Haze (9 page)

Isla

"Your grandmother would have been so proud of you tonight, Isla." Davis wraps his arm around my shoulder as we exit the concert hall. "I wish she could have been here to see you."

I smile at his gentle words. My grandma's death has been difficult on Davis too. He'd known her since he was a kid first learning to play the cello.

After her retirement, she'd become one of the most beloved private music teachers in Chicago. Her schedule was always full, a smile permanently on her face. Music was her passion and she'd passed that, and many other things, on to me.

"She would have been so proud of you too." I tap his hand. "You are one of her greatest success stories."

"Me?" He takes a step back to nudge his father's elbow. "Did you hear that, dad? Isla is singing my praises again."

I laugh out loud.

"I'm going to miss you like crazy when you go to Israel." I close my eyes, trying to curb my emotions. "Who is going to call me late at night to ask if I've practiced?"

His smile brightens. "I'm going to call you every day and you're going to keep practicing. Not that you need to practice. You were the star of the show tonight, Isla."

"I have nothing on them." I motion towards the main stage. Watching the Philharmonic perform tonight had been our gift for volunteering to be part of the benefit arts' event. Along with a classical guitarist, a pianist and a horn duo, we agreed to participate as a way to showcase young talent.

When Davis got the call asking our quartet to take part, he didn’t hesitate to say yes. It's not only an amazing opportunity; it's also our last chance to perform together. The new cellist, a woman slightly older than me, will step into his place late next month when we are booked for a dedication ceremony at city hall.

"You're going to be on that stage one day." Davis looks down at the worn violin case in my hands. "I'll be sitting front and center watching."

"We both will," Mr. Benoit says through a smile. "It's your birthday tomorrow, isn't it, Isla? Let's go for a drink. It's my treat. It's not every day that you turn twenty-one."

I should point out that I'm not going to be twenty-one for another hour and I left my fake ID at home. In fact, I haven't used it since that night at Skyn. I'm still debating whether I'll ever go back there.

"I think I'll just head home." I look back at the now vacant concert hall. I had hoped to see Mr. Foster again but that hasn't happened.

"There's a car for us to use." Davis raises both brows. "It's mainly so I can take my cello back to my hotel."

"Fancy," I drawl. "I have to carry this with me on the bus."

"You'll come with us." Davis extends his hand towards me. "We'll drop you on our way."

"That won't be necessary." I hear the unmistakable growl of Gabriel Foster's voice just as his hand touches the small of my back. "I'll be taking Isla home."

***

I look at the back of the seat in front of me yet again. The driver had placed my violin case on the front passenger seat before he held the back door open for me.

"I'm guarding it with my life, Isla." Mr. Foster's smile is soft and inviting. "It's a treasure. I had no idea you played the violin."

I had no idea he'd insist that I accept his offer for a ride home.

At first, I refused, telling him that I wanted to spend time with Davis before he moves, but he'd been charming as he persisted. I'd finally agreed when I saw Davis giving me a thumbs-up behind Mr. Foster's back. He may think that the man has ulterior motives for inviting me into the backseat of his chauffeur driven sedan, but I know better. He's curious about my music. It caught him off guard.

"You're remarkable." He presses a button on a console in front of us that brings up a barrier of privacy glass separating us from the driver. "How long have you played?"

"Forever," I say honestly. "I've been playing most of my life."

"You studied violin?"

"I took music classes," I go on quickly, "general music classes that all kids take in school but it was my grandmother who taught me."

"Your grandmother?" His dark eyes slide over my face. "She's a music teacher?"

I rake my hand through my hair before I scratch my chin. "My grandmother was the most talented violinist in the world. She ended her career in Chicago. She taught music after that until..."

He adjusts himself on the seat, bending his knee so he's facing me. "Is she gone, Isla? You speak as though she's passed away."

I bite my lower lip. I don't have this conversation willingly with anyone. The pain of her death might not be as raw as it was the morning I found her in her bed cold and unmoving, but it's still a loss I'll never get over. "Yes, sir. She died."

"I'm sorry to hear that." He reaches down to touch my hand.

I stare at his hand, marveling in how large it is compared to mine. "Thank you, Mr. Foster. I appreciate that."

