Beneath the Vine Read online

  Lillian Bryant

  Beneath the Vine

  By Lillian Bryant

  Copyright 2016 Lillian Bryant

  Except the original material written by the author, all songs, and song Titles contained in this book are the property of the respective songwriters and copyright holders. The author concedes to the trademarked status and trademark owners of the products mentioned in this fiction novel and recognizes that they have been used without permission. The use and publication of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead or events is entirely coincidental.

  Editing by Kathleen Payne and Amy Senethaviley

  Book format and design by Swish Design & Editing

  Proofing by Swish Design & Editing

  Cover design by Francesca Webster

  Cover image Copyright 2016

  To those with a submissive soul… Be Bold.

  For Lucy

  Your heart is my heart.

  Dedication

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Epilogue

  Playlist

  Acknowledgments

  Connect With Me Online

  About the Author – Lillian Bryant

  “I have for the first time found what I can truly love — I have found you. You are my sympathy — my better self — my good angel — I am bound to you with a strong attachment.”

  Jane Eyre

  Never trust yourself… in a man’s bed. That moment when everything is falling out from under you, it’s like pure fluid sound. The ache abates, your heart hammers, your voice shakes, and becomes something treacherous. It belies who you were before he made you feel something greater than God. It’s as if the heat of your body will never cool without his hands. Don’t believe his whispered words, the chill along your skin a blue lit fired flame. Don’t allow yourself to make him any promises; don’t let yourself begin to think everything will always be this good.

  It’s a ruse.

  You’re just his last breath.

  Lust is a liar… and love takes victims.

  The light was dim, the soft, quiet sound of music sifting through the room. The familiar smell of cedar wood and sage made the fiction easier to swallow, made everything seem just as it should be as I moved through the apartment.

  The muggy copper scent of horror hit me just as I walked past the kitchen.

  “Selene.”

  His tone was flat… stark… no man should ever look so broken.

  My tear filled eyes on the gun, I reached into the empty space between us. “Don’t.”

  It was silent as I walked across the marble floor. The deep color was rich and made me think of coffee. The click of my heels, one… two… one… two, matched my heartbeat, synchronized with each pulse. The spotlight lit my chair, my instrument resting in its stand. I swallowed down the nerves. No matter how many times I’d done this, I still felt like I was at my first recital. This was a rather large gathering, but still I’d played for bigger. The Monterosso Winery was slated to be the next big thing in Tribeca, and I’d been invited to play for the Grand Opening. The new money men and their arm candy surrounded my chair. The small sea of people parted as I walked over to my stool. The whispered conversation made the hairs on the back of my neck rise. They probably saw right through me. The hem of my expensive black dress hit just above the knee. The silky fabric was smooth against my skin. A hand-me-down from my best friend Renee. My feet ached in my cheap heels, but I was glad I found them; they matched the dress perfectly.

  I was born Giovanna Selene Cavalier, raised in Brooklyn, the daughter of an Italian immigrant widow. My father had died of a massive heart attack just after I was born in Italy. My mother, Lucia, moved to the states to try and build a better life for her and me. She worked for Morelli’s Bakery off 18th avenue until she died of cancer five years ago. Every day at three a.m. my mother would lace up her black leather shoes — shoes that had slowly dulled over time — in order to prepare for her trek to the bakery. The age of the leather showed in each new tiny crease. She would then put on her crisp, clean apron that, by the end of the day, would be covered in flour and stained with food coloring. When she came home, her hair would be dusted with powdered sugar. She worked hard for us, and every day she’d come home more tired, and every day I felt the weight of her suffering. To this day, the smell of vanilla makes me sick. I can’t eat sweets. They remind me too much of her, of what I came from. My life, everything I’ve worked for, it was to be better than that.

  My mother didn‘t give all of herself so I could just blindly follow in her footsteps. She always said my talent was a miracle of God, and I had to take my gift and grab a better life.

  My gift wasn’t paying off just yet.

  I took a deep breath and sat down on the padded stool. The familiar feel of the finger board set my racing heart to a much slower pace. This instrument, it was an extension of who I was – a part of my soul. The sleek curve of the wood, the low tone that vibrated as I pulled my bow across the strings, it was in my blood. This… this very thing was all I ever really cared about.

  At twenty-eight years old, a late graduate, I had finally and just recently received my masters in Music from NYU. My scholarships were great for an undergrad, but I worked my ass off to complete this degree. I played for a small performance house symphony in Manhattan close to where I lived. It paid shit, and I basically mooched off Renee half the time. My waitressing job paid decently, but I still struggled. Renee was the daughter of one of the local investment tycoons and was living off her trust fund, trying her hat at being an actress. I�
��d known her since our days of catholic school, late night parties, and sweaty make-out sessions with boys in the back seat of her father’s car. Renee grew up so differently than I had, but we clicked. She didn’t care that I went to St. Ann’s on a work scholarship; she saw me for me, and since the third grade, we had been inseparable.

