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cushion next to him. “Come on, let’s do it.” He looked up at me from under his dark lashes.
    Such a fucking tease, I thought. I’m being played like a piece of music. He smiled again as I sat down, and I tried to find some of the anger that pushed me to action before, but I couldn’t manage it.
    Tristan jumped up again, startling me. “I’ll get us some water.” He was at a mini bar in the corner of the room, grabbing two small bottles of Perrier, and back in a flash. “Do you need a glass?”
    “No, this is fine, thank you.” I needed the water, though. My mouth was completely dry. I had a moment of wondering if he felt any of the insanity I was experiencing, and searched his face for any kind of confirmation. I thought my heart stopped when I saw his throat again, pale and muscular, swallowing and I looked up. But now I was unable to tear my eyes away from his mouth, wet from the water. He put the bottle down, and his tongue darted out, quickly, smoothing over his lips.
    I think I groaned. As I was opening the bottle at the same time, I prayed that whatever sound I’d made had been covered up. A slight twitch at the corner of his mouth worried me though. I sighed. I was done for. The writer who became prey. Easy prey.
    His voice broke through. “Shall we?” He pressed the start button, and before I had a chance to speak, he was all business—talking about the new release that was due out in a month, the direction he was hoping to take the music in. I made some notes, and was glad I was recording it all. He didn’t seem reticent, not the monosyllabic artist some interviews had said he was. He jumped up and went to his computer. “Do you want to hear some songs?”
    Now I was excited, but for a different reason. “I’d love it.”
    He smiled, and pressed play. “You will.”
    The first song was driven by EDM keyboards but then turned into a spiraling rock epic, with hints of Queen and symphonic orchestras. The next song was a straight out punk rock shout, his voice the drawling snarl from the very first cd. It was amazing.
    “This is incredible.”
    “You like it? That’s great. Really?” He seemed like a small child again, delighted at the praise. The next song was another rock song, but more like the Stones, harder, a growling rhythm, whining guitars, arguing and winning, but an insistent counter melody kept rising up to change the tone. I was trying to make a mental list of questions I could ask him, and started scribbling things down, not wanting to miss anything. It was thrilling, and was going to shut up every critic that ever said anything. I told him so, in between songs, and he laughed. “I hope so, doll, I hope so. I just want to get better—come up with something that will help people through their shit.” He stopped the music for a minute. “Here, I’m skipping ahead a little. I want you to hear this one.”
    Another swirling song began, all delicacy and orchestration. Another strange melody served as counterpoint to a repeated line that stopped just when you expected it to reach a conclusion. The lyrics were about losing what you always thought you’d have, getting old alone, having to share what was most precious. Then the chorus began, hard and angular, furious, but the scale was sad and melancholy. By the end, his deep voice was reaching higher, the pain in it sharp and transcendent. It ended on a screech of guitars, and then there was absolute silence.
    I sat there, slowly coming back to myself, and realized I was staring out the window, my hands clenched, eyes wet. I uncurled my fingers stiffly and reached up to stop the tear about to go down my cheek, and pinched my nose. I had a lump in my throat. I couldn’t cry, not now. Not in front of him. I wanted to laugh and break the moment, but I didn’t want to move. I didn’t want to be fake and false, turn it all into a joke. Not now.
    I turned to look at him. He had a sort of look of wonder on his face, but was equally