Access Restricted (The Access Series) Read online

  Access Restricted

  * * *

  Alice Severin

  own room publishing

  Copyright © Alice Severin 2013

  Cover photo copyright © Alice Severin

  ISBN: 978-0-9882520-8-0

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction.

  The names, characters, places, and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events is purely coincidental.

  To J with love

  To S for listening

  To S for being there

  To A for sticking around

  To RP for restoring faith

  And to all the musicians who inspire us.

  Chapter 1

  The day before you fly transatlantic, the day before you leave a country, is always somewhat difficult. What to bring, what to leave behind. You begin thinking of who and what you will miss, and what would happen if you never came back. You realize you do feel at home, and you suddenly don’t want to leave. Then there are those moments where you want to go right away, stop waiting and fearing and anticipating and just get the fuck on with it.

  This wasn’t just a holiday though. I was flying out to work. Lily Taylor, the rock writer. I wasn’t at the point where the hotel reservation needed to be under a different name, but the printout I’d been given by the office did say VIP. Flying out to cover a concert that would kick off a tour. To do interviews for the possible documentary and book. And then there was Tristan—the reason that all this was happening. Tristan Hunter, the legend in his own time, as much for his inescapable talent as for the stories that followed him. The first band, the worldwide success, the corrosive break up. His disappearance, and now his return to the stage. He had played with some of the most respected names in the business, and in a few short years had written some songs that were already considered classics, reinventing a style that everyone tried to copy. Now the music business would be watching to see if he could stay at the top, or if he stumbled. And then there was the man himself. 6'2", dark hair, long legs, a rock legend in leather, with a stare that could make you want, hard, or make you back out of the room, nervously, sorry to have bothered him. Tristan in charge. Tristan organizing the first part of his tour. Tristan, the rock star, the enigma, the man I had been warned about and who I had tried to resist—with little success. The tall, darkly powerful presence who I had given myself over to, against my own better judgment. And now he held the key to my professional future. Too bad I was falling in love with him. Nothing professional about that.

  I’d followed him and his music for years now. I’d met him, briefly, drunkenly, at an awards show. That moment had turned out to be the turning point in my career—the moment when blogging and turning up had paid off, and suddenly what I loved doing I could do full time. But the big adventure had started with me falling over on my face right in front of two of my musical heroes. Tristan had picked me up and looked at me, and I’d felt something—a force, some kind of power that swept right through, filling me with an energy that made everything seem possible.

  The next time I’d met him, five years later, was different. I was sent to interview him. I was nervous, but I’d done this before. I was a professional. I was used to being up close and personal with the rock world and its big, egotistical stars. “Laughing, joking, drinking, smoking,” just like the old Yardbirds song. Except Tristan was different. He didn’t just play with his power, he controlled it. And I wasn’t prepared for the effect proximity to his complicated beauty had on me. I wasn’t prepared for the look in his eyes, curious and gentle and hard all at once. I wasn’t ready for the way his lips brushed my ear telling me it would all be all right. I tried to fight back but struggling only made it worse. And by the time he started playing his new music for me, all my guards were down. I’d like to think he wasn’t really prepared for the effect I had on him either. There was something there. There must have been. Because Tristan and I met up, privately, a few days later, and the rest, as they say, is history.

  And now here we were, trying to negotiate our way through our careers and nasty gossip, trying to figure out just how casual we wanted to keep all this. Initially, Tristan wanted us at a distance, possibly to protect us both. But apparently that was all changing. The text, that simple text he had sent me. We were going to know each other publicly. He was going to send a car for me at the airport, to meet me when I landed in London. My old hometown. My old stomping grounds, where everything of significance in my life had happened—except for this. What would it all mean? I had no idea. This was his big chance at a comeback. But this was also my lucky break for the big career path. I was going to interview the people from his past—people over there who had been instrumental in breaking his first band, Devised. People he’d been close to. People who knew his secrets. Except no one knew about me. I was still a dirty little secret, and likely to remain that way. It was probably for the best, I thought, thinking of the warnings my extremely powerful boss had given me.

