Blue Notes (12 page)

“Yes,” I gasp. “Yes, Jude.
Please
.”

He settles his thigh between my legs and sets up a hard, quick rhythm. The rough material of the jeans rubs where I’m throbbing and restless. I wiggle and twist. He makes the quietest grunts with each thrust. I want them louder. I want him out of control too, but I’m too far gone for that. I dig my fingernails into his sides and catch sight of his wide, awed eyes just before I kiss him, deep, demanding—just before the entire evening explodes.

I think I just had my first orgasm.

 Seventeen 

I
don’t know how he did it, but Jude didn’t make me feel embarrassed after that moment when the sexiest man I’ve ever met made me feel . . .
womanly
. If he could do that with hot kisses and a hand over my jeans, what could he do with the whole deal? We talked a lot about things that still burn so hot that I can’t think about them for long. He was already the sun, too bright, even though I’ve never seen him in daylight. Now he wants to show me how to have sex, make love, fuck, shag, rut, couple—pick a term—for the first time. Which would it be for us?

I think I’m trying to intentionally shock myself so I’ll back out. It doesn’t work.

It’s not like I’ve ever been in a rush to lose my virginity. More like it would happen when it’d happen. Maybe that’s why Jude’s proposition holds so much appeal. I don’t like when things
just happen
. That strikes too close to the way I was once forced to live—day to day, place to place, hand to mouth. I enjoyed the predictability of high school, and I’m really getting into my routine here at Tulane.

Mostly I love the beauty of the patterns I find in playing piano. That’s all there is to it, really. Find the patterns and the music follows. It has structure, rules, order. Probably the most spontaneous thing I’ve ever done was perform at Yamatam’s. That was
such
a challenge. It’s almost made my stage fright worse. But I know what it’s like now—terrifying and thrilling and completely unscripted. The “thrilling” part was great. Whether it was enough to overcome the rest . . . I’ll have to work on that.

The idea of making love with Jude holds a similar sort of stage fright feeling. It would be terrifying, daring, and
way
beyond thrilling. Only, his proposition has the best of both worlds. We’d have rules and even something as unsexy as a plan, but individual encounters could be spontaneous. Freedom with safety. It’s too good to be true, but too good to pass up.

Especially after how amazing he made me feel—like there was a spotlight behind my eyes and hot honey in my veins, until wow, nothing remained but sensation.

He’s going to teach me how to make love the Jude Villars way. And I’m going to let him.

Only a few problems stand in the way.

The first is Janissa. She’s worried. I get that. She was up till all hours waiting for me to call, which made me feel ridiculous and really uncaring. I floated in at something close to three. She was still half awake, on her bed in her pajamas, with a chem text over her chest as if it constituted a little light evening reading. I had to gloss over too much, which only led to more questions and more worry on her part. I think it would’ve been easier, in hindsight, to just say,
He gave me my first orgasm and he’s taking me out on Monday
.

Eh, hindsight.

The second is Brandon. I’ll skip that one for now. The Saturday night date he asked for is still not a done deal, not for me, but I think he thinks it is.

The third is Adelaide. You know, for a girl who never had many friends in high school, and even fewer before then, it’s strange to realize that my list is all about people. But how am I going to bond with a girl—or even develop a professional relationship with her—if her brother and I are in the midst of . . . God, I have to come up with a name for it. My initiation?

That’s the catch. If I were dating some guy in the tried and true way, we wouldn’t talk about sex ahead of time. There wouldn’t be a plan of attack or a set of goals. There’d just be moments when things happened, good or bad. How was I supposed to enjoy myself with a grabby guy if it had taken so much effort for Jude to get me to tell him what I wanted?

I don’t want to be one of the dozens of girls I’ve heard say that their first time was terrible or, at best, a disappointment. I want it to be special. And Jude’s going to make it special.

Jude had dropped me off at the residence hall wearing a smile that was nearly contented. “You have to promise,” he said.

“What’s that?”

“You’ll do what I say.”

“How’s that gonna work?”

His grin had deepened. He ran a hand over his nape, then adjusted my wide neckline. “Let’s just say there will be plenty of opportunities for you to use your imagination. It’s too good to ignore. But you’ll have to trust me with the rest. Can you do that?”

So I promised. Spontaneity within the framework of his experience, and now it was a matter of strapping into the roller coaster and enjoying the thrill. I won’t think of it as anything more than a great, exciting adventure—one I’ve never thought of as
me
. Apparently I’ve been craving this, more than words or even stray feelings would let me admit. I know it’s all still a game to him. Forget a one night stand. I’ll be a conquest of a kind. He wants exclusive reign over when, where, and all the other details of how a nice little virgin girl like me gives it up for the first time.

What a rush.

Bring it
, says one part of me.

Holy shit
, says another.

The last and biggest catch is that I can’t concentrate worth a damn. I’m in my sociology class when my professor asks, “Miss Chambers? What do you have to add?”

About . . . ?

Crap.

I glance down at my notes. I scratch out where I’ve written Jude’s name. Just his first name. Just once. I feel like the junior high kid I never got to be, with hearts and flowers doodled on single subject notebooks. This was the first time I’ve gotten to act like a girl with a crush, and it’s damn inconvenient. I’m a college junior, about eight years past when acting like a completely smitten idiot is considered cute. Now it’s just unprofessional.

And dangerous.

Especially when the bad thoughts creep in, thoughts along the lines of . . .
So, how many other girls has he done this with? Is it his thing? He likes to mold some sweet young thing to his liking, take the final prize, make her grovel in thanks for being treated like a princess for a few weeks . . . and then poof ? Bye-bye, Mr. Villars?

