Chicago Hotel Adventure Ch. 04

It was Wes who broke the silence. "I didn't brush my teeth."

"Who gives a shit." Sylvia parted Wes's lips with her tongue and entwined it around his. The small motel room smelled of sweat and genitals and hot breath. Sylvia took Wes by the hand back to the bed. The bare mattress was soaked through, but the two lovers laid down without regard for the dampness. Wes held Sylvia close, and they fell asleep. The time on the digital clock read 7:15.

At 9:48, the sound of Sylvia's voice woke Wes up. "Wes?"

"Yeah."

"When is your competition?"

What an interesting question, Wes thought. Four small words that conveyed so much. So the tournament remained in Sylvia's thoughts, just as they remained in Wes's. He did not regret the decision they had made, nor any that had led to it, but he'd have been lying if he said he didn't care.

"11:00 is when the first contestant goes on stage. The order isn't decided yet."

Sylvia twisted her body so she could see Wes's face. In that moment, Wes believed he had never seen anyone so beautiful. There was no denying she possessed one of the prettiest faces he'd ever viewed, either in person or on the silver screen, no denying at all, not from anyone who spoke objectively on the matter. How soft her features, how inviting, how easy to project his deepest feelings of want and need and trust onto that face. But her looks did not make Wes adore her. He found beauty in the way she looked at him.

"We could still make it," she said without a smile. She was pleading.

Wes said, "They'll laugh at us."

"Maybe. I guess." She looked away again. "Wesley, this love I feel... I want to play it for you."

Wes looked at the clock again. 9:50.

"Okay," Wes said. "Let's go."

Sylvia kissed Wes. She sprung from the bed. "I can't get my hair done in time."

"Leave it curly," Wes said as he sat up and reached for the phone. "It's cute like it is." Wes heard the shower water start up as he dialed the front desk. "Would you call a cab for us? Tell it to hurry. Thanks." He hung up, then went to the bathroom and got in the shower with the girl.

"This is our first shower with the lights on," Sylvia said as she soaped up Wes's penis.

Wes pulled away. "Easy kitty," he said. "He's pretty sensitive after the working over you gave him."

"HE got a working over? You've got to be kidding." Sylvia used the tiny Motel 6 shampoo to lather up her hair. "I still can't believe what you did to me. I mean, god, Wes, I mean, GODDAMN, I came so much."

"We'll do it again, if you want."

Sylvia gave Wes a lingering kiss. "We better."

At this point they stopped talking and started bathing, handing off the soap and sharing the water spray. They toweled off and stepped into dress clothes as quickly as possible. Sylvia put on her tight black dress with a small jacket from the first day, and Wes put on his Armani charcoal suit. They did the best they could to use the small counter together, brushing their teeth, blow-drying their hair. Sylvia did indeed leave her springy curls in place, letting them fall naturally around her face.

Wes was just stepping into his shoes as the phone rang. He said thanks to the person on the other end, then hung up and told Sylvia, "The cab's here." The two young contestants loaded their arms with luggage and exited the room, leaving a torrential path of sexual devastation in their wake where a motel bed had once been.

They filled the cab's truck with luggage but could not fit the cello, so they put it in the passenger's seat. Once the students got in back, the cabbie pulled into traffic. Wes gave the name of the school and begged the cabbie to step on it, saying it was an emergency.

"I'm not gonna speed," the cabbie said.

"You know," Wes said as he leaned forward, "I see sometimes in movies where a cabbie gets offered an extra sum if he makes it somewhere on time. Does that kind of thing really go on?"

The cabbie laughed. "Why don't you name a figure and find out?"

"Fifty."

The cabbie sighed, debated. "What time do you need to be there by?"

"Eleven."

"Sheesh. Fine. Hold on." And with that, Wes actually heard the engine rev and felt the machine lurch forward. Sylvia's eyes widened, then she giggled. Soon they were zipping down the right lane past traffic and pushing through yellow lights. Wes estimated they had 25 minutes to make a 30 minute drive, but the situation was out of his hands. He slumped in the big backseat, holding Sylvia's hand. They'd racked up about four hours of sleep each, but the coital workout had probably undone all the restfulness.

"You changed your mind," Wes said, finally broaching the subject.

"Yeah." Sylvia was silent then, but Wes allowed her to find the words. Finally she continued. "I guess I was sad that we weren't going to be playing, because music is something that connects us so deeply. It's something we have in common... No, that's not it. There's nothing common about what you and I have in common. I feel..." She stared out the window at the bright mid-day sun, tracing a finger along the glass, as her other hand opened and closed around Wes's. "I feel like we ARE music. I don't know what that means."

