Eternal Heat Read online

  Published by Velvet Pen Books

  Copyright © 2016 Jordyn White

  ISBN 978-1-945261-26-8

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. You must not circulate this book in any format. Thank you for respecting the work of the author.

  Cover Design: Letitia Hasser | RBA Designs

  Table of Contents

  Copyright Page

  Eternal Heat (Firework Girls, #3)

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

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  Eternal Heat

  by Jordyn White

  Chapter 1

  I’m only moments away from laying eyes on the lifelong dream that never happened.

  We’re on day four of our Firework Girls trip to New York City, and crossing the famous plaza in front of Lincoln Center. When Isabella asked for our number one “must-do” item for this trip, that’s what I said: Lincoln Center. But I was being kind of sneaky, because what I really want to see is across the street.

  In the center of the plaza is a large, flat reflection pool with a stone, abstract sculpture in the center. Lincoln Center is on the other side of the pool, and in front of us is the large area known as Illumination Lawn. Not like any kind of lawn I’ve ever seen, this is a grass-covered steel platform that starts at ground level, then rises toward the back. It’s something only New Yorkers could define (and use) as a lawn.

  Past the lawn, I get my first glimpse of the multi-storied white building across the street.

  Chloe’s been focused on the refection pool, but when she notices Illumination Lawn, she bounds ahead. “Cool!”

  Her auburn-hair flowing behind her, Chloe reaches the grassy steps of the lawn and leads the way to the top. This suits me fine. The rear of the raised lawn will give an excellent view.

  We walk up the grass and approach the back railing. The sidewalk and street are below. Across the street the white building stretches along almost the entire block opposite us. In simple, unassuming type, the lettering on the building reads: “The Juilliard School.”

  “Are you sure this isn’t too high for you, Sam?” Chloe asks. “Do you want to wait at the bottom?”

  “Shut it, Chloe,” Sam says easily, rolling her eyes. When Chloe had declared her “must do” item the Empire State Building, Sam had practically disowned her. She’s a teeny bit afraid of heights, that one. We didn’t try to push her to go to the top with us (as if anyone could get Sam to do what she doesn’t want to do anyway), but we’re entitled to a good-natured jab every now and then.

  I’m too distracted to join in their teasing. There’s The Juilliard School. Right freaking there!

  “Leave her alone,” Isabella says, leaning on the rail and looking like a tall, brown Greek goddess. “She can’t help that she’s not used to heights, being so bitty all her life.”

  “Har, har,” Sam says. She’s just barely 5’4” and her blonde hair is short and wild, just like she is.

  That’s all right. I have enough hair for both of us. Mine’s blonde as well, but it hangs past my waist even when it’s in a braid, which it usually is.

  “This is why Ashley’s my favorite,” Sam says, hooking her arm through mine. “She doesn’t tease me mercilessly.”

  “I’m your favorite because I’m the only one whose activities for the day are all on the ground,” I retort.

  “That’s true,” Sam agrees, sticking her tongue out at Isabella.

  Isabella’s must-do item is Ellis Island—where her family came to America from Italy and Greece back in the 1960s—and the Statue of Liberty. That’s not on our itinerary for two more days but I already know there’s no way is Sam going to the top of our Lady of Liberty either.

  I put my hand on the rear railing of the lawn and take it all in. The Juilliard School stretches to the right. At the corner is the unique, angled entryway I’ve seen so many times in pictures.

  My eyes return to the quietly-assured text opposite us—The Juilliard School—and I exhale with wonder, unable to hide it. Time to come clean. “This is what I’ve wanted to see all day.”

  “Juilliard?” Chloe asks and I nod.

  “That makes sense.” Isabella is pretty smart, being a Harvard grad student and all. But though she might think she knows why I’d want to see this school, she doesn’t. I’m not about to correct her.

  “For the top school in music, it’s not as pretty as I would have thought.” Sam cocks her head at it.

  She’s the only one here who knows I once applied to Juilliard. In fact, she’s the only one who knows everything Juilliard represents to me.

  And who.

  I’d like to say I haven’t thought about him in years, but it’d be a lie.

  “Well, there’s some debate about which school really ranks at the top,” I admit, “but Juilliard is a legend like no other. There’s no denying that.”

  “Hartman’s right up there,” Sam says firmly. “It’s a great school.” The other two nod in agreement.

  I smile. These girls always have my back.

  Hartman College, where we all met as undergrads and where I’m about to start my second year in their Master’s program, does in fact have a highly-regarded music conservatory that makes pretty much every “best of” list Juilliard does.

  But none of that changes the fact that, in my eyes, The Juilliard School is practically glittering in the sun over there, right along with the lucky students entering and exiting the building like they belong there. Which, of course, they do. But even though Hartman has a stellar program that I’m glad to be part of (truly), it’s located an hour-and-a-half inland from the central Californian coast and not right smack dab in the middle of the classical music capital of America.