  The room fell quiet as I cleared my throat and started the first few notes. When I was playing music, when I was feeling each deep note, each slide of the bow — I was lost to everything and everyone. My past, my poverty, my bad choices… none of it mattered. When I was up here, I was no longer little “Gio” from Brooklyn. I was Selene Cavalier. I was elegant in my hand-me-down dress; my thick, coarse, dark brown hair chemically lightened with auburn highlights; my brown eyes rimmed with a stark charcoal line; my lips painted red. I was a performer, and each time I sat behind my cello, I became something new… something important… something beautiful.

  The first song played smoothly. I bowed my head in recognition of the soft applause. The flicker of the candle light along the counter tops of the room created a glow that almost felt ethereal. If it wasn’t for the smell of new paint, mixed with the underlying scent of wood and wine, I’d almost feel like I was dreaming. This place was gorgeous. The two-story store had high ceilings, exposed brick, and dark wood beams with old looking lantern type lighting. It almost felt subterranean. I took a quick glance at the crowd. The women were dressed in long dresses and the men in suits. The way they laughed and sipped their wine, the bejeweled society had it all. I closed my eyes for a moment, the jealously, at times, consumed me.

  My fingers against the strings, I positioned my bow and began to play. When my eyes opened they were met by the deepest pair of brown eyes I’d ever seen. I held my breath, and my chest filled with a warm fullness. His dark stare held me captive, and I had to close my eyes in order to focus on the music. Each note fell from my fingers in small movements; when I dared opened my eyes again, he had moved. I searched the room for him, my pulse rushing through me once my eager gaze spotted him watching me. My cheeks felt hot, and I dipped my eyes down to my instrument.

  I could feel him, feel his observation… his presence was overpowering in a perfectly tailored suit. I stole one more glance as I played. The dark gray of his jacket paired well with his purple tie; his tan skin appeared flawless as he watched me from the corner of the room. His hair was on the longer side of short, chocolate and perfectly disheveled. He seemed older, but I couldn’t really tell. All I knew — he was watching me. His cool stance almost disguising that hunger… that starved expression. He was looking at me like I was his next meal. A pleasant shudder ran up my spine as the notes fell heavily against the marble floor.

  This woman was sent here to torture me. Her dark curls fell softly over her shoulder; her lips trembled with each stroke of her bow against the strings. Her small, capable hands wrapped around the neck of the instrument working the fingerboard with a talent only she possessed. The hem of her black dress shifted further up her bare, supple thighs exposing just a tease of black cotton panties. I licked my bottom lip. She was making love to that cello, giving us this music, this euphoric sound. The smooth skin of her arms seemed to shimmer under the light, and I had the sudden urge to discover what she smelled like. What it would be like to drift my thumb under those sensible cotton panties and across her clit. Would she rock against me like she did now with this wooden instrument? Would I make her come quickly and hard with my mouth? I was sure she would taste sweet; those fucking cotton panties were making me feel indulgent. As soon as she finished her set I’d find her, taste her… fuck her. I wanted that mouth... those talented hands... those plump lips.

  Her song came to an end, and her eyes opened as the small gathering gave her quiet applause. She stood and the flowing fabric of her dress fell just above her knees, her head was down with a small, thankful smile across her deep red lips. Humble to the crowd. She gazed up at me from under dark lashes that framed big brown irises, and I let my eyes linger as a pleasant blush crossed her cheeks. The stare was intense; the line of my jaw pulsed as I tried to tamp down the need that was building in my body.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Monterosso?” A meek female voice spoke from behind me breaking the moment.

  “What is it, Christy?” I tried to hone back my irritation; she’s just doing her job.

  “Mr. Calibri is here and you told me to—”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  I waved my assistant off and turned just in time to watch the girl, the musician — the tempting and humble sin — walk off the make-shift stage.

  I’d give her more time, let her play again, let her watch me watch her. Then... then I’d have my sin, and I’d have it tonight.

  “Shh.” My hand covered her mouth, her hot breath wet against my palm. “They’ll fucking hear us… quiet.” My whisper was severe as I pushed inside her. The cold tile against my back felt damp, the dim light of the bathroom hardly lit the tiny stall. The smell of piss was heavy in the humid air. My other hand fisted tightly in her hair. The thick strawberry blonde strands weaved nicely through my fingers as I pulled her head back hard and she whimpered.

