Beautiful Secret

  Finally Ruby found me in the hall, talking to one of the city’s head engineers. In my peripheral vision I could see her waiting to talk, and it seemed to me she was practically vibrating where she stood. When I said goodbye to Kendrick and he’d stepped away, she lifted her hand from where she’d hid it behind her back.

  Clutched in her fist were two tickets.

  “What is this?” I asked, pulling one loose from her grasp.

  Bitter Dusk, Bowery Ballroom, 8:30pm March 29.

  A concert, scheduled for tonight?

  “What is this?” I asked again, looking up at her enormous grin. Surely she didn’t expect me . . .

  She turned to start walking toward the lift, pushing the down button. “It’s the concert I was telling you about. By huge coincidence, it is also what we’re doing tonight.”

  I winced a little, already imagining a roomful of sweaty bodies, rocking and swaying next to me, pressing into us as loud, screeching guitars assaulted our ears. “Ruby, I really don’t think this is my thing.”

  “Oh, it’s definitely not, and it’s every bit as bad as you’re imagining,” she said, tapping my forehead with a laugh. We stepped into the lift, and I was happy to note we’d enjoy this quiet ride alone together.

  “Worse maybe,” she continued. “The club is small for such a big band and it’s going to be packed. Sweaty, drunk Americans everywhere. But I still want you to go.”

  “I confess I find your sales pitch to be somewhat lacking.”

  “I’m going to get you liquored up, because you don’t have to work tomorrow, and,” she stretched up to kiss my chin, “I bet you a hundred dollars you have an amazing time and want to reward me with orgasms afterward.”

  “I want to reward you with orgasms now.”

  “Consider the concert motivation, then.” She gave me a look, one that I knew said, This is exactly what we talked about. Do this with me.

  I sighed in mock annoyance, stepping out after her into the lobby. As much as my skin burned to feel her sliding under the sheets beside me sooner rather than later—and as odd as it was to admit it—it was nice to think about going out. “Will I know a single one of their songs?”

  “You’d better,” she said, turning to glare playfully at me over her shoulder. “And if you don’t, you will soon. This is my favorite band in the world.”

  As I moved into step with her, she looked up at me, singing a few lines from a song I did actually recognize from the general popular music osmosis one gets in public settings. Ruby’s voice was thin and off-key—bloody awful, really—but she didn’t care at all. Lord, would there be a single thing about this girl I didn’t find endlessly endearing?

  “You’re thinking right now that I’m a terrible singer,” she said, poking me in the side.

  “Yes,” I admitted, “but I have heard that song. I’ll tolerate the evening’s activity.”

  She threw me a mock exasperated look. “How noble of you.”

  * * *

  The exterior of the Bowery Ballroom reminded me of an old firehouse: simple sandstone, wide central arch, with a green neon sign illuminating the entrance to the side. As we emerged from the subway station just outside the venue, Ruby bounced beside me, pulling me toward the entrance. Inside the space expanded into a much smaller floor than I’d been expecting, positioned less than a meter below a narrow stage lined on the sides with heavy velvet drapes. I could see in an instant why Ruby was so excited for the tickets: in a venue such as this, she would be closer to her favorite band than she’d likely ever been.

  Upstairs, a balcony lined the sides and back of the room, looking down on the action, and had begun to fill with a few people holding cocktails. Already the floor had started to fill, and the humid air created by over a hundred bodies tripped my claustrophobic wire. As if sensing my impending panic, Ruby tugged my sleeve, pulling me to the bar.

  “Two gin gimlets, tons of limes!” she yelled to the bartender. With a nod, he grabbed two glasses, filling them with ice. “I mean a lot of limes,” she added with a charming smile.

  The oily hipster bartender smiled back at her, eyes stalling at her mouth before glancing at her chest and lingering.

  Without thinking, I reached an arm around her shoulders, jerking her back against my front. The move surprised her. I could tell in the way she caught herself by wrapping both hands around my forearm, by the way she broke into a delighted laugh. Arching into me, Ruby slipped her hands behind her and around my lower back to hold me closer.

