"Ohh, you're making me come, baby...I'm about to come so hard, ohhh-"
Christine held the phone out with a wince as the young man on the other end erupted into noisy moans. It was the third time he'd called her now, and she'd learned several things over the course of the time spent on the phone with him: the length of the call - and therefore the the cost - was no issue, he was extremely vocal throughout and expected her to be as well, and his orgasms were long, loud, and incredibly enthusiastic.
She couldn't help but compare his noisy climaxes with Erik's quiet, near silent culminations. He was interested in hearing her gasps and sighs of delight, wanted her to 'sing for him,' but he rarely gave much evidence to his own satisfaction.
Christine pursed her lips and pushed thoughts of him away, annoyed with herself. She was not thinking about him.
There had been no calls from Erik in the past several days, and she didn't want to admit how much it bothered her, how much his unusual silence hurt. When she'd sat wallowing in loneliness and sadness on Sunday night, she had been tempted to dial him on the switchboard line to ask what she'd obviously done to upset him, but every time her hand reached for the receiver, she'd falter. Erik had been the one doing the calling for weeks, but since that past Friday, the night of their movie date as she'd been dreamily referring to it in her head, he'd been a ghost.
Rationally, Christine knew it was ridiculous to be upset, knew this man didn't owe her anything. He'd told her he had several different projects he was currently juggling, she knew he was busy.
He's busy doing actual work and you're being a ridiculous baby, she tried telling herself sternly.
Rationality didn't do much to keep the hurt at bay.
She'd been surprised when he hadn't called her late on Saturday, but brushed it off, reminding herself of the various freelance gigs he'd told her about. When he'd missed their lesson on Sunday afternoon, Christine had sat in her living room for a long time, staring unseeing at the sunny window. The sound of the city, vibrant and alive just beyond, seemed a million miles away from where she was; alone, an empty shell.
She missed her father. She missed waking up on Sunday mornings to the smell of pancakes and bacon, to the sound of her father singing along to the oldies station on the little radio above the microwave. He would play with a handful of different musical groups on evenings and weekends; Sundays afternoons was spent fiddling at an Irish pub-themed restaurant that was popular with tourists. Dinner would be brought home each week in styrofoam containers-boxty and corned beef and loaded potato skins-which they would share at the small kitchen table as she did homework in the glow of the Sokoloff's buzzing sign. The most taxing thing she'd had to worry about then was passing her music theory mid-term.
Safe and secure.
As ridiculous as she knew it was, the only time she felt that same sense of security anymore was when Erik called her. Having him absent those past several days, after weeks of being swathed in the plush velvet of his voice, with his deep chuckle and the illusion of closeness he created, had left her floundering.
Going to bed without his voice in her ear had made sleep nearly impossible. Every creak of the floorboards overhead made her jump, the slamming of doors throughout the building, the nonstop commotion of traffic outside the window...as she'd huddled in her bed, fervently wishing for the feel of his arms around her, alone and lonely for the first time in weeks, she'd strained to hear the neon hum of the Sokoloff's sign outside her living room window until her eyes finally closed.
It was Monday evening now, a full 72 hours since she'd last spoken to him, and she wondered if he'd given up on her entirely.
"That was fantastic," the enthusiastic man on the phone was saying cheerfully, "as always! This is the best way to rub one out...you need to let me know if you ever make the leap to live in person, if you know what I mean."
Her nose had wrinkled on its own as he spoke, but his last words tightened her stomach. It wasn't the first time that a caller had asked if she did "house calls," and she'd always been able to laugh it off and deflect the inquiries away, but this guy was a talker. The clock was still running and she should be glad, but frankly, she'd decided she appreciated it more when they just hung up after they'd finished.
Several minutes more of feigning enthusiasm passed before she was finally replacing the phone in the cradle, carrying her plate of pizza bagel crumbs and empty Snapple bottle to the sink. The line had begun to ring again before she'd even turned around and Christine stayed busy for the majority of the following several hours.
Good, she thought to herself, as she perched on the edge of her tub. She'd discovered that a squeezy juice bottle produced an authentic-sounding stream when she slowly depressed it, emptying the water she'd filled within into her toilet bowl slowly for the benefit of her panting caller. If your busy, you're not thinking of him.
She cursed herself the instant the thought crossed her mind, the him in question being brought to the forefront once more.
