Chicago Hotel Adventure Ch. 04

"So you two are really going at it," Roger said, stating the magnificently obvious.

Wes chuckled. "I think that's pretty clear by now."

"I mean, you can't get enough."

"Ro-ger..." Faith scolded.

"I mean, come on, it's true. You're probably wanting to do it right now."

"Roger!" Faith hissed.

Wes felt his heart beating fast. Sylvia hugged his arm, feeling exposed and embarrassed but also immensely turned on. All this talk of sex, Wes knew, was doing something to the girl.

"I mean," Roger continued, "if you thought you could get away with it, you'd do it in the bathroom at this restaurant."

Wes sensed the heat building in his girlfriend. Her heart pounded against Wes's arm, and her breathing was becoming labored. After a moment, Wes realized he was reacting the same way. But he still had to say, "Roger, cut it out, asshole."

"No, I'm serious. I mean, you fucked in the hotel room, you fucked in a pool and a sauna, you bought an entirely new motel room and fucked in there, and you even fucked in an underground maintenance tunnel or whatever the fuck. You'll do it anywhere you can get away with it." Roger was not accusing them; he was full of admiration.

"But we can't get away with it anymore," Wes said almost angrily, implying that Roger was responsible.

Roger leaned forward. He had a serious face, the one he kept in reserve for his dramatic roles on stage. "I'm telling you, dude. You have my word of honor. If you've got to go bust a nut, Faith and I will never tell a soul. You have my word."

"What are you trying to do?" Wes said. Sylvia, he knew, could not speak. An image flashed across his mind, of the button on the dashboard of those professional race cars, which is all the driver has to push to start the engine. Something had hit Sylvia's button.

"Come on," Roger said. "Come on. Come on." He just kept saying that, over and over, as though it were the lynchpin in his airtight argument. "Come on, guys. Come on. I won't tell. Come on."

Suddenly, Sylvia said, "Move." She pushed Wes out of the booth, and they both stood. "Roger, I swear to god, if you ever tell anyone, I'll fucking kill you." Her face was very close to Roger's.

Roger swallowed hard. "Fuck," he said. The guy was downright flabbergasted that his plan had worked.

Sylvia took Wes's hand and dragged him toward the hall with the "Restrooms" sign over the passageway. The bathrooms in the mom-and-pop joint were single stall, with a little latch bar to lock the door. Sylvia pulled Wes into the men's room, turned on the light, locked the door, and assaulted Wes with a lip-lock that made his teeth ache.

"Make love to me," she growled between slobbery caresses with her lips.

The two young lovers needed only seconds to prepare. Wes pulled his pants down, leaving his jacket and tie in place, as Sylvia hiked her dress up around her torso and pulled her panties down. They struggled in the small space but didn't make any sounds that would betray their activities. Wes's hand immediately planted itself between Sylvia's legs. As his finger penetrated the seal of her pussy lips, a thick stream of moisture broke loose and ran down Wes's finger. Sylvia wrapped her hand around Wes's cock, sliding her palm and fingertips up and down his shaved pubic region. Wes was so hard it hurt.

They moved carefully but quickly. Wes reverently laid his hands on Sylvia's body, lifting her leg so that her shoe heel clicked against the wall behind him. Her ass was only a few inches from the sink basin. The girl reached underneath and grabbed his cock. As soon as the tip found her pussy, she slammed down very hard onto it. Hardly a whimper escaped her lips. Wes was so accomplished by now at reading her body language that he knew the level of her pleasure from the tension in her eyebrows.

Speed was of the essence, and the two students fucked hard and fast. Sylvia crashed like a rocket again and again against Wes's crotch, and Wes realized he was grabbing Sylvia painfully tight around the hips to keep her from careening away from him. Fatigue quickly hit Wes's knees, but he didn't dare stop fucking Sylvia as viciously as possible. Within only two minutes, Wes was ready to come. He emptied his semen into Sylvia's pussy, knowing it was the best way to keep from making a mess.

A knock on the door. Both lovers froze, still shivering in ecstasy, looking into each other's terrified eyes.

Wes coughed. "Uh, gimme a sec," he grunted.

Seconds passed; no sounds came from outside. Sylvia almost started giggling before Wes quickly pulled out of her, reached one arm underneath her ass, and pushed her against the sink. She landed a little too hard against the flat of the porcelain, then she reached forward and gripped Wes's short head of hair as she masturbated with the other hand. Wes pushed her hand aside and started rubbing her very quickly, vibrating the tips of his fingers against her moist clitoris as quickly as he could. Wes felt sticky fluid all over his fingers and realized he was feeling his own semen leaking out of the girl.

