He had her wait outside the front door while he scrambled through the apartment—tossing dirty shirts and socks under the bed, cramming food wrappers and takeout containers into the trash beneath the sink. When it overflowed, he shoved it down with his foot. A final glance around—still a mess, but at least a livable one. He took a breath and opened the door.
Desi gave him a smirk then slipped inside. Her fingers skimming the doorframe as she swung in. Her gaze swept over the place——it was a shoebox. A bathroom door on one wall, a kitchenette across from it. A bed shoved up against the only window, with a nightstand and armchair tucked beside it. She smirked again.
"I thought you'd have a piano."
"The super wouldn't like it. Most of what I write...I do from memory."
She walked past the armchair, peeled off her coat, and draped it over an armrest. Then she sat on his bed. He nervously cleared his throat.
"You want something to drink?" He opened the fridge. Old milk. Expired orange juice. "I have…water."
"Water's fine."
He filled a glass from the tap and handed it to her. Her eyes never leaving his. He cleared his throat again and watched her take a slow sip.
"Why do you like old films?" he asked.
She set the glass down on the nightstand beside the lamp and notepad. His gaze fought to stay on her face, but drifted to her body—how the silk blue dress outlined her narrow waist.
"They feel like honest lies."
His attention snapped back to her words. "What do you mean?"
"Movies are lies. The characters, the feelings—none of it's real. But old films…they owned that. You could see the fake sets, the painted backdrops. The overacting. It wasn't about being real—it was about performing the lie. Movies now work so hard to feel real, to be real—the lie gets lost."
"If it's all lies in the end, what does it matter?"
"Maybe it doesn't," she said, lying back, her legs dangling off the edge of the bed. "Lay with me."
He swallowed hard, then eased down beside her. She turned to face him. Their eyes met.
"When I heard you play," she said, "it was like every note touched me. Like your hands were on my skin. I felt it, everywhere." She took a breath. "When I saw you leaving, I went to the bar to get a drink—just so I could talk to you."
Then she kissed him.
Her fingers tangled in his hair, nails grazing his scalp. He touched her shoulder—softer than he'd imagined. She climbed on top of him. Her dress slipped off her shoulders, dropping to her waist. He hesitated—nervous, almost reverent. She smiled, took his hands, and pressed them to her breasts.
After that, his shirt came off. Then his belt. He fumbled with his shoes, pants catching at the ankle. She laughed. He laughed, too. She kicked off her sneakers. He peeled off her thong. His hands roamed—her waist, her thighs, her breasts—trying to memorize everything.
It was a long night, filled with heavy panting, tangled sheets, and hands exploring every inch.
A night that bled into morning, until sunlight crept around the buildings and broke through the window.
That was when they slept.
Her face tucked into his chest, her breath slow and warm. His fingers traced the freckles on her shoulder, slow and aimless.
And for the first time in a long time, his mind was quiet.
At first, Owen thought this was just a fling—a fleeting tryst. But together, things felt easy. The conversation, the late-night walks through the city. She'd watch him sit in his armchair, scribbling notes, and when he was done, they'd tangle themselves into each other's bodies—in the armchair, in the narrow shower, in the cramped kitchenette.
But always at his place. Never hers.
He wondered why, but he never asked. Just like he never asked about her work at The Jezebel.
Some nights, when she wasn't working, she came to his gigs. Tonight, he played at Piero's—a polished downtown joint with five-course meals, white linen tablecloths, and ornate electric chandeliers that tried too hard to be classy.
She sat at the bar in a black dress that turned heads. He played soft pieces—background noise for the rich to talk over. His fingers moved from memory, muscle guiding them while his eyes wandered the room. A blur of styled dresses, cufflinks, manicured hands gripping stemware. Middle-aged men with their wives on their arms, or mistresses.
And there was Desi. Martini in hand. Sipping slow. Her dress cut low in the back, revealing the slope of her spine. It didn't matter where he played—men always found her. She smiled, flirted effortlessly. One man leaned in. She held his black tie lightly in her hands, looked up at him with those blue eyes.
Owen looked away. His hands found the keys again. When he glanced back, her gaze was already on him.
He smirked.