At long last the phone line grew quiet. Not a bad night. None of the calls that evening had been especially taxing - lots of first timers who just wanted her to coo encouragement as they frantically beat off on the other end of the line. There hadn't been any requests to pretend she was anyone's sister or boss, she hadn't needed to act out undressing in front of an open window, and almost every call had lasted close to fifteen minutes.
Christine had made it a habit to stay logged into the system as she prepared for bed each night, not wanting to miss any potential final calls that might be patched through to her extension. Padding around the small apartment, she systematically checked all the windows and ensured the deadbolt and chain were set on her door. Teeth were brushed, her face scrubbed pink, hair pulled into a high bun. Leaning into the mirror, she examined a stray end of one of her curls, frowning at the split end before stepping back to eye herself critically.
The oversized Ace of Bass t-shirt she'd tugged on was a far cry from the ivory slip she wore in her fantasies with him. Spaghetti-strapped and edged in lace, Christine had fingered the smooth, thigh-skimming satin every time she and Meg went to Victoria's Secret, and told herself someday each time.
She turned away from the mirror, exasperated with herself once more for bringing the thought of him and the time she spent in his arms to mind. He doesn't care about you, stupid...you're just another girl on the phone, a drab little mouse.
The cordless rang just as she was settling into bed. See, this is why you don't log out early, she reminded herself before answering in her voice of practiced, breathy nonchalance. Calls this late usually went one of two ways-fast and furious, the men on the other end of the line already about to pop; or exceptionally deviant, the men who waited until the darkest part of the night to indulge their rape or incest fantasies. Christine crossed her fingers for the former option.
Silence greeted her on the other end of the line, and after several beats Christine blinked in confusion.
"Hello?"
Still nothing, although as she closed her eyes and focused, she was certain she could hear someone breathing. A creeping chill began to move up her spine as she became more certain with each passing second that there was in fact someone on the other line. The tiny hairs on her arms and neck stood out as gooseflesh prickled her skin.
"Is anyone there?"
Nothing but the barest hint of breath. As Christine reminded herself that the clock was running, her hand drifted down to finger the handle of the steak knife that was still wedged beneath her mattress. When the phantom caller disconnected just before the three minute mark, she released the breath she'd been holding with a shudder.
It was probably some dumb kid calling the line with their parent's credit card on a dare, she told herself firmly. Some kid or just some anxious guy, too nervous to say anything.
She'd had those calls before, after all, thinking of her early days with the service: the men who didn't want to talk, who only wanted to be heard masturbating. But you knew when that was happening…
Christine shuddered again, knowing her inner voice was right. She'd always been able to hear the evidence of what was happening on those calls, would be able to hear their heavy breathing and the sound of skin desperately moving on skin followed by their wheezing, straining release. As twisted as it was, those noises were comfortingly familiar.
This had been unnerving. She didn't know why the silence on the other end of the phone had seemed menacing, but it had.
It had, and so it was.
"You need to stop disregarding your instincts, sweetheart. If it feels wrong, it is wrong. Don't be so worried about being nice, that's how you wind up in someone's trunk."
That conversation had taken place one evening as she told him about the man who'd accosted her outside of the bistro after her shift several days prior. She had recognized him as a customer from earlier that same day as soon as he'd latched onto her arm. Tony had wanted to cut him off at the bar, but the shift manager hadn't allowed it, leaving the affable bartender in a snit. The man had been standing outside smoking when Christine left for the day, had blocked her path on the sidewalk, forcing her into a slurred conversation.
She hadn't told Erik about the way the man had put his hand on her hip, pulling her into him, asking if she wanted to "earn some spending money on the side." She'd broken free with an uncomfortable laugh, stepping into the street to move past him, and hurried home with her cheeks burning.
She sank back to her pillow now, a hundred different horrific scenarios about the mystery caller running through her head, each more terrifying than the last.
What if Erik's crazy paranoia was justified, and someone had broken into the personnel records? What if it was Friday Night Guy, calling to scare her, or to listen for the sounds around her apartment, as Erik had intimated it being easy to do?
When the phone rang again a moment later, Christine whimpered out loud, her fingers brushing the knife handle once more before lifting the handset. Her voice was little more than a whisper when she answered this time, a leaf shivering on the end of a barren branch, her eyes screwed shut in fear, anticipating the ominous silence once more.
"Christine?"
