Intimate
Authors: Noelle Adams
Intimate
Noelle Adams
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places,
and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used
fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or
dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2013 by Noelle Adams. All rights reserved,
including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any
means.
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark
owners of the following wordmarks referenced in this work of fiction: Tylenol.
Contents
Marissa Dalton wandered toward the
front of the concert hall, drawn by the warm strains of the cello.
So far this
summer, she’d been trying to avoid Caleb Wesley, since he had always ignored
her and she didn’t like his father. She didn’t think he could see her right
now, though.
And she wanted
to listen.
He sat on a
chair in the middle of the stage, his cello between his legs, warming up to the
venue before his concert that night.
Marissa had
been raised around classical music, since her mother played the violin
professionally and her father managed classical performers. She’d never known
anyone who played like Caleb, though—as if the cello, the notes, the music were
part of his life-force, rather than something he was doing.
She stood
listening a long time before he noticed her.
At fourteen, he
was a lot taller than he’d been last year. He was cuter too, with those
silvery-gray eyes and an incredible smile.
She’d known him
forever, since her mother and both of his parents had played in the same
midlist string quartet until three years ago.
“What are you
doing?” he asked, pulling his bow away from the strings and blinking at her, slowly
refocusing on the world outside his music.
“Listening.”
There was nothing else she could say. She was just twelve, and she’d never been
good at making conversation.
“You’ve been
around a lot this summer.” Caleb went to an exclusive boarding school for the
musically gifted, but this summer he was on his first solo tour, managed by her
father.
“Yeah. I’m with
my dad full-time now.”
“Why was your
mom unfit?”
She just glared
at him stonily and didn’t answer. As of a month ago, she was in the full
custody of her father, after the courts deemed her mother an unfit guardian.
Marissa loved
her mom, and she’d tried really hard for years—cleaning up, making her own
meals, helping her mom get ready for performances, always putting on a good
face for visitors. But she couldn’t help but be glad about the change.
No more days
watching her mother pass out drunk in the living room. No more nights waiting
until dawn for her to come home from the bars. No more evenings left to the
devices of a babysitter, who would either ignore her to watch TV or do dirty
things with her boyfriend.
Her mother had
tried more than once, but she’d never been able to stop drinking, and her
father had fought hard for full custody of her.
None of that
was Caleb’s business, though.
“Did she do
something to you?” he asked, unfazed by her cold glare.
“Shut up.”
He lifted his
eyebrows. “I was just asking.”
“I don’t have
to tell you anything.”
“Fine. I was
just trying to be nice.”
“You were being
a jerk.”
“A jerk?” For
just a moment, amusement glimmered in the gray eyes that were usually intensely
serious.
“Yes.” She had
to fight to repress an answering smile. “A jerk. Just because everyone treats
you like some little…little
godling
, like you’re God’s gift to music, it
doesn’t mean you can stick your nose in my business.”
The corners of
his mouth lifted slightly. “What did you call me?”
“A godling.”
She felt herself blushing but tried to keep her voice firm. “You know. A little
god.”
“Can’t I be a
full god?”
“No.”
“Do you know
how to play anything?” he asked, changing the subject as if it were a perfectly
natural transition.
“Just piano.”
In spite of her upbringing, Marissa had never been musically inclined, although
she practiced dutifully every day.
Caleb nodded
toward the grand piano on the side of the stage. “So play something.”
It was a test,
she supposed. To prove her worth to Caleb, who everyone knew was a brilliant
talent, a cello prodigy at the age of fourteen.
She wasn’t
going to fail the test.
She went to the
piano and slid to the front of the bench so she could reach the pedals, since
she was short even for twelve. Then she started to play Grieg, the hardest
piece she had in her memory.
She thought she
did pretty well. When she finished, she looked over and saw that Caleb had
stood up and moved closer to the piano. “Not bad.”
“Thanks a lot.”
She made sure to sound sarcastic, as if his approval meant nothing to her.
It actually
meant a lot, coming from him.
