Sonata (Butcher and Violinist 2)

Jean-Pierre was intoxicating. Sometimes I yearned to eat him. Dip his cock in honey and lick. Consume his whole body. He smelled so good. His scent whipped me into a frenzy. So delicious and arousing.

Even when his skin was drenched in sweat, I craved to lick him. Even after he ran, I considered yanking those shorts down and tasting. Even after he fucked me to oblivion, all I could do was nuzzle the curve of his neck. Smell him. Taste him. Listen to his voice. Study the sweet curve of his nose and the sternness in his jaw.

What made me hunger for him so? Was it magic? Science? A primal urge? Pheromones naturally releasing chemicals, that made my body obey. Sex-hormones? Could I blame my addiction on my subconscious? Was it fate or even God?

Was there a smell to love?

After smelling Jean-Pierre’s pillow for a good half hour, I dragged myself out of bed and showered. I had to get myself together. Before Jean-Pierre’s confession of the past years, I’d had plans. That admission came, and I dropped it all.

It’s time to get back to practicing. Where am I auditioning? Where do I want to play? And…how does Jean-Pierre fit in all of this?

I had a lot on my mind and plenty to get done.

In the shower, I focused more. Perhaps because his scent was washing off my skin.

When I left the bathroom, several cardboard boxes sat in the room.

What’s this?

They were nothing like the usual gift boxes that Jean-Pierre would send me. My name was scribbled on all of the box’s tops.

Excited to see what was inside, I dried off and dressed in Jean-Pierre’s shirt, wanting to put his scent back on my skin. The soft fabric smoothed against my skin. I sniffed the collar and groaned.

How could I ever consider walking away from him? I’m too far gone.

Wearing his big shirt, I walked over to the boxes and lifted the first one. My belongings filled the box—scrapbooks, family album, old year books. They were all old memories that sat in the top shelf of my closet.

He shipped all of my things over. What did Leo think? I have to talk to him, so he won’t think I just dropped him and I’m never coming back.

I spent the rest of the day, pulling things out. I hadn’t looked at a lot of these things in years. By the afternoon, I sat on the floor. Old pictures and books surrounded me. I stroked the tattered spines of old romance novels. There were tons of my old journals—me scribbling down my dreams and thoughts. I scanned a few pages and laughed.

Wow. I can be a bit dramatic sometimes.

I pulled out my family photo albums, eager to look in my past. My history had no longer been what I thought it was. And there were so many memories I’d locked away in the back of my mind. Most dealt with my mom. Since her passing, it was so hard to think of her without crying. So, I focused on other things just to make it through the day.

Sighing, I whispered, “I miss you, Mom.”

Would she think I was making a huge mistake with Jean-Pierre, or would she think it was a good idea? What would she have said about Aunt Celina? Did she know how powerful Aunt Celina was?

Aunt Celina wasn’t just a brothel owner with some skill in seduction. That was something she could never hide. I’d always known she was a boss of some sorts. Authority reeked from her. But I had no idea that she’d moved on such a high level. That made me proud of her and scared at the same time.

Did you know, Mom?

Dad didn’t like to talk about his sister much, and Mom respected that, although she constantly showed me pictures of Aunt Celina on my aunt’s birthday and told me stories about her.

Sudden longing for my mother made me pull open one of the scrapbooks I’d helped her. When she’d been given a year to live, I’d moved back home and stayed with her. Cancer was a terrifying beast. That was the thing I feared more than anything. My family being ill.

I opened it.

Mom and I had made this last scrapbook, finding all her old pictures from when she was twenty. She’d been a college kid, working at a nonprofit health clinic for extra money. I’d learned during that time that Mom had met Aunt Celina first. She’d come to the clinic to get treated. Somehow, they’d become friends, although Mom never went into a deeper explanation.

Now, I wished I had asked more questions. If Aunt Celina isn’t the person I thought, were you someone else too, Mom? What about Dad?

I ran my hands along the baby blue fabric cover. It had been my mom’s favorite color. Tears fell. I wiped them away and opened the book.