Caressa's Knees (11 page)

“Looks like a 32C to me. So…is that guy your boyfriend? He’s yummy.”

“Oh, um.
No.
Just a friend.
He actually works for me,” Caressa said dryly. She was an accomplished musician after all, and she’d probably made more as a twelve-year-old than this girl was making slinging bras and panties as an adult.

But Bridget just said, “Oh,” in that perky, cheery voice of hers and left Caressa to dress again. When she was decent, she went back out into the store and picked out a few more bras she liked.
Nothing too frilly, but nice classic colors with subtle details.
A sky blue bra with a black velvet bow that enthralled her.
A beige one in a sort of retro style with black and white lace.
As she chose them, Bridget pulled out matching panties. Kyle was still across the store, chatting with the other shop girls who were throwing themselves at him in a disgustingly desperate way.
Fine.
Let him flirt with them. Better than having him
watch
her with that dissecting gaze.

Finally she ducked back into the changing room and tried the fit on the undergarments. Most of the sets she’d chosen suited her perfectly. They were so much more well-designed and flattering than her cheap, plain cotton crap. She ended up not being able to part with any of it.
God, so much money.
She ran a fingertip over a tiny edging of ivory lace. She didn’t care.

Kyle stood beside her as she checked out. The shop girls had finally fallen silent, deciding at last, she supposed, that he really wasn’t available. She wondered what he thought of the things she’d picked out. She wanted to look over and ask, but then again, she wasn’t buying it for him. He was
right,
she made a lot of money. She should have underwear she liked, and if he didn’t like what she chose, he could go fuck himself. She’d told him she wasn’t going to get all sentimental over him and she meant it.

She paid for the sets with the debit card Denise had given her a couple years ago, that she only used now and again for online purchases and quick trips out for food. God, she had plenty of money saved up from concerts and royalties. She was paying
his
salary, wasn’t she?

“I like the things you got,” he said as he fell into step beside her back out on the sidewalk.

“I didn’t think you even noticed what I got, you were so busy chatting up those girls.”

“They were
chatting
me
up.”

“I’m sure you’re constantly wrestling with that problem.”

“Why so grouchy, darling?”

Caressa rolled her eyes. He was headed for another store, an upscale women’s clothing boutique.

“Kyle!”

“Come on. I just want to help you. Dress you up a little. Do you really like those clothes you wear? You’re so spirited, so talented. Why are your clothes so…bland and lifeless?”

“That’s how concert musicians dress.”

“Says who?” He was pulling her past counters full of artisan jewelry and pottery to racks of variously textured sweaters and jackets, tops and blouses. “Who made the rule that that’s how concert musicians have to dress? I guess you could wear whatever the hell you wanted as long as your fingers are the ones playing the notes.”

“It doesn’t work that way. There are conventions of dress—”

“I’m not talking about what you wear onstage. I’m talking about you getting a sense of style and being happy with the way you look.”

“I am happy with the way I look.”

“Then why do you hide yourself under layers of gray and black?”

“Because, unlike you, I don’t want to be stared at.”

He made an impatient sound and started browsing through lush cardigans and embellished tank tops. “This store reminds me of you.
Very impressive and great quality, but completely crazy underneath.”
He held up a shirt with asymmetrical gathers and an unfinished, beaded neckline.

“No. Well…” She sidled over to a nearby table of filmy blouses. God, she loved
ruching
. Little bows, nothing garish…
Buttons.
She loved buttons that were unusual. She really loved itty bitty buttons. And textures…

By the time she left, Kyle had a fistful of bags in both hands, and Caressa was feeling buoyant and beautiful. Why not
have fun dressing
in her own style when she wasn’t performing? The black was getting old. She’d bought tops in rust red and rum pink, jackets in green paisley and aqua blue. She’d bought sweaters with short sleeves and pedal pusher shorts in plaid. She’d bought a white tank top with silver and yellow bows all over it. Denise would hate it, but Caressa loved it.

“We should get back,” said Kyle. “We’ll save shoes for another day.”

Caressa laughed and felt an almost insane urge to skip along beside him. For a few hours she’d forgotten all about Saint-Saëns and concert reviews. She’d felt like a normal person, out and about living life for once. She’d bought a bunch of clothes she liked and enjoyed the fresh air and sunshine. She hadn’t heard any music but the sound of Kyle’s laughter and whispered encouragements in her ear.

* * * * *

He left her at the suite to rest before the concert and headed off to the hotel gym with the newspapers from the table stuffed in the bottom of his bag. After he worked out, he sat in the sauna and flipped to the Arts sections to read over the reviews. Denise was right. They weren’t exactly condemning her work, but not congratulating her either. All three reviewers brought her age into things.
While Caressa Gallo has grown up before our eyes, her performances still smack of immaturity.
Kyle felt a strong urge to smack the reviewer. She was twenty fucking years old, not exactly a seasoned adult yet.

He folded the papers and set them aside in disgust. When he’d taken this job, he hadn’t bargained on any of this. He didn’t know how to help her. When Jeremy had gotten bad reviews, it had always been reviews of the movie as a whole, not him personally. In this case, Kyle couldn’t see how Caressa wouldn’t feel personally attacked.

Damn it.
He wanted to protect her, shelter her somehow, but he couldn’t. He wanted to stand behind her on stage and glower at the audience, daring them to think any less of her for missed notes or botched phrasing. He didn’t even know what the fuck phrasing was, but he was sure Caressa did it more beautifully than ninety-nine percent of the master cellists in the world. He showered and returned to the room in a snit, to find Caressa in a similarly touchy mood.

“You read them anyway,” he accused.

“Denise always buys me my own copies.”

