The Rowans stayed late. It was almost as if Linda was afraid to leave, almost as if she could see inside of Alan. There is something special, emotionally entangled between them, and I can see it and Len can see it. Alan is connected to Linda in a way I don’t understand.

We had sex after the Rowans left. I didn’t want Alan to touch me. I was still rattled inside, emotionally messy from all that happened. He knew, he sensed it, and it hurt him.

It was just touching at first. Those gentle touches he does with such care. And I could not stop myself from touching him. And that was it, it started as it always does once I reach out to him.

I wouldn’t call what we did making love. And yes, now I completely understand the difference between making love and fucking. No, this was fucking—hard, intense, erotic, violent fucking. It was draining in a strange way. Oddly necessary. Life affirming. Yes, that was what it was. Intensely violent fucking to affirm we are both alive.

Afterward, we lay sprawled on the bed, naked and sweaty, and we didn’t touch. There were no tender touches and kisses from Alan. We just lay. Disconnected. Limp. And yet, really connected in a way unlike any other way I’ve known with him. Connected in the disconnect. I don’t know how to explain that.

We stayed where we had finished until I could crawl on the bed to my pillow, and I went to sleep without him holding me and for some reason, it was OK. The distance. The quiet neither of us seemed to want to disturb.

And now there is music in the room, and there is some undefined emotion in it, something I’ve not heard before, something complex and beyond me. And here I lie, pretending sleep, because I do not know what he is revealing to me.

The bedroom door closes. I sit up in bed, hugging my knees with my arms, and turn to check the clock. It’s only one in the morning. I thought it would be much later. The Rowans left at eleven. Then there was the fucking. Then I dozed. It all happened in only two hours. So much and it was only two hours.

Every human emotion in two hours has flowed through my flesh and veins. I have touched death. I have touched life. I have fucked. I have felt love. I have lain in the quiet. Alone. Lost in someone. Connected. Untouched. Disconnected. There is sadness. There is hope. There is the past, haunting us both it seems. And there is no future. I can’t see it. Is that why I am lost inside myself? Is that why Alan is lost as well?

I lie back against the pillows. I wonder where he went. How long will he be gone? I don’t want to fall back asleep to open my eyes and not see Alan watching me. There is a smile in his eyes he has only at that moment; the moment I wake when he is watching me.

I need that smile right now. It is life affirming, as well, and it is hopeful.

I let an hour pass before I pull on my panties and Alan’s t-shirt. I love wearing his shirts, the scent of him brushing my senses, feeling surrounded by him by just being tucked into his clothes. There are so many new emotions, richer and fuller, now that I’ve shared myself with Alan.

Everything changes. It changes quickly. Even the feel of my body is different. I move differently. I have a different level of awareness of myself. I touch myself differently, even if I’m only brushing back my hair. I want richness of feeling in everything I do, awareness, and a sense of being female. It is such a mind blowing change, to have been so not aware of myself seven days ago, and now completely aware of myself, to feel my own femaleness in me, awake and dominant.

I can feel it as I walk down the hall trying to figure out where Alan disappeared to. In the great room, I find Jeanette curled on a sofa reading. Linda warned me that Jeanette lives here. I didn’t see her the first three days I was here, and now I can’t seem to avoid her. She was hovering in the background the entire time the Rowans were here.

I ignore Jeanette as I look out onto the terrace. I can feel her watching me. Why does she dislike me so much? I search the patio furniture. No Alan. I turn around and go back down the hall.

I turn down an artery I have not explored before. Alan’s apartment consumes the entire top floor of the building and there is a maze of interior construction, encompassing the space. The elegance and the scale had seemed strange to me, and I couldn’t understand why Alan would want to live in a place that’s practically a museum. It is so formal and unwelcoming.

Linda explained that it was Lillian’s apartment, purchased with some sort of trust fund Alan had from his childhood—one-hundred million pounds, she’d whispered confidentially with raised eyebrows. Alan was a child genius and musical prodigy with a highbrow, British clan of theatrical people, but the posh tea and biscuit image only works after a musician is famous, so pouf, there was Manny. Manny hides most parts of himself from everyone except his inner circle. Alan is not good for the brand.

A year ago, he booted Lillian out and took possession of the place. As for their most recent feud, sometime early last year, Linda knew none of the details. She avoids Lillian like the plague. And Alan was starting to unravel at that time. Linda didn’t know what happened, only that he walked away from them all, and then began to crash and burn: A total downward spiral, Len chasing after his heels, Len trying to keep him sane, Alan unmanageable, and then that one, great, terrible awful that Len won’t talk about, where Alan was whisked away, “for six fucking months.”

That part of the story is the only part of the story I know. He was with Jack.

I peek into rooms, guest rooms and sitting rooms, each stunningly arranged, unique, the stylish décor of old money. Whatever can be said about Lillian, she is a woman of exceptional taste.

At the end of the hall, there is a heavier door and I know what it is before I enter it. A recording studio, tucked away in the English Country Manor. Alan’s only alteration to Lillian’s showplace. His space to work.

There are two guys sitting at the sound board talking quietly. So, Alan slipped off in the night to work, probably to finish the tracks that are going to be shelved by the label according to Arnie Arnowitz.

I shut the door. The room is heavy with the smell of weed, there is booze all over the console, and ashtrays overflowing with cigarettes.

The chair swivels around to face me and I am held in a stare that makes me breathless. Oh my, Ian Kennedy—golden blond hair, deep California tan, twinkling caramel eyes from a face thirty-five and youthfully roguish, and wearing crumpled clothes as if he’s just rolled from bed.

“It’s Chrissie Parker!”

He’s on his feet and I grin up at him. “It’s Ian Kennedy!”

He laughs, pulling me into a bear bug. “Jesus, girl, what are you doing here all grown up and everything? Would you look at you. I knew you were going to be a stunner once you got those braces off.”

I blush furiously. When I was fifteen, I had an absolutely, humiliatingly obvious crush on Ian Kennedy, music producer extraordinaire. He was such a good guy about it and I wonder if he remembers.

Arm draped loosely around my shoulders, he turns to his mix engineer. “Ryan, do you know who this chick’s old man is? This is Jackson Parker’s girl.”

We shake hands and Ryan returns to his work. Ian sinks back into his chair, holding my hands as I settle on the couch.

Those lovely caramel eyes smile at me. “We’ve got to do dinner while you’re here. We’ve got to catch up. Is your old man here?”

“No, just me in New York.” I look through the glass and I don’t see Alan. “I never expected to run into you here.”

He tosses me a wink. “I never expected to run into you here.”

I change the subject quickly. “Is it going well?”

Ian laughs and lights a cigarette. “He’s almost human tonight. Amazing, since every exec at the label has their head up his ass over this.”