  The boss. Dave, David Fanning. The impeccably dressed, educated, slightly cold, very wealthy man, who could have been anything, but chose to be the editor and publisher of the most influential music magazine out there, The Core. He was the Anna Wintour of the music world—if he ran something, if he put you on the cover, you were made. That was it. You’d gotten the nod. And not only was I writing the article about the musician he now wanted the world to notice, he seemed to be taking notice of me as well. Our dinner together was tonight, and his words to me made it clear that he wasn’t thinking of me solely as a writer. No one says they want to take you to dinner in that way because they think you’d make a great friend. I felt like a confused teenager. I had two invitations to the same party, and I was in danger of losing both. If I were smart, I’d follow the money. Too bad I’d never been that smart.

  Still, I seemed to be clever enough to have said yes to dinner. And it would be a nice dinner. Expensive, elegant, cool. There wasn’t that same spark between us, not like the insane burning I felt when I was anywhere near Tristan. Nowhere near. But curiosity could and would have to make up the difference, if it came to that. If. I tried to ignore the sudden twist in my stomach that came when I thought of Tristan pushing me out of his life. Don’t predict the worst, I thought. I hated wanting something that much. I really hated it. All that desire left you vulnerable and easily damaged. And I wasn’t sure I could take any more damage. In that at least, I suspected Tristan and I were more alike than either of us realized. But we were both trapped in our own game, our own way of viewing the world, and our own ways of coping with it. The risks of really opening the door were so high. Still, there was something there. He had searched me out, worried about me, taken the time to make sure his plans and mine coincided. I had a vision of him at that concert, steady on his long legs, standing on the stage, covered in smooth leather that seemed to move on him like a second skin, revealing more of what lay underneath in quick flashes, as his muscles flexed with the music. And then the reality of his bare skin, pale, hard, soft, shockingly real, as he stood over me…

  I shoved that thought away, adding the slow burn I felt to the last hundred times I’d thought of him and what we had done together, and let the feeling melt through my body. I leaned on the dresser and closed my eyes. Too late now. All the images were rushing back at me. Tristan in the bath, dripping wet and hard, the veins in his body standing out from the heat of the water. Tristan standing over me, his big hands undoing his jeans slowly, pulling himself free, teasing my mouth with just the tip. His face, closed off and hard, when I ran from him. His arms wrapped around me, soot
hing me with little touches, whispering in my ear, how well I’d done, how sweet I was, little words that could mean nothing but that he filled with sound and tone, that voice wrapping around each syllable, his heartbeat strong against mine.

  I shut my eyes. It seemed like a dream. It was a dream. Except there was the bruise just below my neck where he’d licked and teased me, running a path from breast to ear until I no longer recognized my voice. There was the number in my phone, under “control,” of which I had none, clearly, where he was concerned. And there was the car, thoughtfully sent by Dave, my boss, the head of the Core empire, which was going to take me out to the airport tomorrow evening. The e-ticket was printed out and in my bag. Business class, JFK to London Heathrow. Seven, nearly eight hours in the sky, drinking champagne, keeping my cool, staring at the stars. Then, on the other side, another car, this one sent by Tristan.

  And then the fun would begin.

  Chapter 2

  8:00 p.m. came around, much more quickly than usual, mostly because I wasn’t counting the hours down. And at this point, I was exhausted, really exhausted. All the thinking, all the figuring out, the hours of intense sex. Yes, that might have had something to do with it. But I was trying to push all that to the back of my mind. Now I was looking forward to what could turn out to be a pleasant enough evening. Dave was an interesting person, obviously. I’d always known that. Still, I wondered what we’d talk about and if I was allowed to ask the boss questions. I laughed, as I screwed the top of the mascara back on, and appraised myself in the mirror. After last night, was there anything I wasn’t allowed to do? Only the things he tells you not to do, a familiar voice echoed in my head.