Sylvia tensed all over. Suddenly she exhaled deeply but still without sound, then shivered hard and deep against Wes. The entire incident was over so quickly that neither one even had a chance to sweat, a first for them both as far as Wes could remember.

Sylvia used a paper towel to wipe off her pussy, then tossed the towel to Wes who cleaned off his cock, still hard but turning limp. Wes stuck his head out the door, looked both ways, then pulled Sylvia down the hall into the women's room. He kissed her then closed the door, leaving her there, then returned to the booth.

Roger and Faith sat much closer now, with stunned looks on their faces. As Wes chomped on a piece of garlic bread, his new girlfriend came back from the bathroom, bouncing her curls with the palm of her hand. She sat next to Wes, cuddled up against him, took his bread and chomped a bite off.

"Oh. SHIT." Roger's eyes did not blink.

Sylvia tapped the check. "Lunch is on you, Roger." She got up, coaxing Wes to follow her.

"You owe us," Wes said with a helpless look.

"Yeah yeah," Roger said, but he was smiling. So was Faith.

Back at the auditorium building, Wes and Sylvia entered through the back doors they'd used as an exit. They could already see students gathering at the doorway to the green room. Certainly most of them were string contestants, and most were girls. One girl yelped a "Hello" and started running toward them. It was Gerri Tappin, who was a finalist in the string quartet.

Sylvia leaned inconspicuously toward Wes and said, "Gerri snubbed me for her quartet. I'm surprised they got this far."

"Be nice," Wes said.

"There you are!" Gerri said, as though she'd found lost kittens under her front porch. "We thought you weren't going to show up for your own competitions."

"Well, we did," Wes said.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Wes! I almost forgot! Congratulations!"

"Thanks."

"So," Gerri said, leaning in. "I heard you two were... you know."

"Gerri, please," Sylvia said sternly. "We don't want to talk about it." Wes could sense the embarrassment welling up inside Sylvia, which she hid well behind her impatience with the gossipy Gerri.

"Touchy," Gerri said. "You gonna sign in or what?"

"I'm coming."

"Don't be long." Gerri had a devilish look as she went back to the door, as though she thought she'd have a better time getting the lowdown once Wes was gone. Fat chance.

Sylvia said to Wes, "I guess I'll see you after."

"You'll win," Wes said without flattery or hyperbole. "You'll win."

"I love you to pieces," Sylvia said.

"I'm so glad you found me."

"Don't sit with anyone from school. Just find me after I win... or don't win. That came out wrong."

"You said it right the first time."

"Just find me right after."

"And then what?" As soon as the question escaped Wes's mouth, he regretted it. No need to stress the girl out before her big performance.

"Then... well... just stay close."

"Everyone will know."

"Everyone already knows. Just don't leave me. Stay close, okay? Stay close. If we keep to ourselves on the plane ride back, maybe everyone will get the hint and just leave us the fuck alone."

"Maybe." Wes kissed her cheek. "Break a leg."

Sylvia gave Wes a long hug. As she went to stand in line, Wes grabbed her ass. She shrieked, giggled, ran along.

"She's very beautiful," said a voice behind Wes. He turned and saw, much to his surprise, the fellow from the restaurant, the one who had paid for dinner. "Is she talented?" the man asked.

"Very," Wes answered, still stunned.

"Mr. Craftsman, Adrian Craftsman," said the man as he shook Wes's hand.

"How do you do. I'm–"

"I know who you are. You played for me at L'Espalier last night. Then you won the solo piano competition with the same piece. I'm not easily impressed, sir, but you have, as they say, blown my hair back." He absent-mindedly ran his hand over his distinguished bald head.

Wes felt trapped for reasons he couldn't explain; he chalked it up to nerves. "Thank you Mr. Craftsman," he said, embarrassed as hell.

"What will you do after college?"

"Study. Perform. Study first."

"Where?"

"The Florida Institute, sir. I've been accepted."

"That was your first choice?"

"Yessir."

"Ever considered Germany?"

Wes, realizing he hadn't been able to look directly into the stranger's eyes, lifted his gaze. Who the fuck was this guy? Nothing phony about him, but did that mean he was safe? And Germany, what the hell? Who in their right mind would promise Germany based on hearing one performance, and only two movements of the complete piece at that?