Another long stretch of silence as Wes pondered. At last he said, "When we touch each other, I don't hear any music at all."

Sylvia looked at him, worried. "Why not?"

Wes caressed Sylvia's cheek. "I think it's because music has always filled an empty space inside me. It keeps me from getting bored with the normal world, but it's more than that. Anyway, when I'm with you, I look in that empty place, and it's you that's filling it."

A wide, beautiful grin spread across Sylvia's face. She kissed Wes long and hard.

Wes noticed the driver watching them in the mirror. "Hey, step on it!" he demanded.

Sylvia whipped out her compact mirror and reapplied her lipstick. "How much time do we have?"

"None." Wes's watch read 11:07. "I'm hoping they'll allow me to check in even though the first performer is competing. It's not unprecedented; lots of kids compete in more than one event, so they give them a little latitude."

"But you're only in one event."

Wes shrugged.

Sylvia said, "I was terrified we'd have to work in some insurance agency after we got married."

Wes laughed. Nothing could have been more natural for Sylvia to say. "Never fear. Let's both win our competitions, then we can write our own tickets. I like Miami."

"I like Seattle."

Wes itched his chin. "Phoenix is nice."

"Phoenix is hot! Wait, I've got it. Chicago."

Wes grinned. "I like Chicago."

Sylvia pouted. "Do you think we can both win?" she asked. "Will we?"

"Absolutely. Why the hell not? You play just for me, and I'll play just for you. What the hell can any of these other clowns throw at us that can compete?"

"It just doesn't seem likely," Sylvia lamented, as she played with her curls.

"If you want to discuss odds, Sylvia, it's not very likely we'd fall in love like this, this fast. We're living a story, baby. Ours, no one else's. We'll write our own ending."

Neither was even paying attention when the cabbie said, "Get that fifty bucks out, kid. We're here."

"That building! There!" Wes pointed to the left. "Go go go!"

The car pulled up to the curb. "Run!" Sylvia shouted. Wes hopped out, slipping the fifty into Sylvia's hand, leaving her to grab the luggage. As the trunk opened, he grabbed sheet music from his backpack, looked twice to make sure it was the right piece, then ran like hell to the school's main performance hall. His watch read 11:20.

Sure enough, his coach, the head of the instrumental music department, stood in the lobby. The 50-year-old man stopped dead in his pacing, hands on his head, handfuls of gray hair in both fists.

"What the fuck!" he shouted.

"I'm sorry," Wes said.

"Fuck that! Follow those signs. Hurry!" The coach pointed, and Wes trotted in that direction. The path led to the building's green room, where actors traditionally wasted time between scenes. Through the open door on the other side of the room, the sounds of Bartok wafted from the auditorium's main stage. Wes could see the first competitor in his memory, a mousy blonde with an unflattering black dress; she was doing a really fantastic job with a piece Wes had once considered himself for the finals, Andante with variations in F minor, the one about Orpheus and Eurydice, the doomed lovers from Greek myth. After Eurydice died tragically on her wedding day, Orpheus braved the underworld to save her, only to forget the rules and lose her all over again. Wes hoped the music would not prove ominous.

The second of the three competitors sat in one of the green room couches, a boy in a tux with uncombed hair. His eyes were closed as he listened to his competition.

Sitting by the entrance door was a young man behind a desk. "Can I help you?" the kid said, adjusting his glasses. His voice dripped Chicagoese.

"I'm competing."

"You're the Brahms? They've started! This guy's already played." He jerked a thumb at the kid in the tux.

"Come on, let me in there!"

The kid lifted a walkie talkie and clicked a button. "Hey, it's Colin. Yeah, the guy playing the Brahms is here."

The walkie talkie barked, "You're kidding."

"What do I tell him?"

The tux kid cried out, "He's late! He forfeits!"

"Hold on," said the walkie talkie voice. Wes shifted on both feet. Moments later the voice returned. "The director says to put him on stage. A lot of people're anxious to hear him."

"The kid who played Haydn is upset."

The tux kid reached for the walkie talkie. "Lemme talk to them," he said. But the guy in glasses pushed him back.

"The Brahms kid is here, it's legal," said the walkie talkie. "Go tell the MC."