  She turned her head, leaning against my chest and I bent so that her mouth was closer to my ear. “I’ve been crazy for you for months,” she reminded me with a small bite to my jaw. “Seeing you jealous like that just completely made my life.”

  “I don’t share,” I warned her quietly.

  “I don’t either.”

  “And I don’t flirt.”

  She paused, as she seemed to understand the depth of my reaction. I wasn’t even sure I understood the depth of my reaction. I’d never been jealous with Portia; even when she tried, by dancing at parties or getting drunk and flirtatious with friends. But with Ruby . . . there was an instinctive pull, some desire to claim her that made me at once uneasy and thrilled.

  “I know I’m flirty,” she admitted, her eyes searching my face, “but I’d never betray anyone like that.”

  And somehow, I knew that. In the dim light of the bar and in the midst of such a bustling crowd, our conversation felt even more intimate.

  “I’m having more fun with you than I can remember having,” I told her. “I trust you, even though sometimes it feels like I know so much about you, and other times I remember that we’re barely acquainted.”

  I had to remind myself that Ruby was only twenty-three, that she had broader sexual experience than I did, and far more experience with flirting—but no long-term relationships, nothing showing her how to enter into something to be treated initially as fragile. I wanted to balance her tendency to run headlong into things against my tendency to hide my head in the sand.

  “We are not ‘barely acquainted,’ ” she growled, pinching my backside in her hand. “Just because this is a new relationship doesn’t mean I don’t know you in ways no one else does. How else are we supposed to start? You can’t know everything at the get-go.”

  The bartender returned with our drinks and I released Ruby from my hold and paid before she could get her wallet out of her small bag. She offered me a petulant glare, and then turned, stretching to pull me into a kiss I expected to be only a small brush of her lips but immediately turned deep, her tongue sliding into my mouth, claiming me in the playfully brazen way she had.

  And for a moment, I forgot that we were away from the privacy of our hotel or the safety of London. With my hand cupping her neck and her palms pressed flat to my chest, it was just Ruby and I, as lovers, falling forward into this thing that had captured me so immediately.

  I pulled away to catch my breath and slow my pulse, jerking back into awareness of the press of bodies all around us at the crowded bar, the eyes on us attempting to not stare, the hint of a smartphone capturing a public flash of our passion. The bartender deposited my change on the bar with a smack that told me he’d been watching us, too. And Ruby couldn’t care less. She lifted her drink, raised her eyebrows cheekily at me, and took a long swallow.

  “You kiss like it’s your goddamn job,” she said.

  With a little smile, I pulled out a few of the multitude of limes in my drink to drop onto a bar napkin. I liked limes as much as the next bloke, but my Ruby seemed to want her gimlet as limes with a side of gin.

  My Ruby.

  I swallowed, staring at her as I licked the juice from my fingers. My Ruby. She watched my tongue slide over my fingers with wide, fascinated eyes.

  “Right now,” I began with a grin, “are you imagining how far I could work my tongue inside you, or how many of my fingers would fit?”

  Her breath caught, and her eyes went wild for a flas
h before her confident smile took center stage. “I’m actually wondering if you would like to watch me lick your fingers as much as I like watching you do it.”

  I swallowed thickly, staring down at her slightly parted lips. They were shiny from her drink and from her habit of licking them often, and I was immediately reminded of the way they looked around my cock the only time she’d done that, swollen and slick.

  “I’d rather like to watch you suck something else entirely,” I admitted, feeling a heated flush run down my chest, adrenaline pumping to the tips of my fingers, adding, “Again.”

  While she stared at me, I heard a woman’s voice mutter just behind her, “Right? I bet they have sex every fucking day.”

  Ruby’s eyes widened, a smile spreading over her face as she tilted her head slightly to listen.

  “I bet she lives with his dick inside her.”

  Her brows shot up and I blinked away for just a moment to keep from laughing. Ruby was still grinning when I looked back. “Are they talking about us?” she mouthed.