His voice, dark and rich, heavy with concern, speaking her name.
"Erik," she gasped out, feeling the air rush out of her, glad she was in bed at the moment, for undoubtedly her knees would have buckled, sending her to the floor.
"Sweetheart, what's wrong? Are you alright? Christine, did something happen?"
There it was again, her name with his voice! His warm, rescuing voice, pulling her from the churn of icy water she'd been trapped in for the several days of his absence, and she gripped the life preserver greedily, letting his voice wrap snugly around her as he murmured gently in her ear.
"I know it's just stupid, I'm being silly." She forced out a self-deprecating laugh as she finished telling him what had happened, pushing away the shivering fear that had gripped her. He had been quiet as she told him about the call, had pressed her to remember if she'd ever received such a call before.
"I'll thank you not to call yourself stupid again...now, try to remember, sweetheart. You've never had a call like this before?"
She hadn't, she knew she would remember this feeling of creeping dread, of looming shadows, of-
"Once," she blurted, interrupting her own thoughts as a memory surfaced of a call from weeks earlier. "But it was in the daytime. They cut me at the bistro and I logged into the service early since I was home...but that call was shorter, and it-it wasn't scary. Not like this."
It hadn't been scary because the sun had been shining, her brain instantly supplied, as soon as the words had left her mouth. She'd just slipped into her Umbros, was still hanging up her work clothes when the short call had come through. It didn't even register as being out of the ordinary at the time, as she went through her little routine.
"D-do you think it's him?"
Erik hesitated a long moment before responding to her quavering whisper. "I think it's probably nothing. Some John too afraid to say anything, like you said. I don't want you to worry about it."
Christine clung clung to the steadiness of his voice, the surety of his words.
Safe and secure.
"It's late princess, you should go to bed," he murmured and she squeaked out an indignant laugh. The irony that she'd been trying to go to bed before the unnerving phone call wasn't lost on her, nor was the fact that if she had, she'd have missed Erik's call well.
"I was," she explained, stretching her legs in the cool sheets. "I was just about to logout off the system when that call through. I would have missed you too."
"Nevermind that, I would rather have missed you than for you to have been upset. You're off tomorrow, right?"
Christine took a deep breath, letting herself sink into the pillow once more. It was nice to have someone who knew her schedule, to matter enough to anyone to be kept track of. "No, I picked up an extra shift. It's fine though, I need the money…y-you missed our lesson." She winced at her stammer, at the way her voice trailed off, at the fact that she gave voice to her thought at all.
He's here now! What did it matter if she'd spent the last three days twisting in misery without his voice there, trying in vain to shove all thoughts of him out of her mind?
"I know, and I'm sorry, angel." His voice was regretful and sincere, and she allowed it to tuck around her, pulling her closer. "Something came up last minute with a tight deadline, it couldn't be helped. I should have let you know though, and I'm sorry."
"It's okay," she lied. "I know you're busy...I-I missed you."
"I missed you too, sweetheart." His voice was a soft purr, kitten-soft as it caressed her shoulders and ghosted at her neck. "Come to bed, you need to be up early."
"Alright...I-I guess I'll say goodnight…"
"I'm not hanging up, Christine. Just...please just come to bed."
She didn't argue further, as there was nothing she wanted more than to curl in to bed with him. She felt the long, firm line of his body in the sheets, tucked her head against his shoulder as her eyes fluttered shut. She sighed softly when she felt his arms come around her, felt his lips move across her forehead.
"I want you to go out tomorrow after work. Go have fun with your girlfriends, go shopping, go to dinner, just treat yourself. No calls. You need a break, Christine. Okay?"
"Okay," she whispered, powerless to disobey the firmness in his tone. She felt herself sink into the golden amber of his voice, dark and sticky like buckwheat honey, pulling her down, keeping her suspended in his embrace. "Will you be too busy to call me tomorrow?"
Erik hesitated a brief moment, and the spell was nearly broken. "I hope not to be, sweetheart. I'll do my best to catch you before you're asleep, okay? On Wednesday I want to hear you run through all of your audition pieces."
"Yes, Maestro," she laughed softly, pressing her face into the pillow, happy to have her lesson to look forward to. Singing for Erik was the bright spot of her weeks, closely followed by the things they would do after her lesson…
"Goodnight, Erik." I love you.