Applause erupted from the stage door. "Wait here," the guy in glasses said, dropping the walkie talkie to sprint out into the offstage area. He poked his head back in and said, "You don't have time to warm up." He beckoned Wes to follow.

Wes passed the angry kid in the tux. Once in the wings, he passed the cute mousey girl in the ugly dress, glowing after her performance. She registered shock upon seeing Wes pass by. A man onstage said, "Ladies and gentlemen, our third and final performer in the solo piano competition hails from an Ivy League school..."

The words vanished as Wes shook his fingers, loosening his digits. How unfair would it be to the other students if he waltzed in without even a warm-up, sat down at the instrument and walked away with first place? But that's exactly what was about to happen, and fairness didn't matter one damn.

Applause. Wes stepped onto the stage, shook the hand of whoever-this-guy-was, sat at the bench, placed the sheet music for Brahms' Sonata in F minor on the instrument. The piece had originally been written for two pianos, then modified by the composer into a quintet, but then some wunderkind or another decided he could play it with only one keyboard, and everyone in music circles had been talking about it for a year. Wes debated for months whether he had the confidence, let alone skill, to put the piece into play during competition, but the time for debate was past. Now, he knew, the confidence was his to call forth.

His fingers shivered, not with fear but anticipation. They were eager to get started; victory sat on the other side of this performance.

Now where did I leave that confidence, he asked himself. Oh yes, it's sitting deep inside a young girl somewhere out in the dark theater, probably the back row. She knows who I am, better than I thought anyone else could. She tastes rich and sweet when I lick her between her legs. She warms me with her breathing. She loves me.

To Wes's surprise, his fingers pressed down and struck the first notes. Wes grinned and mentally raced to catch up with his fingers. His discipline was deep, and he never practiced without watching the sheet music, but he and his coach both agreed that once he was onstage, well-rehearsed and ready to go, it was best for Wes to play by ear, from memory. The music poured out of his hands, passionate, vigorous, just as Brahms intended, too much music for one piano, now forced through a single set of keys.

There was a moment of anxiety when the idea of the music sounded different from what he was actually playing, but then he remembered he was at the part that sounded like a Beastie Boys song he knew, and he also remembered that he had trained his subconscious to ignore the mental hiccup whenever he came to it and barrel through. He knew he would not have had the lapse if he'd been concentrating on the music instead of the girl waiting for him after the performance. Oh well, he'd find out later if anyone noticed or not. Besides, there wasn't anyone in the audience except Sylvia, not in his mind. She would forgive him any mistake.

Then, just like that, he was finished with the movement, and he grinned at the roar of applause. Offstage, the other two contestants gave Wes perfunctory handshakes.

"Good job," said the blonde girl. She seemed very nervous. Perhaps it was a pianist thing, to be so jittery.

"Nice," said the boy in the tux, not in a complimentary way, but more as a stated fact.

"Thanks," Wes replied. He realized he hadn't heard the guy play. Perhaps this guy'd devastated the judges with his brilliance, but then, why the long face? Wes squeezed between the guy and the curtain to get back into the green room.

The only person in the green room was Sylvia. She smiled like a child, teeth white and shiny, clasping her hands together. She ran to give Wes a hug. They pressed their foreheads together.

"You were so good," Sylvia said.

"Did I mess up?" Wes asked.

"Mess up? What do you mean?"

"There's a part that reminds me of the Beastie Boys... Never mind."

"Beastie Boys? Huh?"

"Hey dick," said the guy in the tux, sticking his head in the door. "You won. They called your name."

Sylvia put her hands to her mouth, suppressing a scream. She hugged Wes again, then pushed him toward the door. Wes stuck a hand out to the guy in the tux.

"Asshole," he said.

Wes shrugged. He shook the blonde girl's hand, then went onto the stage, greeted by thunderous applause. A huge contingent of students in the left section of the audience chanted, "Wes! Wes! Wes!" This made Wes's cheeks burn red. He took the trophy from the whoever-this-is dude, shook his hand, waved to the audience, then scurried offstage.

"Well, that's it for chamber keyboards," said the guy to the audience. "Remember, be back here at 1:00 for the strings finals, first solos, then ensembles starting with duets, and we'll finish with mixed ensembles. We should be done around 5:30 or 6:00, so if you're trying to catch planes back tonight, make plans accordingly with the scheduling judges to my right, and we can make accommodations..."

As the fellow rambled on, Sylvia took Wes down a corridor, away from the lobby.

"Where are we going?" Wes asked.