I want to stand out. Back to that again: I want to be
memorable
.

Me, the girl who’s done her best to stay hidden for twenty-one years. Memorable to Jude. I have however long this lasts to make sure Jude doesn’t forget me.

Why is that so important? I still don’t get it.

Does it mean I’m tired of hiding? Because, wow, sometimes I really am.

And I still don’t know what Dr. Rivers is talking about.

I take a guess. “I think we’re going about it backward. Military cultures have always had ‘gang signs,’ if you will, that identified them as warriors. Insignias, mottoes, particular songs. Modern gangs with tattoos, and even sexual subcultures with piercings and symbols like cuffs and collars, harken back to tribal times.” Because I’m feeling ballsy—or I don’t care
at all
—I choose to assume I’m talking something other than complete BS. I raise the finger where I wear the Tulane seal. “We all want to feel like we belong.”

“Well stated, Miss Chambers,” the professor says, looking as surprised as impressed. “I look forward to your paper next week.”

Aw, damn.

That’s hours and hours that’ll get in the way of me mooning over Jude and blushing over memories of the previous evening or, hell,
practicing
. God, did he make me feel amazing. Daring. Naughty. Protected. I didn’t think those things could go together, but I’ve never known anyone like Jude.

My rumbling stomach means I forgot to eat breakfast. Mooning takes precedence over self-preservation? That has kinda ominous implications.

Great.

I’m sick in the head. I need a way to turn thoughts of him on and off. Like . . .
off
, until my homework’s done and I’ve been a good roommate to Janissa and I’ve taken care of the basics. Then, once my obligations are done with, I can indulge in every little detail.

The brain doesn’t work that way. The body doesn’t. The heart
really
doesn’t. We’re all grown-up kids, demanding pleasure first.

After class, I check my phone and find a text from Adelaide.
Milkshakes @ Duds? 4pm.

I check the time. I have to hustle to make it from one side of campus to the other, where the union houses a ton of offices, restaurants, computer labs, and shops designed for one of two reasons: to entice the parents of prospective students with sweatshirts and coffee mugs that say they really do belong here in this safe place of learning, and to decorate student dorms. I dash off a text to Janissa, letting her know where I’ll be, because I still feel shitty about not checking in last night.

Only, Adelaide isn’t alone when I find her in Dudley’s, a retro malt and burger joint just off campus. Dr. Saunders is sitting beside her on a red and white–checked bench, but he’s waaay too close for anyone to think they’re just talking about music. Music is passion, sure, but it’s not hand on ass in public. Adelaide has her butt wrapped in a skintight leopard print skirt. The former music director for the Toronto Jazz Orchestra seems to appreciate it. She’s laughing and having a good time, apparently, which makes me wonder why she invited me. Showing off? Daring me to tattle to Jude?

More drama!

I blame computers. By random assignment, some computer stuck me in a dorm room with Janissa, in a building where Brandon lives, and assigned me to mentor one half of the very, very famous Villars siblings. But then, the universe is kinda twisted. No matter what pairings some unseen computer conjured for me, there would’ve been drama. After all, there would’ve been people involved.

Adelaide sees me coming. Her smile brightens. It’s blindingly charming. She uses the same smile on audiences. I’m back to the thought that she’s in performance mode twenty-four seven. Makes me wonder who she really is underneath all the glitter and leopard print. If she’s half as inquisitive as her brother, she’ll wonder the same thing about me.

I reach their table and say hi. Then I extend my hand to the professor. “Hello, Dr. Saunders. Good to see you again.”

“Do I . . . ?”

“Keeley Chambers,” I say. “I’m in your international tonal theory class.”

I know I can be invisible. My skill set, again. That he genuinely doesn’t seem to recognize me must come down to two possibilities: Adelaide has him entirely entranced or, despite having made an effort to be more outgoing here at Tulane, I’m failing miserably.

He clears his throat. I notice that his formerly roaming hands are now in plain sight, palms down on the table.
Nothing to see here. I wasn’t feeling up a student.

I’m on Jude’s side on this one, although to outwardly smack Adelaide on the head with how stupid she’s being—if I had to guess, that’s his approach—isn’t my style. Sideways moves. Small moves. If not invisible, at least semitransparent. I am just here to chat. Adelaide invited me. That means ditching the creep.

“It’s the first week or two,” Dr. Saunders says. “New names and faces. You know how it is.”

“Sure,” I reply, my voice unimpeachably neutral.

“I was just going to head out, Addie. I’ll see you . . .” His voice trails off. He adjusts his tie with agitated hands. “I’ll see you.”

“Yup.” Her drawl is stronger than her brother’s, and her true meaning is hard to read. That one syllable could mean she never wants to see him again, or that their tryst for later that night is still on. No telling.

We watch the professor walk out.

“Sit, Keeley,” Adelaide says, her tone suggesting it wasn’t the first time she’d told me as much.

I take the professor’s place, where the seat is still warm. That squicks me out. I shift uncomfortably. This wasn’t how I pictured meeting her again. There’s no predicting her, and I should know better: there’s no predicting life. Circumstance has made me into a bit of a control freak, which seems the opposite of what needed to happen. “Nurture” should’ve made me more adaptable, not the other way around.

After a waitress takes my order, I ask her the obvious. “Why invite me here if he was going to be hanging around?”

“Going to tell Jude?”

“Not my business. That’s why I’m asking. I don’t want you daring it to become my business.”