Somewhere, in a tiny corner of her mind, she was terrifyingly cognizant of the fact that Erik had never insisted on staying on the line as she slept before, that he really was concerned about her strange call from earlier, that she'd missed some crucial context behind it and the previous call like it...but when he began to sing that same sweet, lilting little tune, she slumped against him, too exhausted to care. Nothing would happen to her as long as he was there.
Safe and secure.
"Sweet dreams, sweetheart."
.
.
"Chrissy? There's someone here for you."
Christine jumped in the booth where she sat, rolling silverware. She was seated along the far wall of the bistro, a heap of white linen in front of her. The small dining room was open to her, although she wasn't worried about being spotted.
Raoul and his co-workers had ceased their twice weekly lunch visits. Christine knew she was the cause, knew her lack of communication with him had been shitty. Although she regretted it, there was nothing she could do about that now.
Such a little coward, Christine.
She'd been too gripped by terror to address it at the time, but Erik's comment about her "financier boyfriend" rubbed her the wrong way. She didn't want him thinking she was involved with someone, even casually. The thought of Raoul potentially being there at the bistro now made her skin crawl, but she hoped that Hannah would have alerted her in warning.
Her early lunch shift was just about over, she realized, pushing her completed stack of linen bundles to the side. Rising stiffly from the booth, Christine made her way to the front of the dining room, sighing in relief when she saw Meg waiting at the hostess counter.
"Hey! What's up, is everything alright?"
She could see, even as she asked, that things were not alright. Meg's normally sparkling eyes were shadowed, an air of exhaustion hanging over her.
"I need to day drink," her friend said miserably. "When do you get off?"
"Oh! In about twenty minutes, actually...we can just stay here, Tony'll give us a discount at the bar. We'll get some food so you don't pass out, okay?"
Thirty minutes later, the girls were seated in a booth just outside of Hannah's section, Seabreezes and a platter of spinach and artichoke dip in front of them.
"Okay, what's going on? You look terrible."
That wasn't completely true, she admitted to herself. Meg was immaculately dressed as always, in a short, black skater dress with white collars and cuffs. The pleated white placket at the neckline gave the illusion of being prim and proper; an illusion destroyed by her white over-the-knee socks and thigh-skimming hem.
"Harsh, Christine," Meg scowled. "I'll have you know the last two days have been a complete disaster." She paused mournfully, gulping at her drink, and Christine was reminded that her friend was a pro at selling drama. "I almost wish I were back in school! Mom has been on a fucking tirade...it's all such a mess."
"Are you going to tell me what happened or do I need to start guessing?"
"We were hacked!" Meg hissed, leaning forward over the booth. Christine felt a chill run up the back of her neck at her friend's words. She gripped the edge of the table as Meg continued.
"The entire system, Christine! The call records, the financials, everything. Like, less than two days before we were supposed to get that security installation I told you about! Can you even believe it? It's like they knew it was coming!"
"The personnel records?" she demanded in a shaky voice. "Meg, did they get into they get into the employee personnel files? Like that-that guy who was calling you was worried about?"
Meg blew a shiny dark lock of hair from her eye with a huff, pausing to sip at her drink once more. "That's the damned joke, they didn't. Him calling was what prompted mom to even order this stupid security upgrade in the first place, because that lunatic has been so crazy and mom felt she had to do something."
"Then what is it they were after? Just credit card numbers?" She felt her shoulders slump in relief. This is just a scam to rip off credit cards, that's all it is.
Meg huffed again, shaking her head in annoyance. "If only it were that simple. They went through the call logs, pulled the information tied to the credit cards. So like, yes, they took the financial stuff. But you know how your name shows up on the store side of a receipt?"
Christine nodded. The girls had gone to the mall a few weeks prior and Christine had treated herself to a bottle of her favorite vanilla body spray from Victoria's Secret. "Someday I'm going to be able to afford to buy my nightgown," she'd bemoaned as she signed the sales slip after swiping her debit card. She'd noticed that her name was indeed across the bottom of the slip of paper the employee slipped into a slot in the register after Christine handed back the pen.
"So like, same thing, when a caller gives their credit card number to the dispatcher, their name shows up on our end. Whoever got into the system didn't just take all the credit card numbers, they went through the call logs to tie the numbers to specific callers. At least that's what mom said the computer guy thinks."
"For what though? Why would they need to know that? What difference does that make?"
