Adoring You

  ADORING YOU

  VIC TYLER

  Copyright © 2019 Vic Tyler

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means (including but not limited to any electronic or mechanical means, such as information storage and retrieval systems, photocopying, recording, etc.) without written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in articles, reviews, or promotions only.

  This book may not be re–sold or given away to other people. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting and supporting the author’s work.

  Disclaimer: The following story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events, locales, private or commercial bodies, etc. is coincidental.

  Please note that this work is intended only for adults over the age of 18.

  This work contains strong language, sexual content, and violent content that may not be appropriate for underage persons.

  Get free stories, deleted scenes, and teasers when you

  (Disclaimer: lots of sexy material and absolutely no spamming. What's not to love?)

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Author's Note

  Spring Gala Program

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Epilogue

  From the Author

  More Books by Vic Tyler

  author’s note

  The Lincoln Center for Performing Arts is a complex of buildings that include David Geffen Hall (home to the renown symphony orchestra, the New York Philharmonic) and the Metropolitan Opera House.

  The building that the New York Philharmonic occupies was previously known as Avery Fisher Hall. In recent times, Lincoln Center sought to refurbish Avery Fisher Hall, and in the process, they renamed it to David Geffen Hall in November 2014.

  This story takes place in the early 1990s.

  spring gala program

  chapter one

  “Habanera” from Carmen – Georges Bizet

  Present day

  New York Philharmonic Spring Gala

  Avery Fisher Hall

  “Who is that?”

  Jorge Espinoza raised an eyebrow at me.

  “Who?”

  His voice boomed from one end of the lobby to the other.

  After a hard jab to the ribs from my elbow, the handsome Chilean man quieted with a grunt, rubbing his side.

  Dammit, Jorge.

  A ripple of curious faces turned to look our way. Masking my gritted teeth with a breezy smile, I playfully slapped Jorge’s arm, pretending to laugh at something he didn’t say.

  With nothing to see, people disinterestedly looked away, resuming their conversations and mingling.

  Immediately, Jorge and I glared at each other, tension sparking between us. He should’ve considered himself lucky that my opera gloves padded the attack, otherwise my bare, bony elbows would’ve done a lot more damage.

  In the periphery of my vision, I saw that the man that I had been inquiring about didn’t so much as glance towards us. Which seemed a little strange. There was no way he didn’t hear Jorge. He’d have to be deaf not to.

  But just in case he decided to act on some delayed curiosity, I casually turned to face away from him, my eyes glazing over the bobble of coiffed and gelled heads of the ladies and gentlemen clad in their sophisticated black tie attire.

  It was like a sea of satiny penguins floating around with flutes of champagne in one or both flippers – I mean, hands – as they waited for the doors to the auditorium to open. The long stretch of lobby was complete with tall cocktail tables with intricate centerpieces that the crowds weaved around like a maze. Pristinely clear windows spanning from floor to ceiling surrounded the sides, although there was no audience peering into our little enclosure. Animal Planet has never been classier.

  Tonight was my first public social appearance after my Broadway debut, and I could think of nowhere better to introduce myself to high society than right here at the acclaimed Spring Gala of the New York Philharmonic.

  After all, my opera debut had been across this very plaza at the Metropolitan Opera House – a stroke of luck when the singer for Frasquita in Carmen got pneumonia and was incapacitated for months, so I was ushered in from being an understudy to a billed singer.

  Well, not lucky for the unfortunate soprano I had replaced, but I made sure to send her the fluffiest pillows for her hospital room and a year’s supply of peppermint and eucalyptus tea.

  Broadway was a second stroke of luck when my friend, Lena, suggested I audition for the acclaimed lead role of Christine in The Phantom of the Opera. I hadn’t expected anything to come of it, but when, to even my surprise, I got the role, I became famous overnight.

  Even though I knew I’d see my name in lights one day, I hadn’t expected it to be so soon. Michele Deveraux, in picture and name, was plastered, pinned, and printed everywhere. My name was on everyone’s lips and in everyone’s ears, whether they liked it or not.

  There were, of course, the others who whispered behind my back, without any bother to be quiet, either. The operatic purists raised their noses at me, spitefully jeering about how disgraceful it was for an opera singer to have sold out. To play on Broadway of all places, can you imagine that?

  And that is why they’re stuck as nobodies in an art that struggled to conform to modern tastes. Some of us aren’t allergic to innovation.

  But that didn’t stop them from sidling up to me with poisonously sweet smiles, cooing and purring to get in my good graces. Now that I was a household name, I was not only a threat and rival but a golden ticket to fame, fortune, and open doors. Their two–faced machinations were amusing to say the least, and I admit I’ve done my fair share of teasing to see how low they’d kneel for the opportunity on stage. Shame they didn’t realize that I wasn’t the type to share the spotlight anyway.

  But the only spotlight that truly mattered to me was here.

