Chambers of Desire: Opus 1 (12 page)

I found myself tucked in the back seat of a town car, thankful no Du Cheval was in sight. The whizzing lights created a soothing blur out the window, and I leaned back in my seat, reliving the feeling of Calvin’s lips against mine.

Chapter 6

Back in my hotel room, I tossed and turned in the large bed. Despite my exhaustion, I couldn’t sleep, and after an hour of trying, I rolled over and turned on the bedside light. I stared around the room, feeling strangely disconnected, alone in an unfamiliar city. Even though I had no desire to go back to Dallas, I was curious what was happening in my absence. Opening my laptop, I logged on to Facebook, feeling as if I had been gone for years. There were a few
Miss you, Sabs!
on my wall, but other than that, no one seemed to notice I was gone. Life continued without me. I scrolled through the page, inundated with mundane status updates announcing a party at the Sigma Nu house next weekend, lamentations about an upcoming exam, and slutty self-portraits of dorm mates in front of their bathroom mirror in skintight outfits.

Pictures of my dance team in leotards with bouquets littered my newsfeed, and I realized that I had missed the fall performance’s opening night. From their smiling faces, I knew they did well, basking in the afterglow of a standing ovation. I missed that feeling, that incredible high you get just after finishing a show, sweaty and exhausted but exhilarated.

I wasn’t sure whether the pit in my stomach was homesickness or jealousy, but it felt heavy in my gut. With a sigh, I continued to scroll, past pictures of costume parties and beer pong. I jumped when my computer chimed, and a conversation bubble lit in the corner of the screen, indicating I had a new message. I opened it cautiously.

Hey, Sabrina,

I tried e-mailing, but you never responded. Listen, I know
I really, really screwed up. It’s not an excuse, but you need to know I understand how much it hurt you. I’m a wreck without you. If I could take it all back, I would. Where
are
you, Sabs? No one knows where you went, and I’m worried. Can you just let me know that you’re OK?  Please tell me if I can do anything at all to make this right, and I will.

Brandon

My heart wrenched with a nostalgic pang. Brandon had always been masterly at convincing me how much he cared. Now, I wondered whether everything he said had been a lie.

I reopened my Facebook page and clicked into an album titled
Summer Lovin’—S + B
, holding my breath as dozens of images of our smiling faces filled the screen. Brandon’s parents had taken us to Lake Havasu the summer before, only eight short months ago, where we spent two weeks on their houseboat. We got up late, lay in the sun, and spent hours splashing in the warm waters. At the time, I had never been on a better vacation.

My favorite picture was one of Brandon teaching me how to water-ski. I’m on my back, bobbing in the water, life vest puffed around my face, Brandon behind me. His face is close to mine, and we both beam, noses sunburned and hair shining in the sun. What you can’t see are his hands beneath the water, supporting my back, threatening to creep around and tickle me if I give him lip. He’s just whispered in my ear that he knows I can do it, knows I can get up on the first try, and if I can’t, he’ll be there to catch me and help me back up.
I’ll always be here
, his wet lips murmured into my ear, and I believed him with my whole heart.

Brandon’s parents caught stolen kisses that we sneaked when we thought no one was looking and pictures of my arms wrapped around his waist on a Jet Ski. Closing my eyes, I could still smell the coconut-y sunscreen and hot desert air, feel the rocking of the boat underfoot. When I scrolled through the rest of the page, my heart ached as I studied our suntanned bodies and chapped lips, interlaced hands, and lovesick gazes.

With a heavy heart, I clicked out of the album, back onto the main page of pictures, no less stained with memories of our relationship. Brandon’s fraternity formal, Christmas, Valentine Day, Spring Break. Our relationship entirely documented on camera, immortalized in photos, smiles permanently glued to our faces. A sob threatened to leap from my throat, and I swallowed, forcing it down. I hated that in one night—I hoped it was
only
one night—Brandon had taken a wrecking ball to our happy memories.

