Breathe (Songs of Submission #10)(3)

“I should have come with you¸” I said, putting him on speaker.

“I know.”

I’d stayed home to train with Mrs. Yuan, and he hadn’t been happy about it. He thought my voice was perfect, even for the brutal ‘Star-Spangled Banner’ in front of fifty-five thousand whatever whatever people.

“How did your lesson go?” he asked, bringing up the exact point of our contention.

“Fine. I don’t think I’m going again. I don’t need it, really. Anyone can sing the ‘Star-Spangled Banner.’ Roseanne did it, and she didn’t have any voice coaching.”

“You said you were struggling with it.”

“Yeah, but I feel all right now.” I whipped the towel off my head and fluffed my hair.

Who was I kidding? And why was I lying about it? I was standing in front of a mirror and lying to my naked body.

“She must be really good if you got so confident in an hour.”

I heard him shuffling papers around. He’d be in the back of the Bentley with Lil driving.

“Yeah, well.” I opened my makeup bag. “I guess she did.”

“We have two weeks. Francis Scott Key could write an anthem to what I can do to your body in two weeks. How about Hawaii?”

“I don’t think I can,” I said, dragging the mascara stick over my lashes. “I don’t want to be jet-lagged in front of 55,695 people.”

“Right. Opening day always sells out.”

“You’ll make it, right? You’ll come?”

“Yes. And so will you. You’re in the bathroom. I can tell from the echo.”

“It’s a really big bathroom. And marble.” I rummaged through my makeup. I didn’t feel like putting it on, but I was “seen” more and more often, and I hated looking like a ragmop in magazines.

“You wearing anything?”

“Nada. But I don’t have time to—”

“Bend over the vanity.”

“Honey—”

“Get your tits on the marble, Monica.”

He couldn’t see me. I could say I did it and finish my makeup. I could do a lot of things, but he needed my trust. We never photographed each other in any kind of compromising position, because we assumed at some point we’d be hacked or the pictures would leak. So it was all trust.

I bent over the vanity. It was cold and hard on my nipples.

“Ass up,” he said.

I did it, and the posture alone made me wet. The exposure and vulnerability brought on a rush of need. “Yes, sir.”

Tell me to touch myself tell me to touch myself tell me to

“Touch yourself.”

I exhaled and drew my hand down between my legs.

“You wet?”

“Yes,” I groaned.

“That’s my girl. Two fingers, all the way in. Leave the clit alone. We’ll get to that.”

Perfect. His voice was perfect, his commands were perfect, he was—

My phone buzzed. On the marble counter, it shifted a good quarter inch from the rattle of the vibration. I peeked at the screen.

It was Mrs. Yuan.

“Jonathan?”

“Yes?”

The phone buzzed again.

“I have a call.” I was surprised by how excited I was. I wasn’t going to see her again, but I couldn’t ignore her. I wanted her to want me. “I have to take it.”

He paused, and the phone buzzed. Shit. I was going to lose her call. I got up from my position and stared at the phone as if that would get Jonathan to acknowledge it faster.

“Jon—”

“You’ll be naked and on your knees when I get back. You understand?”

“Yes, okay.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, sir.”

He hung up, and I answered the call just in time.

“Mrs. Yuan?”

“Mrs. Faulkner? It’s Sherri.”

“Oh, hi.”

Why was I disappointed? Obviously, I’d expected Mrs. Yuan to call and tell me she was wrong. I had talent. I had promise. I could find a pure note, and she still wanted to work with me despite the fact that I didn’t actually need her.

“You left your sheet music here,” Sherri said.

“The ‘Star-Spangled Banner’? Keep it.”

“It has a phone number on it?”

Damn. That was the number for Gary, the pregame coordinator. I could have gotten it again from Maura, and looked like a complete incompetent, but I was drawn to a question I needed answered.

I inhaled, pressed my lips together, then let the question out anyway. “Is she like that with everyone?”

“Like what?”

Like what ?

What was I asking? Was she always so honest? Was she always so accurate? Or was the better question, was Monica always such a f*cking baby?

“I’ll come by tomorrow.”

“I’ll leave it on the piano.”

She hung up. I’d been fine until then. I’d taken the whole episode with Mrs. Yuan in stride. Shit. She had a bird in her hair. She probably couldn’t teach me.

But when Sherri hung up, it just cracked me. By being so businesslike, so factual, so careless, she had forced me to stop seeing myself how others saw me and start looking at what was really there.