"Blackmail? Extortion? Who knows? Like, maybe one of your regulars is a congressman or something. Now this person can tell it was them calling you at eight thirty on a Tuesday night, they have the credit card records to prove it, and they blackmail them for calling a sex line."
Christine thought about Bud and his violent fellatio fantasies being some sort of judge or senator and snorted with laughter. You love choking on my cock, don't you, little slut?
"Well, I'm sorry it's been such a nightmare for your mom," Christine said easily, feeling the tension leave her shoulders. If her personal information was still safe, she didn't really care about the men who called her to masturbate. "But I'm glad to hear the employee records were safe. Your name is in there too, Meggie."
"That's true." Meg shifted in the booth, reaching for a chip. "But this isn't over. Mom is having the computer guys go through everything with a fine tooth comb now. Any irregularities in the billing, anything weird. You better hope your big spender isn't some bigwig who could be blackmailed, Christine," she chuckled, draining the last of her drink.
"Wha-what do you mean?" Christine stiffened at Meg's question, feeling her stomach clench. When she'd picked up her last paycheck, she'd noticed immediately that she'd been overpaid. At the time she'd persuaded herself that someone, maybe her enthusiastic new regular, had called in a tip for her, she knew that was technically a thing they could do…She swallowed hard at the thought that she'd simply been granted a gift in the form of a payroll mistake.
"Don't give me that. You kept that guy on the phone for almost two hours the one night, I don't even want to know what he's into! You'll be back to school in no time at this rate!"
Christine gaped, forcing herself to shut her mouth after a moment. She'd never kept any caller on the line that long, she didn't need to check her own handwritten records to check. It had been a mistake, a terrible mistake and she would have to pay it back once the investigation into the system was complete.
"Let's go out tonight. Please, Chris?" Meg whined dramatically, tugging Christine's hand across the table to her. "Let's go dancing. Maybe you'll meet someone!"
She didn't correct her friend's assumption that she wanted to meet anyone, didn't bother telling Meg that she already had met someone. It would have invited too many questions that she didn't have answers to, and Christine acknowledged with a heavy heart that it wouldn't make a difference anyways. It wasn't possible, he'd said.
"Yes, let's!" she readily agreed, thinking of her promise to take the night off.
"Really?!" Meg squealed excitedly. "Oh, awesome! I thought I was going to have to beg! You don't need to go home for anything, do you? There's a place by the office that does airbrush acrylics now! We can go get our nails done and get ready at my place. You can keep me company while I cover Robin's lunch."
Thinking of Erik's order to treat herself, Christine readily agreed. He was right, she thought. She did need a break.
.
.
She never drank this much.
As she swayed, Christine reminded herself once more that she never drank this much, and it was stupid to have done so that night. The music was a deafening pulse that thumped through her, the body behind her was warm with a wide hand that firmly spanned her hip, and her head spun.
Wanna be my lover, wanna be my lover
His voice was a low rumble at her shoulder, deep and heavy with desire, and Christine let her head drop back as the broad expanse of his chest as his hand caressed her thighs under her short skirt. The repetitive lyrics of the song only increased the reeling spin of the room, and when one of his long fingers slipped under the edge of her panties to stroke her, she gasped, arching under his touch.
Wanna be my lover, wanna be my lover
The flashing lights of the club still strobed behind her closed eyes as his fingers moved against her, circling through her slick folds with ease, pulling a breathy moan from her throat. She was incredibly aroused, she wanted this, wanted him so badly. His movements against her were imprecise; his thin, graceful finger lacked their normal dexterity, were not rubbing at her little pearl as effectively and pleasurably as he normally did…
It's because you're not singing, she told herself, shifting against his hand, moving her hips to help him find the right spot, the spot that made her sing for him. He never touches you when you're dancing, you need to sing.
Christine's eyes opened with a snap, squinting under the flashing lights above her head. The room still spun and she struggled to hold onto the thought that had broken through the fog in her mind.
Erik never touched her when she was dancing...
The voice at her shoulder was deep, but it was not rich and rolling, it didn't press against her like a velvety caress. The hand that moved against her did not possess long, dexterous musician's fingers. Thick, ineffective digits rubbed between her legs clumsily, the deep voice above her was stale with cigarettes and alcohol. This was not Erik, her inner voice screamed, forcing her to lucidity. The man that her come up behind her as she danced, who had ground his body against hers, pulling her into his erection before he began touching her was not Erik, was definitely not Erik.