Two years of my life spiraling down the drain
, I thought, deleting one picture after another. I wanted to erase the memories, as he had done to our future.
How did I get here?
I asked myself. It seemed like just yesterday that I snuggled next to him, feeling his lips on my forehead kissing me good-night.

I reread his e-mail,
Let me know you’re OK.
No, he’d lost the right to know whether I was OK when he chose to slip in Caitlin’s dorm room and into her bed. I wasn’t even sure whether I
was
OK; I felt woozy and unbalanced, trying to find my way on an unlighted path.
No
, I thought again,
he does not get to ask whether I’m OK
, and I deleted the message.

Wearily, I pulled the covers over me, closing my laptop. That era of my life was over; there was no Sabrina and Brandon anymore. Maybe there never had been.

My vibrating cell phone woke me the next morning, buzzing frantically on my nightstand. Calvin’s private number. I felt an unexpected surge of nervousness as I remembered his mouth against mine.
Had that been a dream?
His strong hands on my thighs, his broad body pressed into me, his teeth against my neck. I fingered my bruised lips and knew, no, it was real, every second of it.

“Hello,” I said, voice still infused with sleep.

“How are you feeling?” Calvin’s deep voice answered, sending tingles to my toes.

“Better than expected
,” I said. My head was surprisingly free of pain, and save for a little dizziness, I felt well rested and ready for the day. After deleting Brandon’s e-mail, I had slept soundless and dreamlessly, uninterrupted until Calvin’s call.

“Great,” he said, and I could tell he was smiling on the other end. “I decided you need a vacation day.”

I laughed, stretching under the soft sheets. “I thought I was on vacation!”

“Then, you’re in for a real treat,” he said. “I want to take you on a little getaway. Can you be ready in half an hour?”

“I’ll do my best,” I said. I might feel good, but god did I need a shower.

“Please do,” he said, and I detected humor in his tone.

I groaned. “Don’t tell me Du Cheval is in the lobby, tapping his foot impatiently.”

Calvin’s rich laugh filled the phone, delighting me. “No. No Du Cheval. Just me. Just us today. I’ll wait in the car, I’m right out front.”

I managed to shower and dress in ten minutes. Seeing Calvin was some serious motivation.

A sporty red Maserati sat in front of the hotel, and I knew only one man could be inside. Unlike Du Cheval, Calvin stepped out of the car, coming around to open the door for me. I blushed as his eyes roved over my flimsy sundress before he kissed me gently on the cheek. His woodsy cologne filled the air around me, and I smiled shyly. His pale green, short-sleeved button-down was open at the neck and fit snugly around his large biceps. Again, I was struck by his handsomeness, unconventional but unsettlingly sexy.

“Where are we going?” I asked, curious about what he had planned.

“You’ll see.” His eyes flashed playfully. “I want to surprise you.”

When we got on the highway, Calvin opened the top of the car, letting the warm sun and sweet air flood the car. I tipped my head back, submitting to the gentle wind tousling my hair. I glanced over and caught Calvin’s eye, letting a slow smile spread over my face. He seemed gentler, more relaxed than he had yesterday, smiling back at me, blue eyes clearer, lighter than they had been last night.

He ran his finger up my arm, resting on the console. “What kind of music do you like? What do you want to hear?”

“I love everything,” I answered honestly. “But, as a Dallas native, I’d be exiled if I didn’t admit my love of country… C’mon, don’t give me that look!” I shrieked as he raised his eyebrows in false judgment.

“I didn’t say anything!” he protested innocently. After a beat, “But really? Country?”

I rolled my eyes, laughing. “I’m just being
honest
. Who
doesn’t
love themselves some Dixie Chicks and a little Kenny Chesney. So, sue me!”

He laughed, “What else?”