  New York City.

  Home sweet home.

  I had been away for weeks now, busy with interviews, performances, and the like. Now that I was back, I hadn’t realized how much I missed it here. Some things never change.

  And thankfully, some people never change. Like Jorge. While a few of my so–called friends had suddenly undergone a personality change after my newfound fame, Jorge welcomed me back with a bottle of wine, some choice words, and an all–too–manly slap to the back, which I returned with equally feminine jabs.

  He was already used to the fame and attention, having become one of the youngest assistant conductors ever in the New York Philharmonic. Not to mention, the man was tall, dark, and handsome. Not much mystery to him, but I suppose the transparency added to his charm. What you saw was what you got, and especially in this industry, it was a refreshing change of pace.

  We were equally rambunctious and lively, a great pair at parties and gatherings, but we were much too alike for comfort. We shared the stage well, but both of us enjoyed being our own center of attention too much to be anything more than friends.

  But struggling for centerstage was hardly ever an issue since Jorge and I drew our own separate crowds wherever we went. Even today, after being at the gala for only an hour, nearly everyone had offered me at least a word of congratulations, if not eager to draw me into a conversation.

  Which only brought to my attention the one particular person who had hardly paid me any mind.

  I glanced back at t
he mystery man, even though I was still facing the other way. With a light nudge to Jorge’s arm, I leaned in to speak quietly to him.

  “Who is that man over there?” I muttered, glancing over my shoulder and jerking my chin towards the person in question.

  Jorge opened his mouth to speak when I hissed, “Quietly, or else I’ll drive my heel through your foot this time.”

  He grumbled and lowered his voice, which wasn’t all that quiet, but at least the sound wouldn’t travel beyond the few people within our radius.

  “Peter?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. He snorted, “Didn’t you read the program? That’s Peter Lennox, the guest conductor for the evening.”

  Jorge looked at me, seemingly waiting for a response or a reaction of some sort, but I didn’t answer. Because that would be admitting that I had, in fact, not looked at the program.

  Yes, it was petty. But I was feeling bitter that I hadn’t been asked to sing at tonight’s Spring Gala. I refused to even look at her name on the roster. Andrea Botticelli. The budding mezzo–soprano and I debuted around the same time and were, quite unfortunately, often compared to one another. She was a gaudy and ostentatious person in her own right, but her performances were exaggeratedly boisterous to hide the lack of refinement in her technique.

  Even if I hadn’t been a front contender, it was preposterous that the New York Philharmonic didn’t ask the veteran voices of the classical musical world to feature in the gala tonight – the esteemed prima donnas I deigned to join the ranks of one day. But instead, they went with that two trick pony with the excessive vibrato.

  “Am I supposed to know his name?” I sipped bubbly champagne from the flute in my hand.

  Jorge shook his head incredulously. He looked at me with patronizing pity etched on his face. “Sweetheart, if you want to stay relevant in this business, you better learn his name. Like, yesterday. Haven’t I mentioned him before? He’s one of my closest friends.”

  He might have. Jorge talked so much I found it difficult to listen to everything that came out of his mouth.

  “And why should I know his name?” I asked curiously.

  “For the same reason you should and do know mine,” Jorge scoffed. “He’s one of the best conductors of our generation. We graduated from Juilliard together. While I went for my Master’s afterwards and then onto the New York Philharmonic, Peter traveled all around the world. He’s either guest–conducted at almost every notable orchestra or trained under their conductors.”

  “If he’s so esteemed, how come I haven’t heard of him?”

  “Maybe if you got your head out of your own ass once in a while, you would’ve,” Jorge chuckled.

  His lungs blew out an “oof” as I elbowed him again. With a mischievous glint in his eye, he ruffled my head with his huge hand, messing up my painstakingly styled, perfect chignon. He cackled as I hissed at him.

  As I grumbled and patted my hair, Jorge scratched his manicured beard. “Peter likes to fly under the radar. He’s not interested in the glitz and the glamour like us, darling. He spends all of his time in front of music scores and listening to recordings. While he’s not widely known by the media, he’s highly regarded within the tight circles of our people.”

  He emphasized the last two words, looking pointedly at me.

  I ignored him, still adjusting my hair, and he continued, “If you didn’t know him before, then get to your research, little grasshopper. That man is a force to be reckoned with. Unparalleled in how he recreates and interprets the music. You want new, fresh, innovative, and controversial? That’s him. A true artist.”

  His tone dipped a little, begrudgingly but full of respect. Jorge only spoke with such regard for the conductors and musicians he envied and admired.

  I peeked over my shoulder at the man whose name I only just learned.

  Peter Lennox.

  All of this was news to me. I definitely know I never heard the name before, but the man had such an air of familiarity that I couldn’t help but feel drawn to him. Perhaps it was the way his lips curled into a warm and kind smile or the way his mesmerizing coffee–brown eyes peered so invitingly under his long, dark lashes. Maybe it was simply his nature.

