20. Callie
20
CALLIE
As much as I can’t stand Sav Loveless, I can’t deny that the gift she’s given me has softened me up a bit.
The portable digital piano she got me is state of the art. Even after not having played for over a year, the keys are familiar and welcome under my fingertips. They remind me of the baby grand I played at Barnum Hall.
I was expecting my playing to be awkward. Rusty. But it’s not. It’s like breathing, and I realized that for over a year, I’ve been deprived of oxygen. Closing my eyes, I get lost in the notes. Beethoven’s “Für Elise” pours out of me from muscle memory. Three minutes of pure therapy, removing stress and anxiety for the length of the piece from the first bar to the one-hundred and third.
I don’t bother trying to hide my smile. I let it out, unbidden, for the first time in a long time, and I let myself play.
When “Für Elise” ends, I move right into “Moonlight Sonata.” I don’t even let the final notes fade. I can’t see the stars due to the light pollution, but the breeze is soothing, and the cover of night makes the song choice feel perfect.
I play the first movement seamlessly—not a single missed note, not a single fumble—and then I attempt the second movement. Once again, it comes as naturally as breathing. The second movement is faster with large jumps and a subtlety in places that took me almost a year to learn, but I get through it without error .
I pause before starting the third movement. I take several breaths and mentally run over the music in my mind. My fingers itch to begin, but I keep them suspended two inches above the keys, building my confidence. Preparing.
Just before I lower my hands to the piano, a clapping rings out from the corner of the terrace near the door, and my eyes fly open, whipping in the direction of the sound. Every ounce of air I inhaled escapes me in a violent whoosh.
“Torren,” I gasp, folding my hands in my lap.
Suddenly, all I can think about is the club and how he touched me. How I let him touch me. Heat floods my body, and I force a swallow to wet my now parched throat.
God, why is he here? And shirtless. And gorgeous.
I had Craig haul this up here for me specifically so I wouldn’t have an audience. Of all the people I’d want to watch me play for the first time in over a year, Torren King is at the bottom of the list.
Thank fuck I didn’t attempt the third movement in front of him.
“You’re really good. Don’t stop on my account. I’d love to hear you play some more.”
I laugh awkwardly. “Thanks, but, um, no. I was just messing around.”
“Liar. You looked like you were about to play a solo concert at Carnegie Hall.”
I roll my eyes, but I don’t say anything.
“How long have you played?” he asks, walking toward me with a confidence I don’t think I’ve ever felt in my entire life. “You’re obviously not a beginner.”
“Since I was six,” I tell him honestly. “My dad used to play. He taught me.”
“He used to play?”
“I mean maybe he still does. Probably. Wherever he is.”
I shrug and look out at the Strip. Now that I’m not playing, the noise filters in. Muted, because we’re so high up, but still noticeable without the piano. The worries in my head start to grow louder, too. My bones heavier. It was a nice respite, though.
“Ah. I see. I’m sorry. ”
“Don’t be. I was relieved when he finally left for good. He taught me how to play, so I’m grateful for that. But that was really the only good thing he did.”
Torren nods in my periphery. “I can relate to that. I mean, my dad didn’t teach me much of anything, but I was relieved when he was finally gone.”
I fold my lips between my teeth. I know all about his dad. How he died of liver failure when Torren was sixteen. Cirrhosis. Torren said in an interview once that his dad was an alcoholic, but he didn’t go into detail. I inferred, though. His father wasn’t a great person, and Torren didn’t mourn him.
“I’m sorry,” I say quietly, and I mean it. “Let’s just tell ourselves we’re better off.”
“We are.”
The silence creeps back up between us. A warm breeze tousles my hair, tickling the back of my neck, and I move to put my hair in a ponytail using the elastic on my wrist. I feel Torren’s eyes on me as I do, and I’m thankful he can’t see the way I blush in the dim light.
The longer he stares at me, though, studying me, the more I think I see a flicker of a memory in his eyes. Like he’s so close to grasping it, but it keeps slipping through his fingers. It’s as frightening as it is thrilling.
