Apollo (Contemporary Mythos Book 2)

When I drove myself home after hanging out with Ace for most of the evening, I went on autopilot. I got to my apartment safe and sound, but I didn’t remember driving there. Why was I fighting what was obviously happening with him? The potential for heartbreak. It had to be. He was a rock god with hundreds of thousands of fans. Most of which were women ready to throw themselves at him on a whim. He already made it clear I was a challenge to him. And here I was feeding right into it.

So, why did I feel genuine disappointment when Roy announced Ace wouldn’t be in attendance today?

“How am I supposed to practice without my partner?” Jamie scoffed.

Her partner? This wasn’t Swan Lake.

Roy tore his glasses away and pinched the bridge of his nose. “It’s one dance in the entire production, Miss Harland. I think you’ll be alright.”

Jamie did half an eye roll, hissy fitting her way over to the rest of us peon dancers.

Roy’s comment almost made up for his remark at Jamie against me yesterday…almost.

“Did I miss the reason for Ace’s no show?” Kate asked, doing side bend stretches.

I bent in half, pressing my palms onto the floor. “Something about band rehearsal.”

“I guess he does have another life outside of our performance, huh?”

“Sure.” I moved to the center of the room.

Kate trotted up behind me and poked my elbow. “You seem irritated today. Everything okay?”

“Irritated?” I tossed her an exasperated look over my shoulder. “I’m fine.”

“Okie Dokie.” Her dark eyes widened, and she made the motion of zipping her mouth shut.

I rolled my shoulders as the music cued up. Taking first position, I went through the same movements we’d been rehearsing for a week. I didn’t forget a single placement, but it felt like I simply went through the motions—hit all my marks. All technique and no…feeling.

“Miss Berg, are you with us today?” Roy quirked a brow over his glasses.

I finished the combination with the required triple pirouette and stuck the landing. “Yes, sir.”

He circled his face with a finger. “You may want to look like you’re at least somewhat happy to be here.”

I frowned and looked at Kate. She had her hands on her hips and pretended to notice something on the ceiling.

“What do I look like?” I asked.

She sighed. “Like someone killed your dog, and you stepped in its leftover poop straight after.”

I ran my finger under the neckline of my leotard, glaring splinters into the floorboards.

We rolled through the rest of the day, rehearsing every piece except for Ace and Jamie’s dance number. Not once did my chest swell like it had the past few days. It was almost as if I was…uninspired.

Evening settled in, the sun disappearing. Roy had dismissed us thirty minutes ago. I hung around, waiting for everyone to leave, and when it was only Roy and me, I walked up to him, still clad in my dance attire.

“Would it be alright with you if I locked up the studio? I want to practice a little longer. Especially since we have the weekend off.”

He folded his newspaper under his arm. “You did seem a little off today.”

I nodded, dropping my gaze to my feet.

“Alright. I’ll turn on the alarm system when I leave since you’ll be here by yourself. Remember to turn it off and set it again before you leave.” He dug into his pocket and handed me a set of keys.

“Thank you, sir.”

He gave a curt nod. “Have a good night.”

I bounced around on my heels, listening to the beeps of the alarm system, followed by the click of the door locking behind him.

If it wasn’t Ace, only one man could pull me out of this funk. And his name was Chris Isaak. I plugged my phone into the stereo, cueing up Wicked Game. As soon as the music kicked in, my eyes fluttered shut. I went up on pointe, gliding across the floor, thankful for the wide-open space to let the movements flow naturally.

I slid through the necessary motions, letting my hands move down the sides of my body, flowing into a ballet pose, followed by piqué turns, leaps, and backbends. Anything that felt right in the moment—only opening my eyes long enough to not collide into a wall.

Isaak whispered the words, “with you…” A pair of strong hands gripped my hips from behind. My heart thudded against my chest. The smell of sun and pine pulled me in, and I sank against him. Should I have freaked out at his sudden appearance? Probably. But I felt…relieved.

His lips hovered over my neck, breath moistening my skin. “You’re dancing so stiff. This song is anything but.” He dragged a finger down my spine until he reached right above my butt.