The man continued. "I have friends at the Klavier-Institut von Hamburg, part of the Royal School. They think of me as a talent scout."

"Germany." Wes sounded incredulous, but in actuality he believed the man one-hundred percent.

"You are twice the musician of either of your competitors. Surely you know this."

"I didn't hear their performances."

Mr. Craftsman smiled. "Such brashness. I did not sense any in you. I'm glad you have the spark." He handed a card to Wes. "The deal is done. Let's get together and discuss it. Are you free for breakfast tomorrow?"

"I'm flying back tonight," Wes said.

"You have classes?"

"Yessir. Economics"

"Nonsense. Musicians study music. You have my permission to miss tomorrow's next grueling episode of Algebra or Economics or Lesbian History or whatever you said. You'll stay in Chicago tonight, and I'll buy you a plane ticket tomorrow. Or two, if your lady friend would like to spend the evening with you."

Wes felt genuinely dizzy. "That's... I mean... I mean, wow. That would be great. But I already have a room of my own for tonight. Motel 6, on the north side."

"The north side? Young man, those fingers of yours aren't safe in the north end of Chicago. You'll stay in the penthouse of the Penbrook tonight. It's only the fortieth floor, but it will do."

"The penthouse?" Wes wanted to voice his doubt, but he was still too shy to speak. Besides, he didn't want the fantasy to evaporate right before him. But he did manage to ask, "How do you know it isn't already booked?"

"Because it's my hotel, and I'm not staying there tonight. Simply call my office – the number's on the card – and tell them who you are. It will already be set up. Now, if you'll excuse me, I cannot miss the afternoon performances."

"Wait," Wes requested as the man started off. "I don't understand. How did you know I would be playing in the finals today?"

"I didn't even know you were competing. I was going to be here anyway. But I will tell you this." He walked back toward Wes. "When I heard you last night, I believed you COULD have been a finalist. I am gratified to learn my ear did not deceive me. Call me in the morning." And with that, he disappeared through the crowd of girls and on toward the lobby.

Wes, still shocked, followed him. When he passed the green room door, a hand reached out and grabbed him. "Wes!" Sylvia shouted.

"Hey babe," Wes said languidly.

"What's wrong?" Sylvia asked. How perceptive she was, already able to read him so well.

"I'll tell you later."

"Guess what!" Sylvia said, excited. "I just got a job offer!"

"What?" Wes asked, his attention fully turned toward Sylvia's words.

"They didn't even wait for the final, they just came and found me in the green room. They thought I was good during the semi-finals yesterday." She squealed with delight and hugged Wes, then pushed him to arms' length and gasped. "Oh my god! Wes, what if they asked you to come play piano? I mean, well, you know, we could be in the same orchestra. You've got to talk to this guy."

"Where?" Wes said, stopping the girl before she could disappear back into the room.

"Oh duh! I didn't even say? Florida, the Miami Philharmonic. Didn't you say you liked Miami? It's so amazing! They've been searching for a second chair cello for months. Oh wow, I've got to call my mom. Oh my god! Oh my god!" Sylvia whispered loudly. "Wes, we almost missed this! We almost didn't show up! Oh my god, oh my GOD!"

"Sylvia!" Wes yelled, grabbing her by the arms.

Sylvia was startled. "What?"

"Focus, baby. Focus. Think about the performance ahead. We have a long time to decide what we want to do with our lives..." Wes pulled Sylvia away from the crowd of girls, some of whom he knew would be dying to hear the rest of Wes's conversation. "But you can win today. Don't forget. Focus on the moment, make it happen. Go in there and win. Okay?"

"I love you," Sylvia said, her lip shaking. She kissed Wes, not caring who saw. "Where can I find you after the event?"

"Tell you what," Wes said. "After they announce the winners for your category, don't hang around. Go meet me at that exit door we took at lunch. I might have a little surprise for you."

Sylvia smiled her big, beautiful smile. Wes felt his heart breaking a little. He wanted her so badly, but for the first time in four days, he realized she wasn't his, and he wasn't hers. They belonged to themselves, and until they abandoned whatever they thought their lives would be and combined to make a new life, that was the way it would be. Who gets married on a whim, anyway? Britney Spears, that's who.

Sylvia went back to the doorway just in time to sign in. She waved at Wes and disappeared into the green room.