It feels a bit like an invasion, how much I know about him when he doesn’t remember me. I’m embarrassed of my former obsession, and I’ll admit that I’ve been hiding like a coward behind his ignorance. As much as it hurts knowing he’s discarded me, I can’t deny that it makes me feel less exposed. I don’t have to own up to my past hero worship. I don’t have to be ashamed of my naiveté.
“Have you ever played in front of an audience?”
His question—the way it almost sounds leading, searching—makes my heart thunder in my head. I won’t lie, so I give him the barest of truths.
“I was in a band.”
He hums, brow furrowing slightly before he gives me a small smile.
“That’s cool.”
“Sav and Mabel didn’t tell you? ”
“No, they didn’t, but it doesn’t surprise me that Sav knew. She likes to keep her finger on the music scene.”
I roll my eyes. Of course she does.
“Yeah, so my dad was a jazz pianist,” I continue, “but when I started to play better than he could teach me, my mom got me lessons. I was in a youth music program for years. Played some solo recitals at Barnum Hall in Santa Monica. I loved it, and I was good, but I wasn’t amazing or anything like that. Not a child prodigy. So, when I realized I wasn’t going to be a famous classical pianist, I joined a rock band and played keyboard. But classical...that’s where my heart is.”
Torren laughs, eyes alight with humor. “Sounds like a natural progression of events, honestly.”
I feel such warmth from his laughter, from a hint of his approval, that I almost tell him. I almost unleash the whole fucking thing—the memory, the anger. I want to shake him and scream REMEMBER ME, but I don’t. I punk out because I’m a coward and because I’m ashamed.
And because it fucking hurts still, his rejection.
“Well, I should go...”
I stand from the little patio chair where I was sitting, but Torren takes another step in my direction, halting me.
“You don’t have to. I’m not in a hurry to get back to my room.”
I blink at him, and he must mistake my shock for concern because he throws his palms up.
“No touching. No fake dating stuff. Just two people having a chat on a rooftop terrace.”
An unwelcomed smirk turns up my lips on impulse, my thoughts forming into words before I can think better of it. “Because you have such a great track record with keeping your pants on while on rooftop terraces.”
Torren barks out a laugh and shakes his head while taking a seat in one of the patio chairs. I’m grateful he’s sitting now. I don’t have to worry about accidentally staring at his naked chest or studying his thin sweatpants.
“That wasn’t me. I know some tabloids held to the story that it was, but it wasn’t.”
My jaw drops. “Really?”
“Really. It was Levi. I was at the hotel with the rest of the band. ”
“Damn.”
That rooftop sex tape scandal was everywhere. I tried my best to avoid it, and everything I learned about it was against my will. By that time, The Hometown Heartless was on the top of my shit list, and Torren was King Shit. I didn’t know much about this Levi guy—still don’t—but I was certain it was Torren on that rooftop with Sav.
“How often does that happen?” I ask him. “How often do they just print stories that aren’t true.”
“All the fucking time.”
“That would drive me mad.”
“You get used to it.” He shrugs, then reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a familiar silver cigarette case. “Is it cool if I smoke?”
I arch a brow. Torren from four years ago didn’t ask my permission to smoke, and he practically hotboxed his tour bus with me in it.
“ Now you ask?”
“Now?”
“Never mind,” I say with a sigh. “I don’t mind. Just don’t blow it at me.”
He smirks and puts the joint between his lips, and I watch his long, tattooed fingers as he strikes a match and lights it, inhaling so the cherry glows red on the end.
“Why matches?” I ask randomly. “Why not a lighter?”
He blows a stream of smoke out of the side of his mouth and examines his matchbook as he puts it back in the silver case.
“I could make up some bullshit about how the butane taints the flavor of the joint or something, but really, I just think they’re cool. You’re basically holding a flame between your fingers.” He pauses and grins at me. “Who doesn’t want to be a fire master?”
I force a smile and break eye contact. The nickname Firebird echoes loudly in my head, and I almost want to laugh. Who doesn’t want to be a fire master? I guess that explains a lot.
“So, besides your dad, it’s just you, your mom, and your sister, right?”
Grateful for the change of subject, I nod. “Yep. Well, and the dog now. Happy little family of four.”
“Your sister is a crack-up.”
“Yeah, Glory is a treat,” I say wryly. “She texted me this morning to ask if she can have my half of the closet. As if I’m never going to come back.”