  I bent down and stretching out my hands on the floor, I felt the burn in my muscles and on my skin. One minute of memory, that’s it. Then all business. Thinking about his instructions, his huge hands on me, his tongue playing with me…oh god. Ok. Enough. I ran my fingers through my hair, and rolled up to a standing position, feeling slightly dizzy. Even the smallest thought of him acted on me like a drug. I held on to the edge of the old pine dresser, and clung to the soft wood until the feeling passed. The rush faded away, leaving that ache that I knew I’d see mirrored in my eyes, if I bothered to look. I watched my chest rise and fall with my breathing and tried to slow it all down. Better. I was ready.

  I pulled on my jacket, and grabbed my bag. I didn’t leave Alice, my roommate, a note. I’d decided there was no point in leaving her with written evidence of what I was doing. In fact, this was a perfect opportunity to cover my tracks. I could always say I had been out with Dave, and I wouldn’t be lying. Besides, when did it become any of her business? Alice had drifted to the periphery of my worried mind, especially now that I knew I was about to have a lot more people looking at what I was doing. Rumors, though. I wondered if Alice was out in the bars, adding me to Tristan’s history. I really needed more information. It would be safer to know more of what was going on out there, before some slinky blond chick in London spelled it out for me, while I tried to hide my surprise, or worse, my jealousy. Dave alluding to the gossip around Tristan made me curious. Even if I was sure I’d regret knowing.

  I walked downstairs, and waited outside. I couldn’t sit still anyway. As I saw the town car turn the corner and make its way to the front of the building, it occurred to me that Dave didn’t mind picking me up in front of my building. No hiding there. Of course, darling, I thought, it’s unlikely you’d be rubbing yourself on him like a cat in the back of the limo, either. He didn’t strike me as the type. Most guys didn’t really like the kink. They said they did, but what they really wanted, it seemed to me, was someone who would make them believe they were up for anything, while actually having orgasms, faked were fine, on cue was what counted, and most importantly, providing eye candy, meals, and organization.

  I remembered a conversation I had once with an old friend and part time lover, who claimed that no woman had ever faked it with him. I had laughed out loud, in the middle of the restaurant. I had been quite innocently insensitive—then. But I really couldn’t believe he thought that. I had the proof, having just given an Oscar-winning performance the other night. He was distracted, I was tired, he was ready, I wasn’t. Why rock the boat? I didn’t reveal my secret either; I had just laughed. He had been annoyed at me the rest of the evening. Yeah, well reality’s a bitch, isn’t it, I’d said to him. Little had I realized. And I’d never understood, until now, how much it meant to be with someone who understood what was real. Who liked sex. Who saw through all the crap about how to act, how to be. Composing the touches, like music. Tearing down the walls.

  As I climbed into the car, I found it blissfully empty. I didn’t have to make too many awkward comparisons in my head, between Tristan leaning back, hooded eyes and long legs, and Dave, who would be dressed impeccably, if a bit preppy, looking big, warm and comforting. I said hello to the driver, who started heading downtown. Of course. Did anything happen uptown anymore? I hadn’t even asked where we were going. I sat back against the seats, cracked the window for a bit of fresh air, and closed my eyes. I still felt a bit disoriented. I had made myself eat some toast when I got home from the meeting. Sorting out London, and my place in it. Did we just meet this morning? Incredible. But once away from the adrenaline, I’d thought I was going to faint. And I was still slightly lightheaded from not eating, the tension. Things were speeding up, so quickly. Racing against time and logic. I opened my eyes at the red light, and looked out the window. 8:00 p.m. Was Tristan on the plane? Was he thinking of me? I closed my eyes again. I didn’t want this. I’d sent a one word reply to his text that told me he’d send a car to meet me in London, deciding on “yes” again. “Yes” had worked before, all too well. And I thought it seemed cautiously hopeful. Cautious was all I wanted to be, even if it was too late for that. But I couldn’t let go of the hope, stupid as it seemed.

