Matthew hated this song. He had hated it when they had recorded it. He had hated it even more after performing it dozens of times. But he had never hated it more than he did in this moment.
He forced his eyelids open and felt them scrape against his eyes. Sunlight greeted him through the sheer curtains of his window, but he cursed its unashamed brightness and shut his eyes again. His voice, ringtone edition, continued to assault his ears, too loud to ignore.
“Answer your phone, Sonata,” he groaned, rolling over. The ringtone began its second loop, and if his eyelids would cooperate, he would find the phone and hurl it against the wall. Instead, he flailed with his left arm until he felt soft flesh. “Sonata.”
He heard her sigh as she reached over him to grab her phone from the bedside table.
“Why is your phone on my side of the bed?” Matthew complained, still in the half-awake state where everything offended him.
“It started out as my side last night,” she said over the ringtone’s third cycle.
He didn’t have to see her to know her expression: dark, long-lashed eyes full of seductive secrets, pouty lips pulled up in a smirk. Those lips usually distracted him, but not when that stupid song was blaring next to his ear. He opened his mouth to curse at her again, but she answered the phone before he could get the words out.
As she talked, he dragged his eyes open to look at the clock, cursed at how early it was, and turned to glare at Sonata, who ignored him. The morning sunlight played with the shadows on her face. He let his eyes wander along her neck to her collarbone, then down to what he knew lay under the tangled sheets.
She ended her call and let her phone fall from her hand. The sheets swallowed the offending object between their folds. “Quit ogling me like a teenager,” she said to him.
He slid an arm over her and pulled her against him, and they lost themselves in a deep kiss. Then she pushed his groping hands away. “That was our accountant. I need to meet with her as soon as I can get to her office.”
“Did she have to call you at freakin’ 7:30 in the morning?”
“It’s important.” She sat up and combed her fingers through her straight hair.
Matthew propped himself up on an elbow and watched her get out of bed and locate her undergarments. “Do you have to use that ringtone?”
“I happen to like that song.”
“Because it’s about you,” he grumbled. “I hate having to hear myself sing every time you get a phone call.”
“I thought you loved listening to yourself. You certainly talk like it.” Now she was digging through her portion of his walk-in closet, and he could hear the clink of hangers.
“That’s not true,” he snapped.
“Relax, Matt, it was a joke.” She emerged from the closet as she buttoned up a blouse.
Her joke, like all of her jokes, jabbed at his pride. “Aw, come on, don’t get dressed yet. Come back to bed – it’s the least you can do for waking me up so early.” He patted the space beside him.
“Go back to sleep.” She slipped on a pair of slacks. “And you better come to rehearsal today. Tour starts this week.”
Tour. The word burrowed under his skin like a splinter. “Oh, that’s this week?”
“Don’t tell me you forgot about it. We have some huge venues in the lineup. Seattle, Portland, Las Vegas…”
“We always play in huge venues. Who cares?” He fell back onto his pillow and glared at the ceiling.
Sonata hooked her fingers in her stilettos and looked at him with her cold, dark eyes. “What’s wrong with you? You love touring.”
“Don’t you have a meeting to get to?”
She huffed and stalked out of his bedroom. “Rehearsal,” she called behind her. “Three o’clock. You better be there.”
“You better be there,” he mimicked under his breath, then paused to make sure she hadn’t heard. But the front door slammed, and her car purred to life a moment later. The sound of the receding engine took any hope of distraction with it. Matthew continued to stare at the ceiling, but he didn’t go back to sleep like Sonata had suggested. She should have stayed. He needed her.
After he finally dragged himself out of bed, he threw on jogging clothes and left his house by the back door. His tennis shoes clunked on the wooden deck, which spanned the length of his house and provided an unobstructed view of the ocean. To his right, beyond the deck’s wall, the private beach stretched before him in the morning light, promising solace.
He found the firm, packed sand of the tideline and began jogging, letting the rhythmic sound of the waves blend with his labored breath. His lungs forced out the need for distraction along with the carbon dioxide, and he savored the cool breeze of early morning. To his right, a steady line of well-groomed houses preened in the sight of the ocean, homes to millionaires, wealthy retirees, movie directors, celebrities. Only these residents had access to this beach; no fans, no stares, no problems.