  “Harder.” Her knuckles were white as she gripped the metal bar behind the toilet. Her legs started to shake, the soft flesh of her ass meeting me with each rigid stroke. The grunts spilled from her lips, each push a bit louder. She didn’t know the meaning of hard.

  My jaw clamped shut, and my nostrils flared as my stomach muscles clenched. The pressure built and a low growl rumbled in my chest. She swore as my pace punished her over-worked pussy. She came fast, her body drawing out my release. She arched her back and my balls tightened. I dropped my hands to her waist. “Fuck, hold still.” I didn’t recognize my own voice. This need, this hurried aggression, made me sound weak. It had been too long.

  This wasn’t my thing. Time… I always needed time. I liked to draw it out, take what I could; every piece of the woman… should belong to me.

  “Calibri?” The familiar voice made me cringe. “That you?”

  “Yeah, Biggs, what the hell?” This bitch’s heel slipped and she giggled. My fingers curled around her throat, squeezing just enough to keep her quiet. She was still bent over, holding tight to the bar, my cock still hard and buried deep inside her. She shivered as I pulled out. “Give me a goddamn second.”

  “Sorry, man. Hurry the fuck up, we got company.” Biggs’s raspy laugh turned into a cough as his heavy foot falls left the bathroom.

  “We’re done here.” I pulled the condom off carefully and threw it in the garbage next to this shit can I just fucked this girl over. This wasn’t my M.O. I shook my head as I watched the girl shimmy her skirt down over her round ass. This perpetual wasteland was getting to me. I needed to go home soon. I needed my life back.

  She turned and smiled at me, biting the inside of her cheek. Her long fingers strummed along her lower lip. The black smudges under her eyes made me smirk. I’d been rough enough to make her eyes water. “What did you say your name was?” I asked as I momentarily framed her face with my hands. My thumbs wiped away the smeared make-up.

  The freckles along her neck grabbed my attention as she pulled her hair into a high ponytail. They ran along the curve of her collarbone in an interesting pattern. Her cheap perfume, our sweat, and the smell of sex saturated the air, bringing me back to reality. “Laurie.” Her tone sounded too sweet. She was too young.

  I tucked my thin black T-shirt into my worn blue jeans. The reverberation of my belt rattling as I pulled myself together made a sharp tin sound within the confined space. Laurie watched me quietly. I liked the way she looked at me, from under her pale lashes. Silent. My eyes met hers and she dropped her gaze. “How old are you?” I asked.

  “Old enough.” The fire from earlier returned. The spark that had ignited so quickly when I told her I needed to make her come was back.

  “To get fucked in a bathroom by a stranger?” I took her wrist between my thumb and forefinger
. It was small and delicate. I closed my eyes as I thought of how perfect this small thing would look strapped to my head board.

  “You’re not a stranger anymore, Gage.” Her sarcastic tone was making me hard again already. She was teasing me.

  “Laurie, it was nice to meet you.” I wouldn’t take the bait… not tonight.

  The door of the stall opened easily; the mirror was cloudy with God knows what. My image, distorted, stared back at me; the girl’s eyes watched me from behind. The live band began to play out at the bar and rattled the glass. This wasn’t where I was supposed to be. Everything I had planned for shouldn’t have brought me here, but it had. How… How had I ended up here?

  I was far from that shit-hole bathroom in Phoenix now, and, as I stood here in the middle of this high-end winery, I had a hard time remembering why I’d ever left New York City. The place was packed, and one of the most talented musicians I’d ever heard had finished her set and was headed straight in my direction. She wasn’t paying attention to where she was going. Her dark hair was falling over one shoulder; her full bottom lip pulled through her teeth as she walked nervously through the crowd. Her head was down in that shy, sexy as fuck way I liked. Her woodsy, sweet, feminine scent hit me like a truck. The silky fabric of the woman’s dress brushed against my knuckles as she tried to walk by, and her deep brown eyes met mine. They were so fucking alive, but as my stare lingered, they clouded with fear. The music she’d played, the sound she’d evoked from those four small strings, still echoed in my head.

  “Excuse me.” The woman’s voice was meek. Her lashes fanned down and her cheeks pinked as I held my ground. I wasn’t fucking moving a muscle. She cleared her throat and spoke again. This time with bite. “Excuse me.”

  I pressed my lips together in order to suppress the grin aching to spread across my arrogant face. She had fire. Those long limbs… they’d look amazing bound with satin. “By all means.” I stepped to the side letting her move past me. The fabric of her dress moved smoothly through my thumb and forefinger as she walked away.