After the set, he went to her. She kissed his cheek. He stole a sip of her drink.
"One of these suckers bought it for you?" he said.
"I never pay for drinks," she said, smiling.
When he collected his money, they slipped out into the night. As always, she looped her arm through his.
"That crowd's something else," she said.
"The guys liked you."
"They like pretty faces almost as much as they like money."
He glanced at her. "You sound like you hate them."
"I don't hate anyone. I'm just bored by most."
"They're all boring? Guys like that—money, yachts, travel—I'd think they'd have stories."
"It's all dressing," she said. "Smoke and mirrors. Strip it away and all that's left is the one thing that got them there—money. Like a piano with one key. One note. Over and over."
"Bet I could make that work."
She laughed. "You could. Because you're interesting. People are what they love."
He looked at her. "So what do you love?"
She stopped. Studied him like it was a riddle. Then touched his jaw, brushed his hair back. Her eyes said more than her mouth ever did—alive and burning, but calm as still water. She kissed him and they continued walking.
The walls of the Winchester Theater were draped in red velvet curtains, pleated to make the room seem longer than it was. Golden sconces—carved into voluptuous Egyptian princesses—cast warm light across rows of faux-velvet seats. People were already filtering in, murmuring in hushed conversation that blended with the crackle of candy wrappers.
From the balcony, Owen took it all in—the mystic charm, the smell of popcorn laced with a hint of old tobacco. Desi's hand squeezed his as she led him down the aisle. He held the popcorn. She carried the drink. When they sat, she reached in for a handful and immediately launched into gossip about the cast.
"He was an alcoholic. Divorced a bunch of times. Then married his twenty-year-old co-star when he was forty-five—both of them had scandalous affairs."
"Kinda takes the glamour out of old Hollywood," Owen said, sipping from their soda.
"Classy people on the surface, wretched souls beneath," she said.
"Like Dorian Gray."
"Who?"
"Oscar Wilde. Irish playwright."
She smirked. "Oh, Mauricio... you and your fancy European ways."
He laughed, shaking his head.
The lights dimmed.
A quarter into the film, they tucked the popcorn and soda beneath their seats. She leaned into his shoulder. He held her hand lightly, fingers laced.
Not every night ended with a movie or with sex. Sometimes they were just too tired. They'd lie naked in bed, limbs tangled, warm but spent. He'd hold her close while she ran her fingertips down his back in slow, idle strokes.
Her mind seemed elsewhere when he asked the question.
"Why don't we ever go to your place?"
She didn't answer right away. Instead, she slid her hand across his chest, resting it flat above his heart. "I like yours better. It's homey."
"Small, you mean," he said with a crooked grin.
"No," she said, "You make it feel warm and special."
He studied her for a moment. "So...you're not comfortable at your place?"
She rolled onto her back, exhaled. "My neighborhood's not as nice as yours. And I share a room with two other girls."
He grinned. "I don't mind a threesome."
She grabbed a pillow and smacked it into his face.
"Not in your wildest dreams."
She turned to him, resting her face against her arm. "Why are you only asking now? After four months?"
He sighed. "Maybe I was scared you'd say you had a boyfriend or something."
She rolled her eyes. "You need to be more sure of yourself." She leapt off the bed, bare and unbothered. Her body—pale and smooth, as if she leapt out of a Renaissance painting.
"A man named Mauricio should be confident," she said, reaching for his hand.
He wasn't as comfortable as she was, standing naked in his own apartment, every bit of him exposed to the air. She touched his face. Her eyes locked him in place, hypnotic as always. Then, after a beat—"Besides, I thought I did have one."
He looked at her. She smirked.
He leaned in and kissed her.
"If that's what you want," she murmured.
"I do," he said. "I want to be with you."
Her hands slipped into his hair, pulling him closer. They tumbled onto the bed. He slid inside her, her nails pressing into his back. And even as their bodies moved, as the bed creaked beneath them, one thought tugged at the corners of his mind.
The Jezebel.
He knew he should ask. But instead, he kissed her harder. The Jezebel could wait.
Tonight, he needed her.
Tonight, he focused on her soft skin, the sound of her breathing, the way she moaned his name in the dark.