12. Montana
12
Montana
T he sun had set upon leaving the confines of the music room. I’d spent the entire afternoon working endlessly to perfect each piece.
I saw her face with every stroke, her dead, lifeless eyes with the fake smile attached to them with every drag of that bow. My suspicions were heightened as I flipped to the last page of music, and the room around me spun.
There it was before me, Isle of the Dead, Op 29, in A minor by Sergei Rachmaninoff; death, life, purity, the afterlife, redemption.
Ice had run through my veins when I touched the title of the piece with a shaky hand.
She needed someone. She needed me. But instead, she was left to rot like a useless animal, used and beaten in the most horrific way. These things happen , they claimed in the only microscopic news article ever published about her or the incident. There were no stories, no spotlights, no awareness to the general public that a killer was living within the community. Just making it known that pretty women who dress inappropriately are more likely to be taken advantage of and more likely to just disappear without a trace. It’s almost as if they enjoyed the fact that this could be a lesson to promising girls entering college: Women who flaunt their sex end up dead.
Ella Marx was my reason. The cello. Phil. The circumstances. It was the only reason I didn’t refuse to come back after my mother was locked up. Truthfully, I’d rather live on the streets than make a home with a monster, but my knowledge of the truth of what happened to Ella Marx needed to be explored. When it seeps into your blood, justice can drive you from one life to another. Retribution is like a warm gun, soothing to the restless soul. And my soul is the definition of restless.
The bus ride back feels like forever. The frustration over this morning seeps back into my mind as I recall the old Chevy finally coughing out its last breath. Arching my spine, I stretch from side to side to alleviate the tension there, turning to see a man sitting in a seat toward the back of the bus, staring in my direction. I offer him a light smile, then turn to face the front again.
I turn back again, hoping it was just an odd coincidence, these feelings of unease, only to find his gaze set in my direction again. I’m overthinking everything.
Reddened and used, the pads of my fingers are sore, and my nail beds feel on fire as I grab my phone from my bag and open an awaiting text from Markie.
Markie Mark: Tell me you aren’t tied up with cello strings and getting banged into next week by the conductor as a way of getting into the orchestra.
I chuckle at the ironic nature of the comment. Fitting.
Money Shot: How else did you think I got the chair?
Markie Mark: I'll kill you. Slit your throat. End you.
Money Shot: I’m on my way home. I have twelve sonatas to perfect before the try-out rehearsal tomorrow. It’s gonna be a long night. I’m already dead tired. Plus, this bus riding alone at night situation is already starting to get a little creepy. I need to get my car fixed ASAP.
She texts back immediately.
Markie Mark: Creepy? How so?
I hate to scare her when, in reality, nothing is happening, but my overactive brain is firing off unnecessarily.
Money Shot: Idk, nvm. Almost home.
Markie Mark: Well, make sure you get some rest tonight. Let that beautiful brain of yours decompress. I’m sure you packed in a lot today.
Money Shot: Oh, I plan to.
We chat back and forth for a few more minutes, mostly with me expressing my disdain for the upcoming family dinner with Phil, Shane, and his mom tomorrow night. My father wouldn’t let it go, which was very unlike him. It must have been Kathy’s doing.
I’m grateful when I finally see my stop approaching. Gripping my cello, I quickly pay the toll, lugging the large carrier on my back to walk the last three blocks in my fancy yet painful loafers to my newfound hell. I saw the bus pull away with the man still inside, yet I can’t keep my eyes from darting behind me at every rustle of leaves in the gutters, every purr of wind through the few trees lining the streets.
Any inkling of joy left within me from the day is wrung from my body when I see a lone bike in the garage. Praying that it belongs to the only nice roommate, the pink-haired wonder himself, Wheeter, I open the side door, pushing my way inside the kitchen. Delicious scents drown me as I set my cello down, removing the bag with my music folders from my head and placing it on the table.
Dishes line the sink and countertop—pots, pans, and a red strainer. Nails on wood floors click toward me, announcing the large black mutt’s approach. He sniffs me, practically interrogating me with his nose before a deep tone voices a command.
“Nein.”
