23. Niles

Chapter twenty-three

Niles

D inner was fabulous. The rich flavors of the moussaka danced across my tongue. Heavenly. Better than Koa’s, but I would never admit that to my best friend, who enjoyed cooking every ethnic dish imaginable.

August had been quiet through the meal. I caught him staring more than once, an expression of perplexity altering his features. Our undefined relationship had grown complex over the past two weeks, and I could no longer categorize our liaison as casual. I could no longer look upon August without wondering about the future.

We cleaned the kitchen together, poured more wine, and again wound up at the piano. It was a comfort to us both, a safe spot, and despite my adamancy to not play for August, I’d broken down and shared something deeply personal. True to his promise, he hadn’t criticized, but did he understand the sentiment behind the composition?

August dug through a mountainous stack of sheet music until he found what he sought. He cradled the pages to his chest, smirking. “Constance found this piece the other day. She wanted to present it as an option for your duet, but I told her I’d prefer you and I tackle it. I hear rumors that you like to open concerts with a personal solo. Since we are co-teaching, I say we perform a duet, and this one is terribly fun.”

He presented the composition.

“‘Linus and Lucy.’ The Peanuts Theme?” I chuckled, removing it from his hand to have a look.

“It’s more fitting to our age bracket than Constance’s. Do you want to try it? It’s not terribly complicated, but it would be entertaining. Many of the parents will recognize it.”

I scanned the sheet music, noting the two sections intended to be played together. It was true. I always performed the opening solo at concerts. Koa thought the reason stemmed from a self-conscious urge to prove to the parents that although I didn’t have the same credentials as the rest of the faculty, my skills as a musician weren’t in question. If there was truth to his theory, I couldn’t admit it, even to myself.

Playing alongside August felt like accepting doomsday. Before I could say no, he took the score and spread it on the rack. Knowing August’s skill at memorization, I doubted he needed the music in front of him and did it as a courtesy.

He took the higher end of the scale, leaving me with the lower range and less complex melody. Was it a dig at my skill? I reviewed the notes, and we began. The tune was familiar, and my sight-reading ability was strong. Before long, the binds of my insecurities broke. Because the earlier section of the piece leaned heavier into the higher end of the scale, I upped the tempo to keep August on his toes. He laughed but barely flinched, fingers flying as he kept up without a struggle.

When Constance and I toyed with Pachelbel’s Cannon in D over Christmas, challenging one another, it had been tremendous fun, but there was no subtext in our playing.

What August and I shared that evening amounted to another level. We tested one another, having a silent conversation through music. Perhaps it was the only way we could say what was in our hearts and on our minds.

Can you keep up? my playing asked.

Can you trust me? was his response as he took liberties with the melody.

Will you follow if I take you somewhere new?

Will you wait if I’m not ready?

And from both of us, Where do we go from here?

The music naturally ended, as did the subtle conversation. Our questions remained answerless. Our inquiries dangled in the open air.

“Did you bring an overnight bag?” August asked.

“Yes, you invited me to.”

More silence. Should I mention how spending the night with a lover usually meant things were getting serious? No. I couldn’t.

“Are you going back to Chicago?” I asked, seeking validation, confirmation, and justification for my reticence. If he could admit this thing between us was more than a passing moment in his busy life, maybe I could tear down the walls around my heart.

“That’s the plan.”

Shattered.

“Right.”

“I have to work, Niles. I’m killing time while Constance gets settled, but taking commissions and offering my skills to the school for a negligible paycheck won’t sustain me.”

“I know.”

The swell of silence grew painfully large.

“It doesn’t mean we can’t…”

I waited, but August didn’t finish the sentence. His return to stardom did mean we couldn’t unless he was ready and willing to make things public. But even then, the distance would be excruciating. Insurmountable.

“Maybe we should stop.” My heart broke even as I made the suggestion.

“Stop what?” August glanced from the piano.

“This.” I swung a finger between us.

“No. Niles, don’t say that.”

I made eye contact for the first time since we finished playing our cryptic duet. “You’re going to leave someday, and if I’m not careful, you’re going to take my heart with you.”

August brushed his knuckles over my cheek, uttering what sounded like the same string of Greek he’d said in bed a while back.

“Translate.”

He wet his lips, seemed to consider, then shook his head. “Another day.”