  I checked my lipstick and hair as the car slowed down. We turned down East Fifth Street, and stopped in front of the plain storefront, name printed in modern font down the side of the door, like a book. Jewel Bako. Well, it wasn’t new, but it was supposed to be good. I wondered what happened to the other place. This one was a see and be seen night out, with excellent food. I reminded myself to be grateful. This was a perk, not a punishment.

  I got out, thanked the driver, and walked towards the door. Thresholds. I presumed Dave would be waiting inside, and I gave his name to the hostess, who immediately became much more welcoming. She led me through the tunnel-like restaurant. The walls were covered in a kind of bleached bamboo, like a glowing cave, and the whole thing made me slightly claustrophobic. I thought of airplane fuselages, and seats, and people taking off, and dark eyes looking out on to darkening skies. I brushed the image aside in favor of a smile and the thought of hot sake awaiting me. That cheered me up somewhat. The restaurant was already filled with diners, mostly expensively dressed couples, and the noise level was loud, but toned down, unlike some of the New York restaurants I’d been in, where the volume seemed in proportion to the buzz they were trying to create. I really didn’t like places like that.

  I was pleasantly surprised to see Dave sitting at the sushi bar, chatting to the chef, and a flask of hot sake in front of him. Excellent. No angst, just conversation. Some drinks. Great food. An early night.

  The hostess led me right to the chair, and smiled and bowed to Dave. He slipped her a tip, and she bowed again, and pulled out my chair. He leapt up, and took over, but not before kissing me on each cheek. I closed my eyes, then opened them again quickly, just in time to see his perfectly trimmed short sideburns and immaculately shaved and moisturized skin up close. He was the visual definition of a high powered media exec. The leather jacket, buttery and expensive. Probably Burberry. The perfectly fitted jeans, fashionable without being sexy. The bespoke shirt. The hint of woody and exotic scent. If they distilled money, that’s what he smelled like. A leather wallet and new bills. No want. No emptiness. I kissed the air next to him
. When did we all become so Parisian?

  “Lily, so glad you could make it. Here, let me take your coat.” And he swept it off my shoulders, and handed it to a server who had miraculously appeared out of nowhere. “Would you like some sake?”

  “Yes, please, Dave. Thank you for inviting me.” I sank down into the chair, and watched him pour out a small cup for me, and refill his own. Ah, so it was going to be like that, was it? I looked into his eyes for a moment. Game on.

  “No, pleasure. I’m glad this has given us the opportunity to get to know each other better.” He smiled, and he raised his cup. “To our mutual success.” He winked at me, and drank off half of it. I buried my nose in the cup and breathed in. Ah, sweet oblivion. I kept myself from downing it in one go, and tried to be ladylike about it.

  “I’ve ordered the Omakase dinner for us. Is there anything you don’t particularly like, so I can inform the chef?” He looked concerned again. Could he really be trying to impress me? Yes, and doing a good job of it—mostly by not insulting my intelligence by asking if I knew what it meant.

  “No, I do like most things.” I paused and thought. Demands are good. “Actually, now that you mention it,” I tried to sound as though I had just remembered, “I’m not a big fan of sea urchin, sadly. I’ve tried to like it, but it just doesn’t do it for me.” I smiled, hoping for a mix of apologetic and imperious.

  “Of course.” He turned to the chef, who was instantly there, attentive. He spoke a few words in Japanese, and nodded at me. I nodded back, impressed in spite of myself. Just because it was a music magazine he headed up, didn’t mean he wasn’t a CEO in every sense of the word. I tried to remember what I knew about him. Harvard, wasn’t it? Rhodes Scholar? Peace Corps stint? Some heroic moment, followed by a year following the Dead. Writing. Management. Meteoric rise due to obvious talent, background and his adept handling of situations.