"Gabriel." He runs his index finger over the top of my hand. "I'd prefer if you called me Gabriel."

The feeling of his finger tracing a path over my skin gives me goosebumps. The sound of his voice touches me in a way that is both unnerving and arousing. "Gabriel. I'll call you Gabriel."

"I'm the first to admit that I have no musical talent at all. My brother inherited all the talent in our family."

"You mean Asher?" I ask without thinking. "Of course you mean Asher. He's everywhere right now."

"He's in Tokyo, right now, on tour." His mouth twitches. "I'm still adjusting to my youngest brother being a rock star."

"I think he's incredibly talented," I offer. "I love his music. I listen to it all the time."

He slides one of his hands over the seat back behind my head, the other jumps to the black leather on the seat next to me caging me in. He's so close that I can smell the scent of his cologne. "Tell me about your birthday, Isla. I heard your friends mention it tonight. What does a woman like you have planned for such a special day?"

I peer out the tinted window at the streets of Manhattan. It's near midnight but the city is still alive. People are walking along the sidewalks, taxis and cars are speeding past us as we drive towards my apartment. "I haven't thought about it."

"There must be something special you'd enjoy? Perhaps an experience you've never had before."

I turn quickly to look at him.

"A woman your age should be experiencing new things." His hand leaves the seat; trailing a slow path up my arm towards my shoulder before it reaches my chin. "The city is filled with many possibilities."

I feel a flush of desire race up my neck. I swallow hard trying to chase away the lump that is there in my throat. Even if I wanted to respond, I doubt that any sound that escapes me right now would resemble anything other than a deep and uncontrollable moan.

The car lurches to a stop but I'm so mesmerized by the way he's looking at me that I don't move an inch. I don't want to. I've never been this close to a man like this and I've definitely never had a man look at me the way he is right now.

"You're home." He leans in closer. "Let me be the first to wish you a happy birthday."

I catch my breath as his head dips towards me. I moan faintly and just as I begin to close my eyes, I feel his lips brush against my cheek.

"Happy Birthday, Isla," he says in a whisper against my skin. "May it be the best year of your life."

Gabriel

Her skin smells like perfection. I linger once I've kissed her cheek, knowing that I need to step out of the car so I can walk her into the building.

We're still, so still. Her breathing is ragged and fast. My lips still resting against her, my hands fisted in a visible sign of the internal struggle I'm fighting.

I want her.

I want to kiss her beautiful lips.

I want to fuck her sweet, lush body.

"Mr. Foster." Her voice is so soft that I can barely hear her. "Gabriel, please."

Please
.

Her hand moves from her lap to my forearm. She grips the material of my jacket in her fist before she releases it. I tremble as I feel it move up my bicep, my shoulder and then finally, it rests against the back of my neck.

It's an invitation; just as the sound of her breathing is. Just as the movement of her thighs against the leather, as she parts them a touch, is.

Her hand glides higher, stopping as it reaches the base of my hair. Her fingers float along my skin, softly, so softly.

"Please." It's my voice this time. I don't beg. I won't beg.

Fuck it. I will beg for her.

Her hand knots in the bottom of my hair as she arches her neck, slides her lips along my cheek and finally, finally I taste her on my mouth.

I groan into the kiss as her soft lips push into mine. I slide my tongue into her mouth, wanting to savor her in any way I can.

My reward is the sweetest of moans along with the faint sound of her moving on the leather seat of the car.

I tug her into my lap so she's facing me, her thighs straddling mine. I hear my phone ringing in the distance. It's not important. It can't be important. Nothing is as important as this.

She adjusts herself, grinding into my erection through my pants. My chest heaves at the sensation. I've never come just from the stimulation of a woman's body or hands on my cock. It's always taken a greedy mouth or a slick pussy to get me off. I've never orgasmed like this, yet now, I know that I could.

I feel I might if she doesn't stop moving.

"Isla." I run my hands up her thighs, pushing the skirt of her dress higher. "Your skin is so soft."

My phone rings again. This time the brittle bite of it halts her movements.

"It might be important." Her breath touches my lips in the instant before her lips do.