My upper half felt like gelatin, and I swayed. “Mm. Ballet is stiff.”

“Have you never danced anything but ballet?”

No.

The mix between the guitar’s euphoric bluesy swirls, Isaak’s singing purr, and Ace’s subtle touches put me in a trance. I forgot I danced with Ace supporting me from behind. Forgot I was in the studio. Forgot I was on planet Earth. Chris Isaak held his high note, and I went into a fury of repeated turns, pulling away from Ace’s grasp. The song came to a close, and it wasn’t until silence fell over the room, I finally opened my eyes.

Chest heaving, I stared at Ace from across the room in a white Henley long-sleeved shirt with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows—all buttons were undone. Black jeans with the appropriate number of holes and rips and black boots. A lump formed in my throat. He rubbed his chin, grinning at me through the chaos of hair falling over his eyes.

“You dance to that song often?” He didn’t move, using his eyes to study me.

I felt exposed. Vulnerable. That song was meant for me—a moment for me to transport myself to another dimension. Escape from life and stress. He’d breached the shield.

“What are you doing here, Ace? Rehearsal was over an hour ago.”

He slipped his hands in his front pockets. “I could ask you the same thing.”

“I belong to the company. The studio is my second home. Besides, it’s pretty obvious what I was doing.” I couldn’t look him in the face. Even after dancing with him yesterday and our archery excursion. Even after Wicked Game.

“It’s obvious you weren’t practicing the performance. Didn’t feel quite right today during rehearsal, I take it?” He lifted one knee, placing his foot against the wall.

How could he possibly know?

A large instrument case rested against the other wall, and my heart sunk to my feet—a cello case.

“Is that yours?” I pointed.

Ace arched a brow, looking over to the case and then back at me. “Yes. Thought I’d stop by to practice. Great acoustics in here.”

I licked my lips several times. “You. Play the cello. You.”

“Yes.” He pointed to himself. “Me. I play the cello.”

“Oh, come on!” I threw my hands in the air and let them flop back down, slapping against my thighs.

It wasn’t fair. He absolutely wasn’t playing fair, and he didn’t know it. Everything about what he stood for made me want to run in the other direction. Then he hit me with things like dancing, melodic singing melodies, bringing out a hidden archery talent from myself, and now the freaking cello?

“You’re a fan, I take it?” He sauntered toward the case with a jackal’s swagger.

“Understatement of the century,” I mumbled, trying to mask my fascination for the instrument.

He undid the clasps one at a time with slow and labored movements, pausing each time with a glance at me. I wrung my hands together behind my back and stifled a gasp when he flung the lid open, revealing the wooden cello. Even from this distance, I could tell the fingerboard, pegs, tailpiece, and sides were all made from maple. The top more than likely spruce.

He removed it from its home, along with the bow, holding it by the neck with one hand. Reaching for a chair, he dragged it to the center of the room and nestled into it. He spread his legs wide, slipping the cello between his thighs, running his fingers up the strings. He’d done similar actions with his guitar, but for me—the cello was on the same playing field as sex.

The thought made me mentally shriek. “Ace. You don’t have to—”

He dragged the bow across the strings, closing his eyes. His fingers pushed against the appropriate spots to make the desired notes, occasionally making them vibrato by shaking his hand while pressing.

I recognized the song immediately. “Nocturne.”

He smiled, keeping his eyes closed and swaying back and forth with his cheek resting against the instrument’s neck. He let his lips part, showing more of his teeth upon specific notes he’d play. “And do you know in what key?”

I moved forward, desperate to see his playing up close. “C Sharp Minor,” I whispered.

He sucked in a breath through his nose, feet shuffling against the floor as he moved his bow. With specific movements, he could slide it across the strings like a whisper, caressing with barely touching. His brow furrowed in concentrated anguish and then softened as he opened his eyes to gaze at me.

I stood directly in front of him, my eyes locked on his finger working the instrument. His corded forearm muscles flexed with every stroke and pressure put on the strings. He finished the song by starting at the top of the neck and working his fingers quickly down until he reached the bottom, producing a higher pitch.

On the verge of tears, I let out a shaky breath. “That was…incredible. I never thought a rock star could deliver such—”

“Soul?” He cocked his head to the side.