  I nodded. They were definitely talking about us.

  She looked down the length of her body and then up to me, whispering. “Nope. Not inside me right now.”

  I slid her hand down my stomach and over the shape of my cock. “Not right now, no.”

  But Lord, there were few things I wanted more just then.

  * * *

  The opening band filed out onto the stage and a portion of the crowd immediately began migrating away from the bar. Ruby grabbed my hand, downing half of her drink in a few swallows and motioning for me to do the same. As she watched, I finished it, set the glass down, and raised an eyebrow at her. With a tiny shake of her head, she tilted her drink back and downed it, wincing as she slammed the glass down on the bar.

  When Ruby tugged my hand, I held her back from moving to the front, enjoying our time together too much to end it yet. “My condition on this evening is that you spend this opening set talking to me, back here.”

  She tilted her head, smiling mysteriously up at me. “It’s funny that you don’t think you’re a flirt,” she said, wiping the back of her hand across her mouth.

  Signaling to the bartender that we would each like another drink, I asked her, “What do you mean?”

  “ ‘Are you imagining how far I could work my tongue inside you,’ ” she quoted in a British accent, “ ‘or how many of my fingers would fit?’ ” Resting her chin on my chest and gazing up at me, she said, “That, my darling, is perhaps the flirtiest and filthiest thing anyone has ever said to me.”

  I held her gaze as I slid another twenty onto the bar to cover the drinks, saying, “Aw, dove, you can’t have a go at me for asking a simple question.”

  She laughed pulling away and playfully thumping my chest. “Don’t play innocent with me. I’m onto your act. The calm stoic man in public, and behind closed doors, you’re wicked.”

  I stilled, looking down at her. Was this how she saw me? I reflected back on the past week with her in this new, easy relationship and had to admit my behavior was so far out of character for me I could hardly recognize myself. And at the same time, falling into the role with her had felt nothing but natural.

  “When you let yourself enjoy it?” she started, her voice quieter now as the crowd hushed to watch the band assemble up front. “You’re almost too much for me to take. I didn’t think men like you really existed.” Reaching down to wrap her fingers through my free hand, she said, “Tell me what you’re thinking right this second.”

  I blinked away, swallowing my reflex to inwardly recoil at this type of question and reminding myself how important it was to her that we were open with each other. “I’m glad you made me come here tonight.”

  She waited, clearly hoping for more.

  “Honesty, yeah?”

  Nodding, she said, “Of course.”

  “The last week, since we’ve settled into each other, has been lovely. Part of me worried initially that you viewed this relationship as only sexual.”

  “I want a lot of sexual things from you,” she admitted, “but I want that because I want you, and this. Not because sex is the most important thing or I’m working through something.” She looked away, out over the crowd and to the stage.

  It took me a moment to realize I’d tested her patience, that what I’d said had actually hurt her feelings.

  “I don’t question that you genuinely care for me,” I told her. “I hope you feel the same keen fondness from me.”

  She laughed, stretching to kiss my jaw. “You are so adorably proper, I can’t handle it.”

  We drank our second round only a touch slower than the first, and by the time I ordered our third drink, I could feel the warm flush of alcohol in my blood. Ruby’s cheeks were pink, her laugh bursting readily from her lips as I told her stories of my childhood in Leeds: Max running home trouserless at fifteen after getting caught shagging the daughter of the chief executive of Leeds City Council in the middle of Pudsey Park, my oldest sister Lizzy’s wedding, where her chief bridesmaid spilled a full glass of red wine on her wedding dress and Uncle Philip got so pissed he fell into the wedding cake, my other sister Karen’s famous temper and her high school reputation as the best (unofficial) boxer in Leeds.

  As the opening band—an absurd group of screeching men calling themselves Sheriff Goodnature—wrapped up, people started to gather at the bar again, refreshing their drinks before the main act appeared. Ruby swayed a little in front of me, putting her half-finished drink down on the bar and excusing herself to the restroom. I followed her into one of what appeared to be a number of small corridors, and met her back in the hall when she emerged, taking in the sight of her excited grin as I bent to kiss her.