“Damn it. I told you not to read them.” He could see her searching her brain for some childish retort. He held up his hand. “Don’t. Just don’t say anything.”

“I don’t want to. Get out of my room.”

“They were wrong, you know. It’s just their opinion.”

“They weren’t wrong!”

“Stop with the yelling thing, Caressa. It doesn’t intimidate me and it just makes you sound like a crazy woman.”

“Maybe I am a crazy woman,” she snapped. “All I know is that I screwed up yesterday and it was
all your
fault.”

“Somehow I doubt that.”

“You and your fucking seduction and—”

“Wait.
Seduction?
Sex goes both ways, sugar. I don’t remember you resisting or saying no.”

“How am I supposed to play with you…doing this stuff to me? I need to concentrate on music, not fucking and shopping and whatever the hell else you want to do at any given moment. You’re too…disruptive!”

“Fine, I’ll leave you alone then.”

“I would appreciate that.”

“You probably wouldn’t have enjoyed all the things I had planned for you tonight anyway,” he added casually, studying one of his nails.

“What are you talking about?”

“Nothing.
If you want to be left alone, I’ll leave you alone. I thought you liked our time together so far.
But whatever.
You need to be ready to leave for the theater at six-thirty.”

He turned his back on her and left.
A risk.
He prayed she wouldn’t run back up to the rooftop, or stage some other similarly dramatic scene. But she did nothing, and at six-thirty she came out of her room in her armor of black silk and smoothed-back hair. At the theater she marched out on stage as if to do battle, and from the look on Denise’s face, this time Caressa prevailed. Kyle tried to feel happy for her, but disgruntlement reigned.

The next three days passed in a tense standoff. Kyle did everything he’d agreed to do as her assistant, but that was the extent of their interactions—in reality anyway. In his mind, Kyle interacted with her until Caressa could barely walk. He fucked her, tied her up, gagged her, teased and tormented her. He made her moan, and when she fought him he held her down and fucked her harder.

If she was having similar thoughts, she hid them well. They got on a plane to Portland and Caressa sat alone with her cello case in the two-across seat. Denise glanced over at her and then back at Kyle.

“It’s probably better this way.”

“Mm.”
Kyle thought for the hundredth time that he should resign and let the constant temptation that dogged him fall into someone else’s hands. But he wasn’t capable of walking away from her, not now. “Whatever makes her happy, I guess,” he said, only because Denise seemed to be waiting for some answer from him.

“Everything I do is for
Caressa’s
happiness,” she replied in an unctuous tone.

“Do you really think she’s happy?”

“In her own way she is. This is what she lives for. It’s not always easy for her, but she wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“Are you sure of that?”

“She put the music ahead of
you
, didn’t she?” She didn’t say it cruelly, but Kyle got the message loud and clear. Denise shifted and clasped her hands in her lap. “Please, whatever you do, don’t try to make her choose. You’ll end up with more of a mess than you can manage.”

“I would never ask her to choose.”

“Not in so many words, I’m sure. But she’s already conflicted.”

“Why does it have to be either-or? Why can’t she have a relationship with me and still do her music too? This unhealthy obsession—”

“You don’t understand.”

“I understand that she’s living half a life, and the half is all music. I took her to the mall and she was walking around like Alice in Wonderland. She’s twenty years old. What does your life look like when you’re twenty and you’ve never even hung out at a mall? What has she ever done that normal kids do?”

“She’s not a kid.”

“Not now. But five years ago she was. What was she doing five years ago?”

Denise bit her lip and didn’t answer.

“Let me guess.
Practicing her cello, appearing at concerts, and poring over reviews.”

“Yes. And that’s exactly what she wanted to be doing.”

“How do you know? What else has she ever been allowed to do?”

“It’s not a matter of ‘allowing’! She does all of this by choice.”

Kyle stopped, glancing over at Caressa. She could see they were arguing, and quickly looked away.
“By
choice
.
Yes, that’s what I hear,” Kyle said in a lower voice. “But it seems like only one choice is allowed. What if she chooses to be with me? What if she chooses a real life instead of this musical bubble she’s living in?”

Denise looked over at him, her deep brown eyes sincere and resolute. “If she chooses, she chooses. You are not listening to my words.
You
do not make her choose. It must be her choice. You understand?”

“I would never force her to choose,” he grumbled, sitting back in his seat. But part of him knew that’s what he was already doing. Poking, peeling away the protective layer that kept her focused and productive. He wanted to show her the wide world she’d forsaken to become a musical
virtuosa
. But was he doing it for her—or for him?

It was just a short flight and soon they were preparing the cabin for landing. He looked over at Caressa and saw her fingers curled around the handle of her cello case. He wanted to be holding that hand. He wanted to make her happy, make her laugh in that same giddy way she’d laughed at the mall that day. There was no malice in it, no desire to ruin her, just a desire to help her discover things, and yes, perhaps woo her a little bit.

But more and more he realized that Caressa was already involved in a primary relationship—a dysfunctional one. Caressa was inextricably entangled with a horsehair bow, a glossy wooden body and four quivering strings.

Chapter Six:

Instrument

Caressa lay awake in the dark tossing and turning, unable to find peace. Tonight’s concert had actually been the best so far. They’d traveled to a three-night appearance in Portland and on to Seattle for another three days. Caressa had always loved Seattle for some reason.
Perhaps because it always rained in Seattle.
Kyle had made a joke about Caressa not going up on the roof on the way home from the last night’s show, when rain had lashed the windows of the car and lightning had lit up the gorgeous planes of his face. She hadn’t found the joke particularly funny. That night hadn’t been a joke to her, when she’d first stared at his chest, at his fingers.
When she’d first had to admit that something moved her besides music.