“OK, what about classic rock?” I asked. “I grew up on Lynyrd Skynyrd and Crosby, Stills, and Fleetwood Mac. On the weekends, my dad would wake us by blasting it on the record player. My sister and I would scream for him to turn it off, but now, it’s one of my favorite ways to start a Saturday.”

“Now, you’re talking,” he grinned. “
That
I can work with.” Calvin reached for the radio, and Tom Petty’s voice resonated through the Maserati, competing with the wind for our attention. 

We sped through the city to our mysterious destination, music loud, hair blowing. When the chorus swelled, Calvin joined in, husky voice matching Tom’s voice, creating a throaty harmony that warmed my heart.

Eventually, we pulled into a private parking lot where a valet took the keys from Calvin. I still had no idea where we were going when we stepped onto the sidewalk in downtown Manhattan.

As he maneuvered me through the rush of bodies, he turned toward me. “I want you to meet my baby,” he said, smiling proudly.

His baby?
I was confused momentarily until we rounded the corner, a huge marina in view. Hundreds of boats filled the water, but the one waiting for us at the end of the dock took my breath away.

“That’s her,” Calvin said, pointing to the enormous yacht. It gleamed a brilliant white, sails billowing in the light breeze. In a thin gold script,
Europa
was written on the side of the boat, like a grand announcement or the name of a starring actor on a Broadway display.

“It’s
huge
,” I whispered.

Calvin nodded. “Three hundred feet. It’s the largest yacht in the world, actually,” he said, grinning like a proud father. I believed it—I had never seen a boat so big in my life.

“Want to go for a ride?” he asked, slipping his fingers through mine, squeezing gently. The gesture’s intimacy made my heart skip a beat, fluttering with schoolgirl excitement.

“Yes!” I said, squeezing back. “Definitely yes!” I’d loved boating since I was six when my uncle took me on his speedboat on Lake Amistad, and I discovered how peaceful it felt to be utterly surrounded by water.

“Good morning, Mr. Chambers.” As we walked aboard, a young, suntanned attendant with an open smile greeted us.

“Morning, Caleb,” Calvin said, shaking his hand. “I’m going to take the lead today. Can you let the crew know?”

“Aye, aye, Cap’n!” Caleb said, giving Calvin a little salute before scurrying toward the boat’s bow.

“You know how to sail this thing?” I asked incredulously. “I always thought yachting was more a
spectator
sport.”

Calvin smiled. “I have a full crew, but I spent every weekend for six months next to the captain when I bought her, so I’m fully qualified to run the show. You’re in safe hands.”

“I didn’t think I wasn’t,” I answered playfully. “I’m just impressed.”

He returned my smile and pulled me onto the boat. “Well, then, what are we waiting for?”

I followed him to the upper deck where he led me onto a private sunbathing area. “Enjoy the sun,” he said, motioning to a lounge chair. “A server will be up shortly to take your breakfast order. While you eat and relax, I’ll get this baby moving. Ever been on the Hudson?”

I shook my head and smiled. Gently, he touched his hand to my face, pausing before he motioned behind him. “I’ll be in the wheelhouse if you need me.”

I turned to watch as he disappeared into a large room with several crew. With large glass windows, I had a clear view into the cabin where I saw Calvin shake hands with the two men already inside. He pointed east, and both men nodded in agreement. Donning a pair of aviator glasses, Calvin assumed a position behind what looked like the control panel and began to flip switches and push buttons—at least that’s what it looked like from where I sat. Clearly, Calvin wasn’t kidding when he said he was qualified to sail the boat; he looked beyond confident sitting in the commander’s chair, assuming control.

Moments later, an attendant appeared on the deck, balancing a tray with a large urn—
please, God, let it be coffee—
and a crystal jug of orange juice. “I’m Rob,” the attendant said, smiling politely. “I’ll be taking care of you today. Coffee or juice?”

“Thanks, Rob. Both, please,” I said, unable to decide which I needed more after the night I’d had. Caffeine? Yes,
please
. Cold, fresh juice? Unquestionably.