  “Couldn’t wait for me to come back?” she asked with a giddy flush.

  “Guilty,” I murmured into her mouth. “You’re absolutely lovely.”

  With a little squeak, she pulled me back to the main room and deep into the throng of sweaty, pulsing bodies, all anxious for Bitter Dusk to appear onstage. The band members came out, plugged in their guitars, tested the mics, and ducked in and out of the backstage area. I could feel Ruby trembling excitedly against me and watched as she absorbed every move they made. It was too loud to speak to her, but even though the packed room wasn’t my scene and I was sure to complain later about the noise, seeing her this happy erased any reserve I felt. I could watch her all night and enjoy each and every second.

  A hush fell over the crowd as the lead singer approached the microphone. He didn’t say a word, only looked behind to his bandmates and nodded. The drumsticks met in a sharp crack once, twice, three times.

  And then the room exploded into noise.

  It was drums and bass and raw guitar layered together in a way that could only be described as pure beauty. In an instant, it fed into my blood, made the hairs on my skin stand up. The music was wonderful: full and rich, clean bluesy guitar and precise drums with vocals that astounded me. I knew at the end of the night my ears would ring and Ruby would need to shout into my brain to be heard, but it was a kind of magic I’d never imagined: I felt the music as a physical presence all along my skin and inside me.

  Ruby hadn’t said anything about what to expect, and maybe she’d assumed I’d done this before—but the truth was, I never had. I’d seen the symphony, the ballet, and endless musicals with Portia over the years in the London theater scene, but never had I experienced anything as visceral as this.

  The lead singer’s voice in one song was smoke and rough pavement, and then in another was honeyed and smooth. The lyrics made my imagination do things I’d never expected, made things like regret and guilt, anticipation and relief bloom thickly in my chest. I felt oddly nostalgic for my wasted years of misery, and massively hopeful about what life could be, starting from this very point in time and onward. It was nearly too much, too intense with the lights bursting across the crowd, and Ruby lifting her arms over her head and singing along to every word o
f the song.

  In front of me, she danced in a hip-swaying, shoulders-dipping move that had me mad for her, wild to grab and pull her backside directly against my lengthening cock. My fingers gripped her hips, my eyes rolled closed, and I relished the sound penetrating every inch of space in the room, relished the seductive movement of her against me. Her hands reached up behind her, tangling into my hair and pulling my face to the side of her neck.

  I sucked and bit, groaned into her, and then—when I began to harden, my mind turning away from the song and focusing solely on the gorgeous creature in front of me—I had to decide whether to pull her into one of the many tiny alcoves or let her remain here to enjoy the music. I stood up straighter, deciding to simply let the moment wash over me.

  The band tore through the set, barely stopping to greet the crowd or take a sip of the beers precariously perched on their amps. It was unlike anything I’d seen or heard, and I felt as if I was getting a glimpse into Ruby’s heart: her love for energy and adventure, spontaneously nabbing tickets to see her favorite band in an unfamiliar city. I admired the trust she put in her own instincts, bringing me here. She knew all along that my reaction to the music and the lights and the pulsing rhythm of a hundred people jumping all around me would be profound.

  * * *

  At nearly six foot seven, I’d grown accustomed to bending to hear others speak, to instinctively ducking through doorways, to standing on the outside of circles to not feel as if I was crowding anyone away. But on the subway home, as we stood rocking with the motion of the train, I could tell Ruby wanted me stretched to my full height, holding the bar overhead so she could lean into me, wiggling and practically climbing me in her post-show excitement.

  Her belly rubbed my cock again, and again, while her hands slipped beneath my open coat and under my shirt so she could press her cold hands to the flat of my stomach. Fingertips teased at the hair on my navel, at the buckle of my belt. I felt her slip an index finger just below the waist of my jeans.