“Your hands are
too small to be really good.”
She frowned,
even though she knew it was true. “No one asked you.”
“But really not
bad for such a mouse.”
She made an
indignant squeak. “I am not a mouse.”
He smiled.
“Yeah, you are. You’re tiny and you never talk and you’re always busy studying
or working on something, even when you’re supposed to be on a break.”
“I am not! I’m
talking to you now, and I’m not working on anything.”
“You should have
seen yourself play. Like it was a job, rather than fun. I bet you never get in
trouble either.”
She never got
in trouble. She always wanted to please her parents, her teachers, everyone.
The few times she’d gotten in trouble had been so upsetting she’d been sure
never to do it again. “I get in trouble all the time.”
“No, you don’t.
I’ve never seen anyone who works as hard as you. Even this summer, you’re
always doing stuff for your dad. Don’t you know how to have fun?”
“I have fun
doing a lot of things.”
“Like what?”
“Like…like
reading.” She knew, even as she said the word, that it was a mistake.
He laughed out
loud. “Definitely a mouse.”
She was shaking
with annoyance now, deciding Caleb was even more of a jerk than she’d thought.
Mustering all
the dignity she could, she got off the piano bench and walked away.
She hadn’t even
reached the side of the stage when he stopped her. “Wait. Don’t be mad. There’s
nothing wrong with being a mouse.”
She turned on
him in a fiery rage. “I. Am. Not. A. Mouse.”
He blinked.
“Okay. Got it.”
“Just because
everyone acts like you’re the center of the universe doesn’t mean you are. So
you can play the cello. Big deal.”
“I never said
it was a big deal. I was just trying to get to know you.”
“No, you
weren’t. You were being a jerk.”
For a moment,
she didn’t know how he would react—whether or not he was going to get annoyed and
ignore her like he had before.
Then his face
relaxed into a smile. “Okay, fine. I was being a jerk.”
Feeling like
she’d unexpectedly scored a victory, she said, “I don’t like you at all, you
know.”
His smile
broadened, and she couldn’t help but love how it looked. “Yeah, you do.”
“I do not.”
He laughed
again, the sound warm and rippling and strangely comforting.
The worst thing
was silently admitting he was right.
***
six
years later
Even after a forty-two minute
shower, Marissa still felt dirty.
Everyone she passed
seemed to stare at her as she limped through the quiet campus. She’d always
been a mouse, a good girl, the girl no one really noticed, but she didn’t feel
that way tonight.
It was after
midnight, and the farther she got from her dorm, the emptier the sidewalks and
parking lots became.
She wasn’t
nervous, though. She was numb.
She headed toward
the music building on the west side of campus, more out of instinct than out of
any conscious decision.
When she arrived,
she used her ID card to let herself in and headed up to the practice rooms on
the sixth floor.
No one was
practicing at almost one o’clock on a Sunday morning.
No one but
Caleb.
Even at busy
times, he always managed to snare the best practice room—the one with a beat-up
couch against the wall—so she walked toward the door at the end of the hall.
Her head
pounded, and her throat hurt, and she was painfully raw between her legs.
She’d thrown up
earlier, afterwards, but she didn’t think she would throw up again.
The practice
room door was closed, but she opened it without knocking.
The rich tones
of the cello spilled out into the hall to envelope her.
Caleb sat on a
chair in the middle of the room, his practice cello between his legs, his eyes
closed as he played.
He had no idea
she’d stepped into the room. When he played, the music was the only thing in
the world.
Marissa’s
stomach twisted as she leaned against the doorframe, listening to the familiar
strains of Bach’s Cello Suite #1.
He must have
just started because he was only a minute into the Prelude.
She’d heard him
play this particular piece a hundred times. It had been one of his standards when
he was on the concert circuit, and it was nearly always requested when he
performed at private events now.
It had never
been her favorite of the pieces he played.
For some
reason, however, the music hit her poignantly tonight.
The notes were
so achingly beautiful and the world was so achingly broken that she started to
cry.
The first time all
evening.