I turn to face a shirtless Shane, appearing from down the hall with a dish towel draped over his shoulder. Rocco’s ears twitch, and he immediately takes a step back from me, his eyes never leaving Shane’s.
“Sich setzen,” he commands, and the dog sits.
“Seriously? All the English words were taken?”
“He’s a German breed. Bred by a German owner. He listens to those commands.”
“How very badass of you,” I reply flatly.
Drool drips from the dog’s jowls as he chomps his jaw in tight jitters, still holding his focus on Shane.
“You gonna give him a treat or something? He looks hungry.” My face twists in disgust as I watch a glob of slobber drip onto the floor.
“Not every good behavior deserves praise,” he comments, eyes scouring mine. “Some is expected.”
I glower at him, then peer down at Rocco. Poor dog is a slave to a sadist.
“That’s cute, by the way,” he comments, pointing to the thong still stuck in the wall with his blade. “Lana will love it.”
I frown. I bet she will. Clearly, his fuck-buddy wants some sort of reason to feel treasured here. Her old thong on display is fitting. I’m almost surprised he didn’t remove it, wanting his knife back, but I imagine he has plenty more weapons at his disposal. Shit, even a pencil will suffice for this psycho.
Shane says nothing more before he opens the oven, using the towel from his shoulder to pull some baking dish out. I steal a look as he leans over the stove, the tattooed flesh of his back taut, showcasing the protruding points of his spine that taper into a cut waist. I remember my hold on him, my fingers tearing into that skin, flanking that spine with nails that cried for mercy against his flesh as he tore through me on camera. But my senses go into overdrive, and I practically slip on my own glob of drool at the smell of some sort of delicious meal.
“You hungry?” he asks, opening the top of the dish to check his masterpiece.
It’s hard to explain what hearing that simple phrase does to me. It instantly makes me retreat to that weak little girl who dreamed of the day I’d come home from school and find my mother at the kitchen table with peanut butter and jelly sandwiches made for us, waiting to hear how my day went. Not my reality of a struggling woman sprawled across the floor, lifeless, with her arms marked up from her attempts to find happiness and that man in her bed, awaiting my entertainment as if I owed him that.
“I figured you’d be hungry after your big day,” Shane says, interrupting my thoughts.
I shake my head, narrowing my eyes.
“What’s the catch here?”
“Catch?” he asks, filling two plates with the cheesy pasta before setting them both down at the small round dinner table where silverware and two glasses of ice water await.
He grabs the back of one of the chairs, plops himself down on it, and rests his elbows on the table. I hesitate, staring at the plate meant for me, saliva pooling in my mouth before I take the seat across from him.
“Yes, catch. I’m not an idiot. You spit in the pizza you were worried I might enjoy. Why do you suddenly have the urge to feed me? What did you put in this? Drugs? Spit? Cum? What are we eating tonight, Step-ho?” I deadpan.
He grabs his fork, bringing a large bite up to his lips before arching a brow. Ignoring my comment, he puts the forkful into his mouth and chews, a rumbling moan leaving his throat as he devours the food.
My lips part. That sound. The same seductive sound he made when his thick, hard cock speared through me.
I grip the wooden spool of the chair in front of me with sweaty palms, my flesh tingling at the reminder. Seeing his muscles so defined beneath this cheap fluorescent light while his mouth mimics those same orgasmic sounds…He was so vocal while fucking, more so than any man I've been with.
“Mmm, it’s my favorite,” he hums, licking his lips of the remaining sauce. “My specialty. Creamy Tuscan Chicken Pasta.” He stares at me before his face drops into a frown. “Just eat, rat. You need your energy.”
I pick up my fork and poke around at the food, finally taking a bite of a noodle with the least amount of sauce on it—ya know, because drugs. The pasta practically melts in my mouth, the creamy sauce assaulting my taste buds in the most appealing way.
“See?” He smiles, satisfaction exuding from him. “Good, right?”
I ignore the opportunity to give him the compliment he clearly deserves. I also ignore this strange attempt at being friendly. It’s suspicious as hell. But fuck if this isn't the best pasta that’s graced my tongue in this lifetime.
“Energy for what?” I ask instead.