Wanna be my lover, wanna be my lover
She jerked away, stumbling into people in her borrowed Candies platform heels. She turned slightly, just long enough to watch him suck her essence from his fingers. The room continued to pulse and sway as the lights flashed and music thudded through her chest. Christine pushed her way through the throng of people on the dance floor, struggling to get back to the bar as she gasped for breath, desperate to get away from the man, to ignore the tingling ache he'd ignited between her thighs. You're like a cat in heat, you should have let him finish the job, she thought disdainfully. It might be funny if it weren't true. Pressing her thighs together briefly, she continued to push through the crowd, desperate to find Meg before the night devolved any further.
.
.
They'd barely been in the club for thirty minutes when he'd spotted her. It had been Meg's idea, to go to The Bois, a trendy new club catering to uptown professionals. It shouldn't have surprised her when Raoul had been there, spotting her at the bar-that was simply her luck. He'd dodged through the crowd of people moving to a Jamiroquai song on the small first floor dance floor to corner her.
"Look, I-I'm sorry if I moved too fast that night, Christine. I never wanted to do anything that would scare you off...I hope we can start again? Please?"
She'd been frozen under his blue-eyed gaze, earnest and honest and far too innocent for the likes of her. All of the lines she'd practiced in her mirror fled and Christine gaped like a fish, her mind empty and inert. Raoul was a nice guy, a sweet guy, and maybe if she'd met him before this summer things would be different...but now they were different, she was different, and she knew it - they - couldn't work.
Fortunately, rescue had come in the way of an unlikely hero.
"There you are! This place is excellent!" called an enthusiastic voice, and she and Raoul had both turned. It was a voice that Christine recognized, she'd realised instantly, to her horror. A voice she'd heard moaning loudly as he orgasmed on the phone with her, cheerfully telling her what a mess his ejaculation had made.
The man belonging to the voice was a bit older than Raoul, but had the same preppy, privileged air about him. Another man at his side could have been Raoul's clone, and she assumed it was the older brother he'd mentioned to her several times when they'd been out together.
"Who're your friends?" her unnamed caller asked with a bright, slightly predatory smile, his white teeth blinding.
Don't say anything, don't let him hear your voice. Stupid, Christine, so stupid.
"We were just telling him that the women here are beautiful tonight! Just what you need to get over that little back alley cocktease, Raoul!"
"And a hell of a lot cheaper than a whore on the phone," the other man muttered, causing Mr. Enthusiasm to burst into laughter.
"Hey, that was just a suggestion! You're the one who said he needs to get laid...and that broad's worth every penny, I'm telling you."
Christine and Raoul had each tuned a deep shade of red, but before she was forced to respond, Meg had swooped in with a scowl on her narrow face.
"Yeah, as if. We don't talk to men who call women whores, and I can promise you, you sure as hell couldn't afford me with that cheap knockoff Rolex." Christine had reflected that Meg was probably wrong about the watch, but her friend was already onto her next victim. Swinging to Raoul, she'd fixed him with her mother's piercing, withering glare, causing him to visibly gulp. "You want another chance with her? Make better friends. C'mon Christine."
She allowed herself to be pulled away by the hand, nearly choking on her relief and giddy with her near miss, counting her blessings for her fearless, full-of-herself friend.
Now, as she stumbled through the crowd, that felt like it had been hours ago. Once it became clear that the men weren't following, Christine relaxed, letting Meg buy her their first round, and then a succession of men at the bar. It wasn't long before they were clinging hands and giggling, moving upstairs to the dance floor where they were plied with more drinks before losing each other in the sea of writhing bodies.
Once she'd broken free of the man who'd touched her, Christine pushed her way off the dancefloor, finding Meg eventually leaning against a wall, her pupils blown wide.
"I...I think we drank too much, Chrissy. Let's go home, I think I'm going to be sick. We'll call my mom's car service, they can let you off right at your door."
It wasn't until she was back in her apartment alone that the reality of the night sank in. She'd let a stranger touch her, had let him touch her, wishing it had been him. If she'd been sober, she would likely have been more upset with herself, but at the moment all she think of was the touch of the man's fingers against her, and how much she wished it had been the touch of another.
Finding her cordless in its cradle, she dialed the switchboard number, keying in his extension from memory.
"Christine?"