  Then there’s the other thing.

  I imagine him walking into the building, walking the halls, laughing with friends. He’s probably had girls, too.

  My heart clenches at the thought, in spite of myself.

  Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea coming here. The sting of it all is sharper than I anticipated. I kind of thought I was over it enough. It’s been five years, after all.

  But as I stand here on Illumination Lawn, gaze on the celebrated school that is Juilliard, and think about the person it represents, my heart can’t help but wonder...

  What if?

  School’s been back in session for a mere three days when I walk into Kopp Hall, one of Hartman’s smaller auditoriums used for rehearsals and recitals. Today is the pre-audition for an upcoming regional competition, which the department heads emailed everyone about a week ago. There’s an atmosphere of slightly organized chaos. Students from all across the musical disciplines are scattered about i
n the seats, plugging up the aisles, lingering just off stage. The quiet hum of multiple conversations lingers in the air.

  On stage is a black grand piano, currently unoccupied, and a few scattered music stands and plastic chairs. A small table is off to the side, where a grad student is sitting with a stack of packets. Currently a girl is hauling her cello onstage from the wings; it’s almost as big as she is.

  About ten rows back from stage are the judges. As I make my way down one of the aisles to find a seat, I crane my neck to see who they are.

  There are three judges, including Professor Reinecht. He discussed the auditions in class yesterday. Not all competitions involve the sort of semi-informal screening process this one does, but even so, for many of Hartman’s musicians, today is only a technicality. It’s a way for the department heads to screen new students and check our selections to make sure Hartman is well represented

  “Nothing for you to worry about,” he told me yesterday.

  I’m in that weird state of mind where I’m both worried and not worried. While the competition itself will be fierce, I’m not worried about qualifying at this pre-audition level. Last year I made it through both formal rounds of the competition itself, and placed first in my category and third overall. It wasn’t a bad way to start off my graduate career, I have to admit. The prize money helped with living expenses for a while too, and even gave me enough to add a sizeable chunk to my piano savings fund.

  On the other hand, you can never take anything for granted in the music world. The reality is, those three judges up there have the authority to tell me or anyone we’re out.

  I pick a row and scoot down to sit next to Toshiko, a fellow second-year grad student. He’s wearing his trademark Hawaiian shorts and Birkenstocks. His violin case is in the seat next to him but his violin is on his lap, ready to go. He spots me coming and moves his case to the seat on his other side. We smile and wave at each other in acknowledgement, but don’t say anything because one of the judges has banged the gavel to indicate the next audition is beginning.

  The conversations in the hall cease immediately. I settle into my seat as the deep vibrato of the cello on stage fills the hall. I don’t recognize the player, so I assume she must be a first-year grad student. At the conclusion of her piece, the judges give their remarks in turn. Two of them express some concerns and my heart clenches as she’s told she’s not quite ready for this one. I’ve seen this happen before, but it’s a bit unsettling when it’s the first audition I see.

  The low sound of conversations starts up again as the cellist gathers her music and instrument, trying to maintain her composure. Poor thing.

  Toshiko fidgets with the folder on his lap. “What are you playing?” I ask.

  He names a concerto by Haydn and I nod with approval.

  “You?”

  “Paganini Etude Number 6 by Liszt.” He doesn’t ask where my music is. He knows me well enough to know I have it memorized. “Which time slot are you in?” I ask.

  “Ten to noon. Naturally I’m near the end.”

  My slot is noon to two and it’s nearly noon now. “You’ve gotta be next, or close to it. Unless they’re running behind.”

  We hear one of the judges call Toshiko’s name into the microphone.

  “At laaaast!” he sings sarcastically, taking his violin and music with him as he works down the row.

  “Good luck!”

  I listen to his piece and the judges’ comments—they love him of course, no surprise there—and watch as he goes to the little table on stage to get his packet. I settle in, prepared for a wait. I pull out my phone and start scrolling through my feed on Instagram. Toshiko comes down our row, returns to his case, and starts putting away his instrument. I glance up and give him a smile. “Nicely done.”

  “Thanks.”

  Professor Reinecht calls out the next name and I think I’m hearing things.

  I drop my hands to my lap and sit up straighter. “Who did he just say?”

  A mere six rows in front of me, and off to the right, he stands. Oh my god. Then Toshiko says the name of the man I once knew so long ago: “They said Erik Williams.”

  It’s a little like being in the Twilight Zone. Erik doesn’t belong here at Hartman, with Toshiko saying his name like it’s the most normal thing in the world. Erik belongs in a grand house by the river in a whole different world.

  But there he is, climbing the steps to the stage. Just like that.