"It's a surprise." Sylvia continued to drag him along until they came to a set of exterior doors. Waiting outside stood Roger and Faith.

Roger gave Wes a huge bear hug. "Awesome, Wes! You are the shizznit."

"They found me in the green room," Sylvia said. "We're all going across the street for lunch so we won't have to run into anyone."

More could have been said, but it didn't need to be. There was a general understanding among the four students of what was transpiring – Sylvia and Wes were the two shyest kids in school, and now they were lovers due to an illicit affair in the hotel room; students would swarm them in minutes if they didn't run away, to congratulate Wes both for winning his competition and for nailing Sylvia; Roger and Faith were responsible for letting the cat out of the bag, so it was their duty to protect the two shy kids from the monster they had unleashed. Also, Sylvia and Wes had run off without telling anyone, and they might be in trouble with the professors. Getting away for lunch was the best course, all around.

They walked a block to a sit-down restaurant called Tomy's Italian Bistro. About ten minutes after sitting in their round booth, students began to fill the joint; thankfully, none were from their school. Sylvia sat next to Wes, much closer than Faith sat next to Roger. Wes could tell she felt uncomfortable under Roger's judging eyes.

"Awwwww," Roger said. "You two make a good couple."

"Yeah, thanks for outing us," Sylvia snapped from behind her menu.

"Oh come on, you aren't still mad about that, are you?"

"You tell me, Rog," Wes said. "Did we run away from the hotel in shame?"

Roger waved a dismissive hand. "What a couple of pussies."

"You don't understand," Faith said. "They're both so shy. Sylvia is, anyway."

Wes decided to go out on an emotional limb. It was his last resort with this turd. "She's right, Roger. Sylvia and I don't like a lot of attention; it's something we have in common. I thought you knew that about me, at least, but maybe you just like to humiliate me for your own amusement."

"Fuck," Roger spat. "It's not my fault if you're so goddamn hypersensitive."

"Not your fault, then it's no one's, I guess," Wes said. "Not even Faith's. She tried all through the trip to get along with you, but you kept treating her like a whore."

"Hey!" Faith piped up.

"Wes, jeez," Sylvia said, touching his arm.

"Ease up, people. I didn't call Faith a whore. I said Roger treats her like one."

Faith crossed her arms and looked away. "He's right, Roger. You don't treat me right."

"Well la-dee-fuck-dee-dee. Tell me, Wesley, what's the proper way to treat a girl? Buy her roses? Suck her toes?"

Sylvia put her menu down. "It couldn't hurt, Roger." She sat next to Faith, and she took her hand; Faith had started to cry a little, obviously a rather thin-skinned kid. "Wes and I have only known each other for a few days, and already he's asking me what I want and what I think, not just pushing me around. And yes, for your information, he does suck toes."

Wes blushed.

"Where's the fucking waiter?" Roger said.

"Roger," Faith said softly. "Don't get mad. You're not like that. I know you. You're a nice guy."

"Of COURSE I'm a nice guy. I've very nice! I'm just fucking hungry."

The waiter came, and everyone ordered. After he left, everyone sat quiet and upset. Eventually, Roger spoke without looking at anyone. "Faith, I'm sorry. You told me you didn't want me to spank your ass, and I shouldn't have spanked you."

"Roger, I LIKE getting spanked."

"Then... What? Why'd you get so pissed?"

"Because you didn't ASK if I liked it or not."

"That's fucked up."

Wes said, "No, it's not, Roger. You can't just have sex all night. You have to communicate."

Roger looked at Wes. For the first time, he seemed to think about what he was hearing. Wes knew he was in love, and he suspected it showed. Roger let out a pouty sigh and leaned on his hand. "So what's the story with you two?" he asked. "How'd you two hook up, anyway?"

Sylvia blushed a little. "I'd rather not talk about it," she said.

"Oh come on," Faith said. "It's a sweet story." She then proceeded to tell as much of the tale as she could remember. Wes was horrified by the detail Sylvia had gone into with Faith, although there were many, many details left out. Sylvia was horrified by Faith's indiscretion in keeping secrets. As the story went on, however, everyone became less shy and started to listen. Wes hadn't realized how fantastical the entire story sounded until he heard it out loud. Sylvia held his hand and remembered with him. Roger, fascinated and horny as hell, asked all the pertinent detailing questions, and Wes, a long-time buddy, used his own tiptoeing way of filling in the blanks. As they finished their lunches, the story was still being told, not in a vulgar way but with enough innuendo to make things interesting.