table with those same record execs at this awards ceremony, as though I didn’t want to push each of their faces into ground glass. Fuck them, and fuck my life.
Not that I had anything against RiRi or Bey, per se. In fact, I thought they were both great at what they did. I just wished the idiots at the label could see I had more to offer than a rehash of someone else’s music , and would trust that people would buy something other than covers from me, if I actually put it out there.
So, along with the shame of moving back in with my parents until I could find a suitable apartment, I would have to deal with the indignity of being known as ‘that violin chick who plays other people’s music’ forever. I would also have to smile and thank people graciously when they offered their commiserations for not winning the award, and probably every award I would ever be nominated for, if I was up against people like Bowed & Dangerous, who I was pretty sure wrote their own material—and actually got to record it.
Fucking perfect.
I managed to endure the rest of the ceremony by the power of wine, and drinking on an empty stomach, and Deone, my best friend, who kept both the laughter and the drinks flowing. By the time I made it to the after-party at the grand ballroom, I was more than merry, and set on having a good time. I deserved it, given the crap I’d been through lately.
I took to the dance floor, and once I started dancing, didn’t seem to be able to stop. My body kind of took over my mind, and I was all about the music.
“You’re the sexiest woman in this room, by a long way.”
The words spoken right into my ear shocked me out of my reverie, and my body stilled immediately.
“No, don’t stop. The way you move is hot as hell.”
Without even turning around to see who was speaking, I resumed dancing, this time making sure the slow figure of eight I was drawing with my body had me rubbing against what was, unmistakably, a hard-on pressed against my butt. Holy shit it was a turn-on. I had no idea if it was the alcohol making me feel that way—although I hadn’t had a drink in at least an hour, maybe longer—or the fact that I’d just been dumped, or that I’d been shat on again by my record label, or that I’d been passed over for an award.
All I knew was it was one of the most arousing things I’d ever experienced. Dry fucking an anonymous stranger on the middle of a dance floor was definitely one to tick off the bucket list. Not that it had ever been on it. Take that, Jonathan. Who needs you, anyway?
As I raised my hands and secured them behind mystery man’s neck, drawing him closer to me, he thrust his erection harder into my butt, and lowered his mouth to my ear again.
“Christ. You’re hotter than hell on a Sunday. I’ve never wanted to fuck anyone so much in my entire life.”
Thoughts zapped through my mind at warp speed, but the only one I could make any sense of was a solitary word. Yes.
I was young, free and single, and had four years’ worth of wild oats to sow, so why the hell not? If there was one thing guaranteed to set me on the road to recovery from the break-up, it was meaningless, dirty sex with a stranger.
I opened my eyes and sought out Deone’s. I wasn’t surprised to find her watching me—everything I was doing was pretty out of character—she was probably wondering what the hell was going on.
I raised an eyebrow in question, hoping she’d be quick to catch my meaning. When she smiled lightly back, then gave me a discreet thumbs up, I knew she had. If the guy had looked like the ogre from under the bridge, she would have found a way to give me an ‘abort mission!’ signal.
As it was, instead of running a mile in the opposite direction, I turned toward the warm body, tilting my head to meet a pair of deep brown eyes. Oh shit. Of all the people in the whole room, why the fuck was it him? My mind wavered for a moment, thinking that maybe I should abort after all.
“Let’s get out of here.” His voice was low and commanding. I could tell he meant business. I wasn’t sure whether he’d read my indecision, but it was a very well-timed instruction. I put my doubts aside—I’d come this far, why not let it play out all the way? I had nothing to lose.
I nodded and let him lead me from the packed dance floor, and out of the room. As he strode down the hall and stopped at the cloakroom, I assumed he was collecting his coat so that we could go on to somewhere else.