I shake my head gripping her thighs tighter. She pushes her panties into my crotch, circling, baiting, wanting.

"You're a beautiful woman," I whisper as I look down at her thighs. "Every part of you is beautiful."

Her breath hitches as I push the dress even higher, revealing the sheer black panties she's wearing.

"Jesus, Isla." I move my left hand, inching it up her thigh.

A brash knock on the privacy glass startles her so much she leans back almost tumbling from my lap. My hands jump to her waist, pulling her into my chest.

"What?" I bark. "What is it, Charles?"

The glass lowers not more than an inch. "Mr. Foster, I apologize."

My phone rings again. I look down at where it's vibrating in the inner pocket of my jacket. "What's going on, Charles? I assume your interruption is related to these incessant calls."

"It's your mother, sir," he says loudly. His voice tempered by the glass. "She's been taken to the hospital."
 

***

I step into the Emergency Department and I'm immediately overcome with a sense of impending doom. There are no reporters demanding a statement. I didn't pass one photographer in the lobby trying to gain access to my mother's room.

This is the third time this year that my mother has complained of chest pains. Each of the previous two times, she had on full makeup when she arrived via ambulance. It hadn't taken more than an hour for the doctors to determine that it was anxiety causing her discomfort.

I found out later, much later, that she'd arranged for the press to be there both times. It was sympathy she was looking for. It was a thinly veiled plan to catapult her name back into the spotlight, and my father's view, for a time.

"Ben," I call out my cousin's name as I see him standing next to a nurse. "It's mother. She was brought in."

"Gabriel." He shoves the tablet in his hand at the nurse before he walks towards me. "We've been waiting for you."

I don't hesitate as he hugs me, tightly. We haven't always been close but that's changed since he mended fences with his twin brother, Noah. Ben had pulled away from the family after his mother's death and we lost touch. Now that he's in New York and working as the head of the Emergency Department at one of the city's busiest hospitals, I see him regularly. We've forged a friendship that has been good for us both.

"How is she?" I hear the tremble in my own voice as I pat the side of his cheek. "I tried calling Caleb on the way here but he wasn't answering.
He rests his hand on my back. "We're running tests. Caleb and Rowan are with her. I'll take you to them."

Tests.
The word itself doesn't define a thing. She's had tests before and each time the results have been the same. She's anxious. She gets worked up. She demands attention.

"Did anyone call Asher?" Her voice is the first thing I hear when I push the blue curtain separating her cubicle from others aside. "Will he come? Is he coming to see me?"

Caleb is sitting in a plastic chair, drawn close to the bed. Rowan, still in the silver sheath dress she wore earlier, is standing behind him, her hands resting on his shoulders.

"He can't right now, Gianna," she says quietly. "I told him we'll call him once we know more."

"I want to speak to him." Her voice quivers. "Can someone get him on the phone?"

I step forward, not only to answer her question, but to relieve my brother from his post. "I'm here. I came when I heard."

Her eyes drift lazily over my face, never stopping to acknowledge my presence. "If you tell Asher I need him, he'll come."

"Tell me how you're feeling, Mother." I pat Caleb on the shoulder signaling for him to move. "I'll sit with you now."

"Her blood pressure spiked." Rowan glances at me. "She was having trouble breathing. I was in the kitchen making her a coffee and Caleb was changing in the bedroom. I heard her fall."

"She went home with you?" I ask with a cock of my brow. My mother has a suite at the hotel the company owns in midtown. It's a private space dedicated just to her for when she's in New York.

Caleb squeezes my shoulder. "I thought it best. I was hoping we could both speak with her in the morning together about the latest development with dad."

I cast my gaze down at the bed. It's obvious that this is more than an anxiety attack. The color has drained completely from her face. She's visibly shaking.

"Are you alright?" I lean down to kiss her forehead. "What happened? Did you feel faint?"

Her bottom lip quivers slightly before her eyes settle on Caleb and then me. "He called when I stepped into the powder room."

I take a deep breath, understanding now. She knows. Father called to tell her.

"I think my heart is broken." Her hand, with a tube attached to administer an IV, rests in the middle of her chest. "He loves someone else. He's never going to love me again."