His voice was rougher than she was used to. He sounded drained and tired, once more too busy for her.
"You didn't call me," she heard herself whimper in an wobbly voice. The fact that he might have tried calling earlier was lost on her in her drunken state.
"Sweetheart, you sound-"
"You didn't call me," she repeated, tears suddenly pricking her eyes. "You had more important things to do."
"You're drunk," he said calmly, in an even voice, evading her question. His steadiness was a thorn, twisting into her heart. How could he be calm when she was in such a tumult? How could he not understand the way she felt about him? "You need to-"
"I am," she agreed, laughing bitterly as she cut him off. "I'm drunk and I'm horny, but you don't care about that. You don't care about me at all." Offense colored his rebuttal, but Christine pushed on heedlessly, alcohol-fueled emotion forcing the words out.
"I did what you said, I went out with my friend, I tried to have fun. I let a stranger put his hands on me and I drank too much and anything could have happened, but you don't care. You say you do, but you don't care about me. I let a complete stranger touch me because I wanted it to be you, it could be you, but you don't care."
She tasted the salt of her tears as she sniffled in the silence that followed her outburst, and for a moment Christine wondered if he'd simply hung up as she was speaking.
"You think I don't care," he said slowly. She remembered the sharp hurt in his voice the day she'd plead with him to meet her, the day he'd told her it wasn't possible. She shivered to hear that sound, raw and bitter, like steel on stone, coming from him again. "You think I don't care about you, about the time we spend together? About your music and your future? You think I want to imagine you with other men?"
His words were a gash that bled to the bone, and in a pitiful whimper she tried to stop him, to take back the words she'd said, but Erik talked over her the way she'd done to him.
"I have terrible news for sweetheart, I'm just a man, and my thoughts are as filthy as any other man's. You think I don't want to have you in my bed, to hold you in my arms? You think you're the only one who wants, Christine? Well, I'm sorry to disappoint you, my dear. I want, I want very badly, but fate has conspired to put this situation outside of my control."
You should have told him how much he means to you, how he's the only one who makes you feel safe and happy and cherished. You should have told him you loved him, she berated herself, her tears falling in earnest then. Now you've ruined everything.
"I'm sorry," she whispered through her tears, her sharp, hitching gasps vibrating her chest.
Several moments passed before she heard him sigh. When he spoke again, his voice was gentle and soft; a warm, cashmere blanket wrapping around her. "Quiet now, sweetheart. No more tears. I'm the one who's sorry, I shouldn't speak to you that way. I want you to take some Advil and a big glass of water, and then come to bed. You're going to have a hell of a headache tomorrow."
The events of the day and tumult of the evening caught up with her once she'd shed her dress and climbed into bed after following his orders. Her head felt impossibly heavy and darkness rapidly closed in on her as he hummed her the same soft little lullaby.
"Are we going to sing tomorrow?"
His low chuckle warmed her and his fingers threaded gently through her hair as he held her close. "Why don't we see how you're feeling...maybe just a movie tomorrow. When you wake up, you might not even remember this..." She let her head sink into her pillow, his strong arms snug around her. "Sweet dreams, angel."
"Goodnight Erik," she murmured with her last vestige of consciousness. His breath was warm and his embrace comforting. She didn't want to leave his arms, not ever.
Safe and secure.
"I love you."
.
.
Living up the street from the fire house meant the sound of sirens was familiar. Ladder 21 had trucks coming and going at various points in the day, and the slow wail of the fire siren was white noise to her.
When she heard the sirens early that morning, she thought nothing of it as she turned on her side, the dull ache in her skull that Erik had predicted being an unfortunate reality. For nearly an hour she drifted in and out of sleep, the piercing shrillness of the sirens never slowing.
Staggering from her bed to the kitchen, after being jolted awake once more by the shrill wail, Christine fetched herself a fresh glass of water and several more Advil before she peered blearily out her window. Flashing blue and red illuminated the block, five cars in all. The police cars explained why the shrillness was so different than the white noise of the ladder company sirens, all clustered up the street, two blocks from her apartment.
The alleyway the commotion was centered around was one she walked past several times a week on her way to the subway, she mused. Christine wondered what had happened for a moment before turning away, deciding that it didn't compare to her ache in her head. It has nothing to do with you, why worry, she told herself before dropping tiredly back into her bed, letting darkness claim her once more.