Inside the auditorium, every seat on the floor level was filled. Schools from around the country had come to compete, junior colleges and universities alike, some specializing in music, others represented by as few as one student. Each prize meant big money for the students as well as the school; a win would draw donors and sponsors from an international arena. The judges for the All-State Artistic Tournament were notoriously immune to bribes, so the suspense in the room was real.

Wes sat in the relatively empty balcony. He saw clusters of kids in the corners farting around, obviously bored with the competition now that they had lost in the earlier rounds, but he also saw ladies and gentlemen in singles and pairs, looking studious and intense. These were the Mr. Craftsmans of the world, come to scout the talent.

The event started with solo violin, none of whom were from Wes's school; the winner was some girl from Montana, Wes's home. Then came the three cello finalist. The first young man had the sheer tenacity to play Bach's cello suite in G major, a piece known by non-music lovers in trailer parks everywhere. He gave a stirring if long-winded rendition of the allemande, but nothing short of perfection could make up for an unforgivable fingering mistake in the prelude, and the allemande was short of perfect. Next came a gorgeous redhead in a beige-colored party dress who gave a serious, intimidating rendition of Messagesquisse by Pierre Boulez, a piece Wes had never heard before. The program notes explained that this piece was usually accompanied by six additional cellos, which may have explained the girl's gusto in playing the lonely forefront. Wes sensed she was rushing the simplistic opening – Wes would have played it much quieter and with a few notes held longer – but the effect was a striking and consistent read. Wes was momentarily worried.

Then came Sylvia, resplendent in her tight, black floor-length dress with the side slit to her thigh and the tiny jacket around her shoulders. The announcer informed the audience that Sylvia would be playing a Tchaikovsky. The program informed him the piece was titled Nocturne for cello & small orchestra (or piano) in D minor. This made Wes smile.

She began, and Wes thought the piece was similar in its somber tone to her selection from the day before. Hidden depth to this girl, Wes knew, and now everyone else would know. No break-neck trills or fingering acrobatics for Sylvia, no, just a masterful execution of a doleful, demanding 8-minute movement full of sustains, sharp stops, deep lows and shrill highs. Each pause was perfectly timed, each entrance was perfectly approached. Wes imagined what the piano accompaniment might provide – some sort of countermelody, perhaps, something to offset the dirge and lighten the mood.

The audience hung on every note; they'd be humming this tune afterward, if they had the ability. Wes watched her play, falling in love with her more and more by the minute. Also, he was hungry to be inside her again. Wes realized, for the first time, that these two desires were not mutually exclusive. The further into the piece she descended, the more he lusted after her. When could he touch her again, feeling her strong muscles move silkily below her tight skin? When could he run his tongue across her breastbone, and feel the sweat drip from her elbow onto his stomach? When would they be together again? Tonight, it would be tonight, and it would be in Chicago.

She finished, and the crowd declared her the winner with their cheers. "You kicked ass, Sylvia," some rude idiot on the floor level shouted. Sylvia trotted offstage quickly, too shy even to wave back.

Wes did not hang around to see if she won; he simply waited for her at the green room door. A payphone hung on the wall outside the room. He called for a cab and told them to wait in front of the auditorium for him. Ten or twelve minutes later, Sylvia appeared holding the trophy. She almost ran right past Wes.

"Wes! I can't believe it." She kissed him on the mouth, then the cheek, then the mouth again and again. Wes held her tightly in his arms.

"We're leaving," he said.

"Leaving? Again? But my coach will want to see me. I want to tell her the good news."

"We can call her cell phone from the hotel room."

"We're going back to the hotel room?"

"No. Do you trust me?"

"Wes, what's wrong? Is something wrong?"

"Don't worry, Sylvia. I just need to be with you tonight. Let's stay in Chicago. Do you trust me?"

"Yes."

"Show me where you put the stuff."

Sylvia led Wes to a classroom, where a great number of luggage bags and instrument cases were being guarded by a mustached guy in a security uniform. They carried their stuff through the empty lobby and out to the waiting cab. Parked beside the cab was a limousine, and leaning against the limo was Mr. Craftsman.

"Ms. Anderson, I presume." He held out his hand.

Sylvia shook it. She was silent, shy.

"Congratulations. Do you like Germany?"

"Germany?" Sylvia asked. "Is that where this limo is going?"

Wes's heart leaped at the idea of Sylvia living with him in Europe. Could Craftsman really send them both? Would he?

"No, my dear. I saw Wesley leave the auditorium, and I played a hunch that this waiting cab was yours. Allow me to provide your transportation instead."