He took the word straight from my mouth.

“The cello is capable of more than classical music. You’ve got several instruments in one here. You can use the bow. Pluck the strings.” He played a quick riff like it were a vertical guitar. “You can even use it as a drum.” He flipped it over and did some form of tribal drumming with his hands.

“Show me.” It came out husky.

“Alright. How about AC/DC?” His face brightened.

He worked the bow across the strings extremely fast, starting the famous beginning to Thunderstruck. He moved his hand back and forth so quickly it blurred. He beat his bow against the strings twice to produce the “thunder” noise, grinning at me through strands of hair.

I laughed, cupping my hands over my mouth. Ace was the same rock star as I’d seen on stage, but I preferred this version of him over the one who excited a crowd and led his band. I knew he could play both instruments, but this seemed more…genuine.

He bounced his foot every time he did the “thunder” part, bobbing his head up and down. His body couldn’t keep still. One half kept time by bobbing or tapping, and the other swung up in the motions.

Orange dust flowed from his fingertips, like the dust that’d fallen over my eyelashes at the concert. There were no stage lights in here—no means of projection. The dust traveled over his hands and wrapped itself through the strings, growing brighter and brighter.

He finished the song with a chuckle, wiping the back of his hand over his forehead. The dust disappeared.

My heart thundered in my ears.

“The sparkly bow and arrow in your concert, how do you do that effect?”

He licked his upper lip. “Random question, but light play mostly. Why?”

What I saw was anything but light play, if I’d seen it at all. Maybe I really was in a trance.

“How did you get in here?” I pointed at the entrance.

Ace leaned back in his chair, letting the cello rest against one leg. “You’re sure asking a lot of questions. I came through the front door. Where else would I have come in?”

“There’s an alarm system. You would’ve set it off, and the cops would be here by now.”

We stared at one another, and he didn’t make a peep.

Instead, he started playing with a wicked glint in his eye. I’d recognize that opening riff anywhere. Enter Sandman by Metallica.

I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling. “Is this your way of avoiding the question?”

He kept playing, foot bouncing. “Maybe.”

My head bobbed, my heel following. The fact he remembered my favorite band pulled at my heartstrings. He could’ve played an Apollo’s Suns song to screw with me. Instead, he played my favorite band on my favorite instrument, and it did all sorts of unimaginable things to my insides.

I made the rocking-out scrunch face, and I knew I was a goner. Dancing, I swung my head in circles, gliding across the floor. I made a head-banging motion but in slow motion and fluid, flowing into grand leaps around the room, followed by several barrel rolls. As he wrapped up the song, I landed in front of him, out of breath and confused. Beyond confused—I was unhinged.

“I’ve never danced like that before,” I said between gasps for air.

He stood up, still holding the bow. “All it takes is a little Metallica to free your caged-bird, hm?”

Why did his presence make me want to go barefoot and dance through the woods like a nymph?

“It was more than that.” I squeaked the words out.

He ran his thumb over a bead of sweat collecting on my eyebrow.

My stomach fluttered. “I should get going. I’m exhausted, but I appreciate the free show.”

When I brushed past him, he didn’t try to stop me, beating his fingers against the cello.

“Are you busy tomorrow night?” he asked.

I tightened my grip on the bag’s strap. “Only if you count devouring an entire bag of Cheetos while watching The Last Kingdom as busy.”

“The band and I have VIP access to Club Delos tomorrow. I’d love for you to use my guest pass.”

“Club Delos?” It was one of the most exclusive clubs on this side of New York. I’d seen it in passing but never dreamed of going inside. “Not sure I could pass that up. What time should I be there?”

“Do you trust me with your address? I would love to pick you up.” He strummed his fingers on the cello strings.

I bit my lip. “Let me see your phone.”

His eyes dropped to my lips before handing it to me.

Trying not to smile like an idiot, I quickly typed my address into a new text message window and gave it back.

As he took it, he traced a finger over my knuckle. “See you tomorrow, Sparky.”

I backed away, bumping into the doorway before managing to find the hall. “Goodnight…Rockstar.”