Chapter 38 Play for me
I'm five minutes late.
I keep glancing at the dashboard clock, the numbers mocking me. I really should’ve spoken up last night. Should’ve told Bastian not to bother, that I can handle my own schedule, that I’m not some fragile thing that needs adjusting around. Now all I can picture is the entire team standing around, waiting, checking their watches, wondering where the hell I am.
Time just has a way of liquefying when I’m at the retirement home. One minute I’m checking in on Mrs. Alvarez, and the next, an hour has evaporated into stories about the 1970s.
I pull onto the long, winding road that cuts through the golden fields leading to the main distillery building. My eyes narrow as I lean forward, squinting through the windshield.
Even from a distance, I can see him.
It’s pathetic, really....how I’ve become so attuned to the man that I can recognize him just by the set of his shoulders. Firm, broad, and currently vibrating with enough tension to snap a power line.
He’s going at it again. Squared off against another guy in a sharp, dark suit next to his car. I can’t hear a word, but the body language is a universal shout. It’s an argument, ending with Bastian stabbing a finger toward the guy’s chest before spinning on his heel and storming toward the building.
I swallow hard, my grip tightening on the steering wheel. Does the man have a middle gear? It seems his only two settings are "horny" or "outraged," with absolutely no scenic route in between. Either he’s got his hands on me like he’s starving for it, or he looks like he’s two seconds away from burning something to the ground.
I drive the rest of the way up, the gravel crunching under my tires. There's plenty of other spots, but for some reason, I pull right up next to Bastian’s sleek vehicle even though it makes my car look like a salvaged wreck.
The stranger is still there. He’s leaning against the passenger door with his arms crossed, his gaze fixed on the doors where Bastian disappeared. He’s older than Bastian, who according to the internet, is turning thirty in six months. This guy's maybe early forties. Brown hair, a face that looks like it was carved out of granite, and a sternness that feels professional, even in the middle of an argument.
Stupid, uncontrollable thoughts start running through my brain. Who the hell is this? What’s the history? Was I just a front-row witness to a lover’s quarrel? And more importantly, why the fuck do I care?
I cut the engine, the silence of the car suddenly deafening. The guy doesn't even look at me, but I can feel the weight of the air between our two vehicles.
I tighten my grip on my violin case, pulling it from the passenger seat. There’s no logical reason to haul it into a commercial shoot, especially in a place this secure, but leaving it alone in the car feels like leaving a limb behind. I shoulder the strap and shut the door, the thud echoing in the quiet of the parking lot. I start walking, my shoes crunching on the gravel, and as I pass Bastian’s car, I can’t help it, I sneak one last look at the guy.
He’s already staring at me.
It’s not a casual "who’s this?" glance. It’s a heavy, anatomical assessment. It hits me weirdly...the way his eyes lock onto mine. They're dark and cold, looking at me with an intensity that makes my skin itch. It isn’t dislike, not exactly, but there’s a distinct layer of disapproval there. It’s evaluative. Like he’s sizing me up in real time, running through some mental checklist, and whatever conclusion he’s landing on, he doesn’t seem to like it. A faint, uneasy feeling curls low in my stomach
Still, I tip my head in a sharp, practiced movement. "Hello," I say, my voice level and dry. I don't wait for a reply, I keep my stride long, my eyes fixed on the glass doors of the building.
"Hello, Kaden."
The voice is cultured and perfectly calm. I nearly trip over my own feet. The sound of my name coming from this complete stranger, especially one who was just going rounds with Bastian, is like a cold hand on the back of my neck. I don’t turn around, don’t react, but my brain does. How the hell does he know my name? For a split second, I consider turning back and asking. Does he work for the firm? Or is he just another one of Bastian’s "fixers"?
But the clock in my head is still ticking. Five minutes late has already turned into six, I don't turn back. I just keep walking, my heart thudding against the violin case, the weight of his gaze burning a hole between my shoulder blades until the doors hiss open and swallow me whole.
The shoot is staged in a cavernous, high-ceilinged room on the first floor. I’m cutting around the corner toward the stairs, half-focused on not being any more late than I already am, when a hand grabs me.
Hard.
It slams firmly to the center of my chest, pulling then shoving me back until my case hits the drywall with a muffled thud. My eyes fly wide, my breath hitching as I instinctively clutch the strap of my violin case like a shield.
Bastian is inches away. He’s caging me in with a weight that makes the air feel dangerously thin. He doesn’t look like the man who was spiraling in the alleyway last night. My grip tightens instinctively on the strap, my brain scrambling to catch up while my eyes flick over him....his face, his mouth, the perfect way his suit clings to him. He smirks like he’s been waiting for this. “Thought I felt you somewhere nearby,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough enough to drag. It's a vibrating rasp that settles right in my gut.
I blink, my heart doing a frantic tap-dance against his palm. I'm still catching my breath. “What are you, Spider-Man or some shit?”
That earns a quiet chuckle from him, the sound slipping out like he actually enjoys this. His eyes darken as he leans in until our noses are almost touching. He flickers his gaze down to his fly for a fraction of a second before locking back onto my eyes. "Not exactly. But I definitely get a tingling feeling down there when you’re within ten feet of me. My skin starts humming when you're close, Kaden. It’s getting bothersome."
I scoff, shaking my head, but my throat is dry. I swallow hard, my eyes darting down the empty hallway. "I’m late. Everyone's waiting." I bring my hands up, pressing them against his shoulders to push him back. It’s a half-hearted effort, lacking any real bite, and we both know it. "Someone could see."
"See what?" he asks, his smirk widening, all arrogant and lethal.
"Move," I push again. This time he takes a single, mocking step back, giving me just enough room to breathe. I take the chance to actually look at him. There’s a hollow exhaustion carved into the skin beneath his eyes, faint but there. Not in a casual, long-day kind of way. It’s almost like he hasn’t slept, like something’s been wearing at him from the inside out. I frown slightly without meaning to. And for a dumb second, I almost ask.
But then my brain kicks back in.
"I have to go," I mutter, gesturing toward the stairs. "They’re expecting me."
He gives a small, indifferent shrug. "Who's stopping you?"
I blink at him, give him one more wary once-over, and turn to leave. I’ve taken exactly two steps when his voice stops me again.
"Play something for me."
I stop, frowning as I look back over my shoulder. "What?"
He gestures vaguely to the case strapped to my back. "Once you wrap up the shoot. Come play for me."
I let out a sharp, cynical scoff. "Sorry, I only play for people I like. It’s a very exclusive guest list."
He tilts his head, his expression shifting into something dangerously playful. "So you go around kissing and making out with people you dislike? That's a really fascinating hobby, Kaden. A bit masochistic, don't you think?"
I whip around, my face heating up as I frantically scan the hallway. "Shut up," I hiss, my voice a panicked stage-whisper. "Anyone could've heard that."
He smiles, clearly enjoying the way I’m unraveling. He takes a slow step forward, his eyes fixed on mine. “You owe me,” he says quietly. “Remember?”
The memory flashes behind my eyes. Him, right there, right on the edge...gasping. Me stopping and walking away. I shove it down, hard.
"You want me to pay you?" he asks, his voice dropping into that smooth, 'corporate-negotiator' tone that makes everything sound like a transaction. "Name the price. Cash? Something flashy and expensive?" He pauses, his gaze dropping to my mouth. "My cock?"
"Wow," I mouth, shaking my head at the sheer audacity of the man. "I have a job to get to," I mutter, turning my back on him for good this time. I head for the stairs and don't look back, but I can feel his eyes on me.
It's a heavy, localized heat that stays with me all the way to the styling room.