He forced his eyelids open and felt them scrape against his eyes. Sunlight greeted him through the sheer curtains of his window, but he cursed its unashamed brightness and shut his eyes again. His voice, ringtone edition, continued to assault his ears, too loud to ignore.
“Answer your phone, Sonata,” he groaned, rolling over. The ringtone began its second loop, and if his eyelids would cooperate, he would find the phone and hurl it against the wall. Instead, he flailed with his left arm until he felt soft flesh. “Sonata.”
He heard her sigh as she reached over him to grab her phone from the bedside table.
“Why is your phone on my side of the bed?” Matthew complained, still in the half-awake state where everything offended him.
“It started out as my side last night,” she said over the ringtone’s third cycle.
He didn’t have to see her to know her expression: dark, long-lashed eyes full of seductive secrets, pouty lips pulled up in a smirk. Those lips usually distracted him, but not when that stupid song was blaring next to his ear. He opened his mouth to curse at her again, but she answered the phone before he could get the words out.
As she talked, he dragged his eyes open to look at the clock, cursed at how early it was, and turned to glare at Sonata, who ignored him. The morning sunlight played with the shadows on her face. He let his eyes wander along her neck to her collarbone, then down to what he knew lay under the tangled sheets.
She ended her call and let her phone fall from her hand. The sheets swallowed the offending object between their folds. “Quit ogling me like a teenager,” she said to him.
He slid an arm over her and pulled her against him, and they lost themselves in a deep kiss. Then she pushed his groping hands away. “That was our accountant. I need to meet with her as soon as I can get to her office.”
“Did she have to call you at freakin’ 7:30 in the morning?”
“It’s important.” She sat up and combed her fingers through her straight hair.
Matthew propped himself up on an elbow and watched her get out of bed and locate her undergarments. “Do you have to use that ringtone?”
“I happen to like that song.”
“Because it’s about you,” he grumbled. “I hate having to hear myself sing every time you get a phone call.”
“I thought you loved listening to yourself. You certainly talk like it.” Now she was digging through her portion of his walk-in closet, and he could hear the clink of hangers.
“That’s not true,” he snapped.
“Relax, Matt, it was a joke.” She emerged from the closet as she buttoned up a blouse.
Her joke, like all of her jokes, jabbed at his pride. “Aw, come on, don’t get dressed yet. Come back to bed – it’s the least you can do for waking me up so early.” He patted the space beside him.
“Go back to sleep.” She slipped on a pair of slacks. “And you better come to rehearsal today. Tour starts this week.”
Tour. The word burrowed under his skin like a splinter. “Oh, that’s this week?”
“Don’t tell me you forgot about it. We have some huge venues in the lineup. Seattle, Portland, Las Vegas…”
“We always play in huge venues. Who cares?” He fell back onto his pillow and glared at the ceiling.
Sonata hooked her fingers in her stilettos and looked at him with her cold, dark eyes. “What’s wrong with you? You love touring.”
“Don’t you have a meeting to get to?”
She huffed and stalked out of his bedroom. “Rehearsal,” she called behind her. “Three o’clock. You better be there.”
“You better be there,” he mimicked under his breath, then paused to make sure she hadn’t heard. But the front door slammed, and her car purred to life a moment later. The sound of the receding engine took any hope of distraction with it. Matthew continued to stare at the ceiling, but he didn’t go back to sleep like Sonata had suggested. She should have stayed. He needed her.
After he finally dragged himself out of bed, he threw on jogging clothes and left his house by the back door. His tennis shoes clunked on the wooden deck, which spanned the length of his house and provided an unobstructed view of the ocean. To his right, beyond the deck’s wall, the private beach stretched before him in the morning light, promising solace.
He found the firm, packed sand of the tideline and began jogging, letting the rhythmic sound of the waves blend with his labored breath. His lungs forced out the need for distraction along with the carbon dioxide, and he savored the cool breeze of early morning. To his right, a steady line of well-groomed houses preened in the sight of the ocean, homes to millionaires, wealthy retirees, movie directors, celebrities. Only these residents had access to this beach; no fans, no stares, no problems.