  My skin crawls and my heart pounds in this sickening way. I sink lower in my chair, but my eyes follow his every move. He looks the same, but different. He’s just as handsome as ever, maybe even more so if that’s possible, but he’s broader in the chest and his hair is a bit longer and he’s sporting a five o’clock shadow. He’s wearing black jeans and a casual button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up past his elbows.

  I know those forearms and those hands. I know those long fingers. Down to the last detail, I remember it all.

  As he settles himself on the bench and lays out his sheet music, I’m struck by his impossible good looks. Men this handsome aren’t exactly what you’d consider typical fare anywhere, but definitely not among the world of classical pianists. He looks more like a rock star.

  Maybe that’s why, in the midst of the shock and pain and (yes) anger at seeing him again, my heart is still fluttering in that maddening way. Still. After all this time. After everything.

  Then he begins to play.

  Like the rest of him, his music is deeply familiar to me, but it too has changed. It’s more mature. More controlled. In fact, it’s absolutely heartbreaking. That deep, haunting quality to his music is still there. Its ability to render me helpless hasn’t lessened at all.

  Oh, how I remember this.

  What happened all those years ago has never truly left me, but seeing him and listening to him brings it all back with such freshness, I don’t know whether to cry or laugh or rage. I’m flooded with so many memories, all wrapped up in the sweet torture of his music. I’m too stunned to do more than stare. I can barely breathe.

  By the time he’s finished and the judges are giving him their praises (of course, of course), my brain kicks into a different gear. I realize Toshiko is gone, though I don’t know if he said goodbye or if I acknowledged his departure. It takes about two seconds for me to realize Erik is a student here, to wonder why in the hell that is, and to comprehend that he’s now my competition, which is a completely different sort of problem.

  In the next second I’ve sunk even lower in my seat and decided I’m going to just hide until he leaves and then come up with a plan to make sure we never see each other ever again until I get my degree and can get the heck out of here.

  A tiny part of my brain realizes that’s not the kind of thing that can actually happen, but that’s not the part in charge right now.

  My eyes are glued to him as he crosses the stage and picks up his packet. Before he even gets to the steps my plan is blown out of the water.

  “Ashley Morrison,” Professor Reinecht calls.

  My heart stops. Erik freezes, a look of shock registering on his face. He immediately starts to scan the audience.

  Oh god.

  Seconds pass and neither one of us moves. He hasn’t spotted me yet. I want him to just go. But then Professor Reinecht calls out my name more forcefully and obedience brings me shakily to my feet.

  That’s when he sees me. For the first time in five years, my eyes meet the deep brown eyes of Erik Williams. My heart flips, as if it doesn’t realize I’m not in love with Erik anymore. Could never be again.

  My only consolation in this moment is he looks like he wants to run as much as I do.

  Of course, that’s the exact same thing that hurts.

  I finally pull my eyes away. I focus on the ground in front of me as I sidestep down the row and to the aisle.

  I glance at him, up ahead.

  He’s coming down from the stage one slow step at a time, and watching m
e with an expression of... what? Shock? Longing? Regret?

  I pull my eyes from his, but as we continue to near one another, the sensations in my body ratchet up a notch. These sensations reach a frightening peak as we pass in the aisle—I’m careful not to touch or look at him—then decline again as we move farther away from each other. It’s like my body is one giant Erik detector.

  I grab the cold hand rail and concentrate on each step, certain I’ll trip and fall if I don’t. As I cross the stage—a stage I’ve been on a hundred times—it all feels so foreign to me, because I’ve never crossed this stage with Erik watching. Is he watching?

  Without thinking, I glance toward the auditorium. My eyes find him immediately. He’s standing in the aisle, and oh yes, he’s watching me.

  I turn away and focus on walking, a task which is suddenly more awkward and difficult than it should be. My body feels like butter.

  I sit down on the edge of the bench. It’s a bit too far away from the piano for comfort, but I’m too flustered to do anything about it. I bring my fingers to the keys out of habit, but I don’t play. There’s a sharp moment of panic when I remember why I’m here but can’t remember what I’m playing.

  Why didn’t I bring my music? My hands hover over the keys, trembling. I wonder if the people in the audience can see it.

  Then it comes back to me, thank God. Liszt. Yes, okay. I can do that.

  I play a measure with rubbery fingers that race into the second measure with such clumsiness they trip all over each other.

  I’m a trained musician. I know to keep going if I make a mistake. But this is so bad and I’m so shocked by the whole thing that I actually bring my fingers off the keys and clasp them in front of me.

  This snaps me out of it. At least, out of it enough that I’m determined to play this piano like I actually know what the fuck I’m doing.

  There’s some murmuring in the audience. Professor Reinecht says, “What in the hell was that?”

  He’s not known for his subtlety.

  “Sorry, I—”

  “Start again. No more chances, Ashley.”

  “No, sir.” No shit.