It was exactly what he’d said the previous time, but what if another day never arrived.

He kissed me and worries about the future evaporated. Who was I kidding? August already owned my heart. No amount of restraint had helped protect it. No amount of caution had kept me from falling. I was doomed in this life to be slaughtered by love.

***

I woke before August to the sound of the toilet flushing. Briefly disoriented by the unfamiliar bedroom, I lay in the dark for a second, getting my bearings. August’s arm circled my waist—strong and secure—his leg wove between mine, and his face rested against my shoulder, so every time he exhaled, warm air ghosted my skin. He was a snuggler, an oddity for a man who claimed to have never experienced a serious relationship. I reveled in the contact but counted the days until it was over.

The sound of running water echoed down the hall, and the clock announced it was half past five. Too late to sneak out. Too early to get up. We’d planned for me to spend the night, but the awkwardness of encountering Constance, who felt more like a student in the predawn hours, left me lingering beneath the sheets despite a full bladder.

I’d never dated anyone with a child before, so clandestine sexual encounters behind locked doors were not my forte. August, naked and wrapped around me, stirred a bone-deep arousal. Early mornings and lazy sex went together like sharp cheese and expensive wine. The craving echoed within me.

I wanted to roll him over and do something about the tingle stirring my groin but couldn’t determine if it was ethical with a teenager awake down the hall and possibly listening. The previous night, we’d gotten those urges out of the way while she was on a date. When we’d fallen into bed, handsy and horny again, we’d stopped short after a heavy make-out session. I desperately wanted to resume what we’d started and follow it to completion.

I turned into August’s embrace and faced the sleeping man, making out the contours of his jaw in the dark bedroom. In slumber, he lost the refined edge he carried around every day. With tousled hair, a dark contrast against the white pillowcase, he appeared innocent and boyish. I found it irresistibly appealing.

Dragging my fingers over the coarse hairs on his upper thigh, I inched closer, encouraging him to hook the leg over my hip.

Groaning, semi-waking, August complied, a smile forming on his once slack mouth. “It’s not morning, is it?”

“Hardly.” I moved my lips along his stubbled jaw, kissing and waking him further as I pressed my interested cock against his. “Do you care?”

“No.” He cracked an eyelid and hummed with pleasure, rocking his lower body with mine. “I like waking up like this.” His voice rasped, thick with sleep.

August rolled to his back, dragging me on top of him. We kissed and lazily rutted, both of us growing harder with friction. Knowing he wasn’t any more familiar with the art of silent sex, I reminded him to be quiet when a soft moan passed his lips.

Gripping my ass, he moved with purpose, arching off the bed, grinding harder. A finger slipped between my ass cheeks. The blissful pressure turned my skin hot. I trembled, wanting to find a condom and let him take me, but aggressive, uninhibited sex risked discovery. The bed might squeak or bang against the wall. The mattress springs would give us away. Before August could take it further—the tip of his finger penetrated me ever so slightly—I broke from his mouth and slipped down his body, taking him down my throat.

The groan that filled the room was rich with longing and lust.

“Find a damn pillow and shut up,” I said, coming up for air.

“No.” He brushed the hair from my face, peering down as I used slow, meticulous movements up and down his shaft, eliciting the greatest pleasure. I wanted to be inside him or have him inside of me. I wanted to ride the tantalizing edge of madness until our orgasms took us away. But if I forgot myself and got vocal, the embarrassment would stay with me indefinitely.

Instead, I let August use my mouth however he wanted until he came with a stifled cry, arching off the bed, toes curling with delight. I scaled his body, attacked his mouth, then fed him my cock, chasing my own pleasure all the way to completion.

After, we lay in a tangle of limbs, satiated, panting, and more exhausted than when we first awoke.

“Do you think she heard us?” I asked.

“Is she awake?” August croaked, eyes falling closed.

“Yes.”

“We were quiet… I think. Come here.”

August dragged me into his arms, his body a pleasant furnace in the chilly room, and before long, he fell asleep. We didn’t have to be up for another hour, so I let him slumber.

Wide awake and unable to lay still, I quietly escaped his arms and found the pajama pants and T-shirt I’d brought for lounging around the house. Both were still clean and folded in my bag.