He finishes chewing another bite, grabs his glass of water, and takes a sip, his focus now direct and dark. We sit there, both of us still for a moment, and I get the feeling there’s a price to this. His kindness has a cost, as do most things in life.
“It's a funny thing, music,” he begins, digging his fork through his remaining noodles.
My back stiffens, and my entire body tenses at the sudden change in topic. Forget cum in the food, this conversation is the catch.
“It’s simply vibrational frequencies having the power to better you in so many ways—improving healing, re-tuning your body, mind, and spirit, even stimulating neurite growth with simple chords and notes alone,” he continues.
I take a drink of my water and slowly place it back on the table. My hand drags across the cool surface, and my eyes draw up to his.
“It has the ability to change people,” he adds, his menacing stare never faltering. “Inspires them to run marathons, grow the confidence to take on their boss at work, or even gain new insight into life.” He drums his fingers on the table above his plate, too close to where my hand sits across from his. This tiny fucking table.
I swallow thickly as he studies me, and his bony fingers stop drumming on the wood. They’re inches from mine now. So close I can almost feel them and all the things they did to me. By the vile look in his eyes, he knows it, too.
“It helps you explore troubling emotions.” His pitch drops, as does the speed with which he speaks. “Assists you in expressing yourself without needing to verbalize exactly what it is you are experiencing. It can affect morality. Causes you to stay complacent in those dark places they always try to drag us from. It can make you become someone you’re not,” he finishes, the directness of his tone threatening my fight or flight. “Or…produce to the world exactly who you are.”
My eyes drift to my cello case, then back. His eye color shifts from a chocolate hue to a maddening black. Fiery tension sizzles in the air between us.
“There was once an intelligent man, artistic and inquisitive, who was heavily influenced by music. He found meaning in the lyrics that truly spoke to his soul. It captivated his entire being. Gave his life purpose. He found passion in song and the drive it offered him. In fact, he loved the music so much he had his followers use the blood of his murdered victims to write out song titles on the walls of their homes.”
My bottom lip quivers, but I keep my eyes on his.
“Do you know his name?” he asks softly, his head tipping to the side.
“Charles Manson,” I answer quickly, my breath hitching.
He slouches down in his seat, resting his elbow on the edge of the chair behind him, legs spread wide. My anger builds at his arrogant demeanor.
“What are you suggesting, Croix ? That I’m a cult-leading criminal?”
“If the shoe fits.” He shrugs.
I glare at him, uncertain of the man and his chaotic plans before me. Everything about him feels like a trap I cannot escape.
“A funny thing, music. ” He says the phrase again, darker this time, using the word like a curse. His gaze hardens as he pops a cigarette between his lips, turning it ever so slightly with his tongue.
I wait for him to ask. The old plastic clock clicks above the kitchen as I still in my seat, needing him to get it over with. To explain all the ways he’s decided to ruin me. Wait for him to ask me why a girl who’s dead set on becoming the lead chair of the Montgomery Fine Orchestra would be out in the streets, auditioning to become part of the adult film industry.
But he doesn’t.
The hand on the clock slowly clicks louder as the conversation dies, and my stomach shrinks due to the uncomfortable silence that involves stealing glares at one another in this strange battle for understanding.
After a few more minutes, he gets up and grabs his now empty plate, turning to put it in the dishwasher. I take the opportunity to wet my mouth without the addition of his cruel stare, finishing off my glass of water.
Standing from my chair, I grab my plate, about to round the table, when his voice stalls me.
“We aren’t done yet.”
My eyes linger on the empty plate before me, then peer over at his in the dishwasher. Looks as if we are.
“I’ll be in my room. I expect you’ll be there,” he says, shutting the dishwasher.
I frown. “I’m sorry, are you high? I’m not going—”
“Ten minutes, rat,” he interrupts.
I narrow my eyes as he turns to face me. He leans back against the kitchen counter, crossing his arms over his chest, a look of pure victory already dancing in his dark eyes.
He knows he’s got me. I’m too close to succumb now. I need to appease him to keep him silent for the time being. Granted, a quick blowie wouldn’t kill me, but I’m as stubborn as they come.