Caleb began the
first movement of the suite, swaying slightly with his music, handling the graceful
instrument like a lover. Then she must have sniffed too loudly.
He glanced toward
the door, his eyes slightly fuzzy the way they always were when he was
interrupted mid-piece.
He jerked and
pulled his bow away from the strings. “What’s wrong?”
She shook her
head, swiping away some of the tears, suddenly embarrassed for no good reason.
Obviously, her
wordless lie didn’t convince him. He surged to his feet, carefully set his
cello aside, and strode over to where she stood.
“Why are you
crying?” he demanded, his eyes scrutinizing her face and then every detail of
her appearance.
Her dark hair
was still wet from the shower, so she’d pulled it into two long braids. She
wore baggy sweats that swallowed her small form, and she knew her face was too
pale.
“I thought you
had a date tonight,” he said, very slowly.
“I did.” She
tried to sound natural but failed miserably. Her voice cracked on the last
word.
Something
fierce blazed in his eyes, turning them from almost silver to steel gray. “What
did he do to you? Tell me his name.”
“No. It wasn’t
like that. He didn’t do anything.”
“Something
happened. You look like you’re going to fall over.” He put a hand on her back
and urged her over to the old couch. “Sit down.”
When she
lowered herself gingerly, he closed and locked the practice room door and went
over to grab a bottle of water from the floor near his backpack.
He handed it to
her, and she obediently took a swig. He’d already drunk from the bottle, but
they’d been sharing drinks for years.
“Now tell me
what happened.”
“Nothing.” When
he started to object, she hurried on. “Nothing big or serious. Really. I just
had a date.”
“And what happened
at the end of the date?” He’d obviously put some of the pieces together already.
“We went to my
room to have sex.”
The words were
supposed to be casual, matter-of-fact, but they sounded so horrible that she
squeezed her eyes shut and shook a few times.
“Did he hurt
you, Marissa?”
She couldn’t
speak for a minute, couldn’t breathe, but she shook her head rapidly as an
answer.
“He
did
hurt you.” Caleb was getting tense again. She could sense it in his body rather
than see it.
He did
everything—play the cello, drive his car, chase women, be her friend—with a
passionate ferocity that was sometimes overwhelming.
“Not on
purpose,” she choked out, trying to ease the simmering defensiveness she sensed
growing in him. “He didn’t do anything wrong.”
“If it was
hurting you and he didn’t stop when you told him to, then he—”
“No. It wasn’t
like that.”
“But you said—”
“I didn’t tell
him to stop!” A swell of panic and nausea rose inside her again at the memory
of what happened in that bed. “I didn’t tell him.”
The tension in
Caleb’s body let down all at once, and he groaned softly, reaching an arm out
to pull her against his side. “Damn it, Marissa. Why the hell not?”
She leaned
against his warm body, feeling almost safe for the first time all evening.
He might be
intense and complicated and incapable of settling into any sort of stable life,
but he was the best friend she had.
“I don’t know,”
she admitted, pressing her face against his t-shirt as she answered his
question. “I just wanted to do it. Get it over with.”
“You were a
virgin?”
She shifted
slightly. She and Caleb talked about everything in the world.
Except sex.
Her cheeks
started to burn. “Yes.”
“He wasn’t…he
wasn’t gentle with you?”
“He wasn’t
rough or mean or anything. He was just
into
it. And I wasn’t.”
She hadn’t even
begun to get into the sex. The kissing had been fine, but as it got more
intimate, she’d experienced increasing waves of anxiety, nausea, and disgust
that she’d fought desperately to ignore.
Instead of
thinking about the guy she was with, she’d only been able to think about nights
as a little girl, trying to sleep with a pillow over her head so she wouldn’t
hear what her babysitter was doing in the other room. Horrible, dirty things.
Night after
night after night.
“I mean, it’s
ridiculous,” she continued, suddenly angry at herself for letting something so
long ago still affect her. “I’m eighteen. I should be able to have sex without
having a breakdown.”