Torren laughs, his white teeth glinting. “Typical younger sibling.”
“Do you have any? Siblings, I mean.”
I ask the question even though I already know the answer. His smile falls briefly. His brow furrows for just a second, then his expression is light and carefree once more. If I’d blinked, I might have missed the change entirely.
“No younger siblings. I have an older brother, as you probably know. We don’t have the best relationship.”
“That sucks,” I say because I don’t know what else to say.
I don’t know how Torren feels about it. Last I heard, his brother was in prison, so I really have no idea if the lack of a relationship with him stings. I know it’s not the same thing, but for as much grief as Glory Bell gives me, it would still break my heart if we weren’t on good terms. Even when I was with the band, I called every few days to talk to her. I sent her postcards from all the states we played in. And she might act like she can’t stand me sometimes, but she still keeps those postcards in her jewelry box. She texts me multiple times a day. She loves me. She’s just a teenager.
“It is what it is. I don’t have a great relationship with any of my family, to be honest. I share my birthday with my mom, and she didn’t even pick up when I called. She never does.”
“Wow. And here I thought my mom only talking to me via text right now was bad.” I say it lightly, attempting to add some levity, and the way he smiles makes me think it works. “Is your family still in Florida?”
I realize my mistake the moment the words leave my mouth—revealing my hand, my knowledge of him—but it’s too late to shove them back in. He doesn’t seem to mind that I know where he’s from, though. I suppose he’s used to people knowing these details about him.
“Yeah. Same town I grew up in. It’s a black hole. No one ever leaves.” He says the last part quietly, almost sadly, as he flicks some ash into a small ashtray on the patio table.
“You left,” I say. “You got out.”
He huffs out a laugh and widens his eyes at me.
“I did. And that’s one of the reasons my family disowned me. They think I put the band before them . Before my brother.” He purses his lips and gazes out at the Strip for a moment. “They aren’t wrong, though. I did. I’d do it again. This band is all I’ve ever wanted. Heartless is my family.”
The silence stretches once more, but this time, it’s not awkward. I prop my elbow on the arm of my patio chair and rest my chin on my fist. I’m getting tired, but I don’t want to leave him just yet.
I roll Torren’s words over in my head.
This band is all I’ve ever wanted. Heartless is my family .
I felt like that once. With Rocky, Ezra, Pike, and Becket. They were like a family to me, and I’d only been with them for a short while. But The Hometown Heartless? They’ve been together for a decade. That’s a long fucking time. I don’t even know if I can begin to understand the depth of their connection. No wonder Torren and Sav had such a hard time letting go of one another.
“Hey, what happened with your band?”
My shoulders stiffen at Torren’s question, and I turn my eyes on him. He’s watching me intently, nothing but genuine interest on his face. I blink a few times before deciding what to say, and then I force a smile.
“Just didn’t work out. And then my mom had a stroke, so I had to move back home to help out.”
“Shit. I’m so sorry, Callie. She’s okay now, though?”
He sits upright and leans toward me. Interest morphing to concern. Sympathy. Literally every emotion looks sexy on him. It almost ruins the moment.
“Yeah, mostly. She’s doing better than she was. That’s actually why I agreed to do this. We have medical bills, obviously, and she needs more physical therapy, but it’s not covered by insurance. Eighty grand is going to make a huge difference.”
Torren blows out a slow breath. “Well, I feel like a fucking dick now.”
“No, don’t,” I say with a laugh. “I’m sorry for being such a pain in the ass. I hope you don’t have buyer’s remorse.”
Torren smirks and gives me a little shrug, and I roll my eyes.
“No, I’m kidding. You’ve been great. No buyer’s remorse here.”
I laugh. “Well, good. Because I’m going to try my best to stick it out for the whole three months.”
Torren’s smile softens, those green eyes of his glittering as he holds my gaze. For a moment, his eyes drop to my lips, and my breath catches. When he locks his eyes with mine once more, there’s an intensity in them I’ve never seen before. It’s a look I’m going to dream about, and when he speaks, I know I’ll be playing his words on a loop for the rest of the night.
“I really hope you do, Calla Lily. I really hope you do.”