  Throughout the evening, the guests had floated over to him. Whereas Jorge drew attention with his rambunctious nature and people flocked to me because of my looks, wit, and recent media attention, Peter seemed to do nothing in particular. People wandered to him as though magnetized to his presence, lingering as they waited their turns for his attention.

  It was hard to imagine him and Jorge next to each other, let alone being friends. They seemed so different. Peter was like the smooth lapping waves near the shore, bearing a promise of soothing relaxation, and Jorge was a thunderously crashing waterfall, a roaring spectacle of nature.

  The curiosity suddenly pinched at me – to know everything Jorge knew about him, to hear stories about their days together, to see who exactly this Peter Lennox was.

  “Jorge –” I said, turning towards my friend, my eyes reluctant to leave Peter.

  But Jorge was already deep in conversation with some of the other guests, articulately projecting and gesticulating wildly. He lived and thrived on the attention, which made him simultaneously exhilarating and exhausting to be around.

  This time, he was telling the story about when he went on a bender with the English royal family after an eventful rendezvous at the Royal Opera House that involved a bird and a dentist. I would’ve called bullshit on the whole thing if it weren’t for the fact I saw a photo of Jorge and a certain prince–who–shall–not–be–named clasping shoulders and holding out peacock feathers while sporting toothpaste mustaches over their beaming smiles. To date, it was one of the strangest things I’d ever seen in my entire life.

  But I was impatient to get back to the person I was dying to learn more about. And with Jorge so occupied and no help at all, I dared to close some of the distance between me and the subject of my curiosity.

  I strolled with purpose, smiling and nodding at people I passed, as though I had somewhere I intended to go. When I was a few feet away from Peter Lennox, I casually looked down at the abandoned programs and flutes of champagne that people left behind on the cocktail table.

  Opening one of the programs, I traced my finger along the black ink while my eyes glanced up. Peering under my eyelashes, I watched Peter nodding as he listened to some of the Philharmonic’s board members speak, completely concentrated and intrigued by whatever they were talking about.

  With his simple yet classic tuxedo and his cool, handsome demeanor, Peter Lennox looked like he stepped out of an old Hollywood movie from the '50s. His dark hair was lightly slicked back, displaying his high cheekbones and strong jaw. His fitted suit accentuated the broadness of his triangular frame and the long lines of his tall, lean figure.

  Our one and only encounter earlier had left a strong impression with me. It hadn’t been particularly notable or exciting, but nevertheless, I couldn’t get him out of my mind.

  It had happened shortly after I arrived at the gala. I had just started conversing with this year’s Grammy Awards winners, engaging in friendly banter about pop music versus the classics. When, all of a sudden, someone unceremoniously bumped against my shoulder.

  I had stumbled to the side, panic shooting through me, and I crashed face first into the person next to me. My ankle gave way before I could regain my balance as it caught on the hem of my dress, and suddenly, the ground started flying towards me.

  The person I fell onto caught me, wrapping a strong arm around my waist and assuredly pulling me up tightly against a firm, silk–lapeled chest.

  And steadily, I had straightened upright, my heart pounding rapidly in my chest and adrenaline pumping through my veins. As I faced the cause of my mishap, my mind slowly registered the scene I was looking at.

  A boisterous guest who had had one too many glasses of champagne was sprawled on the floor, his face planted right where my feet had been standin
g. Considering the now–empty flute that I had barely held onto, I figured that the golden liquid puddled under his suit was what was left of my champagne.

  Even though my feet were now both firmly planted to the ground, the arm that caught me was still fastened around my waist. I looked up, and only inches from me was Peter Lennox, his dark brown eyes closely studying my face.

  Upon our stares locking, his lips had curved into an easygoing, charming smile that was nonchalant and utterly disarming. I didn’t realize how long I was in his embrace until his thumb stroked the small of my back, a lingering touch too affectionate and gentle for a stranger. His gaze dipped, caressing my lips, before rising to meet my eyes again. A light flush colored his cheeks as he suddenly released me, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. He took a tentative step back.

  “Careful now,” he said before turning swiftly on his heels and walking away.

  I had watched, stunned, as he left without another glance back.

  Before that moment, if anyone else pointed him out to me, I would’ve sworn he was a stranger. But as I replayed that scene over and over again in my mind, his face grew more and more familiar with each iteration.

  Had I met him before? Did we know each other?

  I racked my brain, flipping through the memories of each gala, concert, meeting, studio session, and any other relevant event that I could think of. Every face and name I had struggled to memorize and recognize, the list only growing in conjunction with my fame. But nothing came to mind.

  Yet the expression in his eyes and intimate caress of his weren’t that of a stranger’s.

  The thought flashed through my head: well, maybe he’s just an inappropriate creep.

  But that didn’t seem right.