I used the bathroom, splashing cold water on my face to erase the guilty flush of our after-sex, and wandered to the living room where I found Constance on the couch in the same fashion as I’d discovered her Christmas morning—wrapped in a blanket and reading a book. It confounded me that a teenager would rise so early in the morning.

She made eye contact and smiled hello. I sought signs that she knew what had transpired in the bedroom but saw none.

“Good morning. I’m going to make coffee. Mind if I join you?”

Another smile signified she didn’t mind at all.

I stumbled around August’s kitchen, using the moka pot to make a single serving of coffee. Like Koa, August was a coffee snob and needed a fresh-within-minutes cup, or he wouldn’t drink it. The two shared enough interests I’d considered properly introducing them, but until I understood better what was happening with August, I didn’t want to risk bringing him further into my life.

With a steaming mug of coffee cradled between my palms for warmth, I located the thermostat and bumped it up a few degrees. For someone born and raised in a warm climate, August seemed unaffected by the cold, and the predawn air outside must have been brisk and leaking through the cottage walls.

Constance shuffled over, giving me room on the couch.

I motioned to the book on her lap. “What are you reading now?”

She displayed the cover with a shy smile. A romantasy I’d seen much of the female population of Timber Creek toting around lately. “That is definitely not assigned reading.”

She grinned and shook her head, signing, Dr. Burgard has us studying parts of Dickens.

“Ah, yes. Be glad you aren’t in his grade eleven class. Winter marks the beginning of his deep dive into existential literature. He’s passionate on the topic. How was your date last night?”

Since Cody had been in the car when I’d picked them up, and the second we’d arrived home, Constance had done everything possible to avoid her father by going to bed immediately, so I hadn’t gotten a chance to ask.

Constance blushed but shrugged noncommittally.

“Come on. Don’t be shy. I’m not your dad. I want all the dirty details.”

She made a face. You’re my teacher.

“Not at six in the morning while I’m in my pajamas I’m not.”

She considered, staring at the book in her lap before signing, It was fun.

“Good. First dates should be fun.”

Dad hates Cody, doesn’t he?

“No. He hates the idea of you growing up too fast.”

She rolled her eyes. He treats me like a baby.

“He treats you like you’re the most precious commodity in his life.”

No, he doesn’t. He doesn’t even care about me.

I quirked a brow, and she looked at her hands.

“Cody’s a nice boy. You could do worse.”

She nodded, cheeks flushing. I like him.

“Have you ever had a boyfriend before?”

She shook her head. He hasn’t officially asked me out.

“He will. He just needs to find some bravery. It’s scary when you’re fourteen. Even for boys.”

Cody’s really accepting. She touched the scarf at her throat. He doesn’t care that I can’t talk.

“Can’t?”

She scowled, but I didn’t back down.

I don’t want to.

“I respect that, and I’m glad Cody does too. But remember, there’s a difference between can’t and won’t.”

I know.

“You’ll talk when you’re ready, and if you choose to never speak again, that’s your prerogative. I think it would be nice to hear your voice, though.”

She didn’t look so sure. Why can’t Dad be cool like you?

I chuckled. “Then he wouldn’t be your dad.”

He’s frustrating.

“That he is.”

Do you love him?

I stalled, staring into the dark depths of my coffee and taking a sip to delay. “It’s too soon for that.”

Are you afraid he’ll go back to Chicago and forget about you?

Her astuteness knotted my insides, and I couldn’t find an adequate response, nor could I hide my distress. Yes , I wanted to say but couldn’t.

Constance traced the bold text on the front cover of her book before signing, He’ll leave us both behind eventually. He says he cares, but he doesn’t. He’s selfish like that.

I should have stuck up for August and countered Constance’s claim with proof that he wasn’t self-serving, but I had no proof. For all I knew, she was right, and wasn’t I waiting for exactly that day to come?

“He loves you,” I said.

Constance shook her head. Dad runs at the first opportunity he gets. He’s been doing it my whole life. He doesn’t know the first thing about love. The only thing he loves is himself and his music.

It was a good thing the sign language book I’d bought August had wound up buried and forgotten under a pile of musical scores in the bedroom because his presence in the doorway as Constance signed this final statement surprised us both.

“Good morning,” he said, oblivious to the hurt radiating from his daughter’s core and echoing in mine.

“Good morning.” I offered a weak smile.

Constance shared her misery with a glance before opening the romantasy book on her lap and reading.