Chapter 29
Dalton
I kick the radiator, frustrated that it’s not getting warmer any faster.
For the last half an hour, I held my hands against it to make sure I’m not imagining the hint of warmth.
I would have left it on when I went out to grab some ramen, but I don’t trust the wiring in this apartment, so I’m not risking a fire.
Finding a place to stay in New York is hard enough.
This place might be not much bigger than Corvus’s bedroom, but it’s cheap, so that’s what counts.
I don’t know if Remo will have me back at the club after what’s happened with Corvus. For all I know, I might have to leave town. Might be a good idea anyway, if someone really is trying to kill me.
Or should I just go out into the night, wander the streets and let destiny take its course? Lord knows I could punch someone right now. Maybe that’s the way forward, getting involved with illegal boxing again.
The bright, high-pitched sound of a violin cuts through the usual backdrop of traffic, people’s voices, and the thump of a song played by one of the neighbors.
It’s too clean to be called shrill, yet it worms its way into my ears, demanding attention.
Determined to devote myself entirely to my gloomy thoughts, I try to ignore it, but when that first note is followed by a series of confident strokes over the strings of an instrument, my gaze drifts to the dirty window.
Like this is what I fucking need right now—a cover of the song that became a meme between me and Corvus, Britney’s “Oops!... I Did It Again”.
I used to fucking love that tune, and now it’s forever stained with bitterness.
The violinist is good, but listening to this right now is an excruciating three minutes.
When instead of being followed by a different song, “Oops!... I Did It Again” starts again, I lose my shit.
I grab a pillow, even though deep in my heart I want to take the old toaster, open the window into the alleyway and throw it in the direction of the sound.
“Shut the fuck up!” I yell.
My pillow changes course, caught by a breeze, and instead of hitting the violinist in the face, it floats to the side, like a confused bird, hits the wall of a building, then drops to a pile of loose trash bags.
The musician doesn’t follow its trail, but he does look up, each movement of the bow drawing more life out of the instrument tucked under the handsome man’s chin.
My breath catches when our eyes meet, because the man playing right under my window is not a stranger.
A father with a baby attached to his chest stops close by, his boot hitting the pavement to the rhythm of the melody rushing from under Corvus’s fingers and reaching out to me.
Seriously? What is he doing? He wouldn’t play for me, and now he decided to invade my street with this crap? Guess he does know how to torture people, because he’s pulling at my heartstrings so hard I’m bleeding.
“The fuck is this about?” I ask and grab a cigarette. I don’t care that the father walks off with the baby after a glance my way.
The song ends abruptly, as if the person producing the rich, lovely music has been murdered and replaced by the cruel man in black, who’s now watching me with a frown. How dare Corvus be here after everything he’s done?
“Should I… not play?” he calls out before glancing at the two teens watching him from across the street. Each exhale produces a cloud of vapor, and he’s not wearing gloves. I bet his fingers are icicles.
Good. Maybe they’ll fall off and he’ll never touch another man.
I shouldn’t be jealous, I shouldn’t care, but seeing him makes me twitchy. My body craves his warmth like he’s that fucked up radiator, teasing me with just enough heat so I don’t throw it away.
I lean out the window and light my cigarette. “No… Play,” I say, because don’t I deserve this? I don’t know where he’s going with this after last night, but do I really have to deny myself this one pleasure?
Is it relief I see passing over his handsome features? I don’t care, because this music is for me, and once Corvus is done playing, I will shoo him away with the same ease he’s rejected my affection. And all the people whose attention he caught on this winter afternoon will see it happen.
He’s right back where the song broke off moments ago, and I watch him, fascinated that hands I’ve seen cause so much pain and damage are capable of producing music so warm and rich I can’t help the choking sensation in my throat.
I’m no expert, but he plays beautifully. Each passing moment lets him embody the melody further. He’s dancing with his whole body rather than just arms and fingers. And as he weaves the invisible bridge of silky tones, I find the gloom in my heart lifting somewhat.
I’m compelled to clap when he’s done and lowers both the violin and the bow, but I stop myself from following that instinct.
Corvus clears his throat. “May we talk?”
One of the teens in identical puffer jackets whistles in response, as if all this was only a performance for someone else’s enjoyment.
I stub out my cigarette on the windowsill. I let too much cold into my apartment already. “We have nothing to talk about!”
I should feel satisfaction when he blinks, face tensing with hurt, but it only makes me more bitter.
“I panicked, okay? Please, let me explain—”
“Not okay! That was not the first time you treated me like shit! Just send me a link to your Spotify next time.” I wish I didn’t crave his closeness, but how long can I be a doormat to a guy who simply wants to get railed hard, like all the others before him? I need to learn some damn self-respect.
“Dalton, what do you want me to—”
“Shut the hell up!” screeches the rude older lady living in the apartment above mine. She opens her window, and when I peek up, she’s glaring at me from behind thick pink glasses.
The fact that her disrespect of Corvus makes me even angrier is yet another proof I need to rethink my life.
“I want you to go away.” I don’t. I want to fall asleep with my face against his neck and make sure no one ever hurts him.
“I said—” the upstairs neighbor starts, but another giggles on the other side of the alleyway.
“No, no! I want to hear everything.”
This is the last thing I need.
Corvus steps closer to the brick facade of my apartment building and places one hand on the rough surface, gaze reaching out for me like the music had.
“Dalton, I think... I think I love you too,” he calls out.
By this point, the teens have crossed the street, and they all clap and cheer, making Corvus flinch.
“Oh, come on, Dalton,” one of the girls teases. “Don’t make the poor guy beg!”
It's like a punch to the gut. Is he joking right now? Is he trying to flay my heart and salt it too? Does he have any idea how powerless I am against him?
Whatever’s going on with him, Corvus isn’t one for public humiliation. He could have just come to my door, or snapped his fingers and had Van der Horn goons drag me back to his place. If he’s doing this instead, I know deep down that it’s to prove himself to me.
What changed his mind? Curiosity killed the cat, yet here I am, not closing the window.
“You think you love me?” I push, even though it’s cruel to do in front of our audience. He deserves it for last night. The butterflies still flutter inside at the mere mention of Corvus’s feelings for me.
He steps back again, so we can see each other better. The lady above me shuts the window with a snarl, but neither of us cares. “I never felt this way about anyone,” Corvus shouts, his cheeks pink with the embarrassment of being so vulnerable in public.
And here I am, falling into his clutches again. I’m doing this to myself at this point.
“Come up, let’s talk,” I say with a groan, pointing out the emergency stairs.
The woman on the other side laughs. “Woo! When’s the wedding?”
It would be funny if this topic wasn’t such a thorn in my side, so I don’t answer, but Corvus does, like the stranger has any right to this kind of information.
“Next weekend,” he says, tucking his violin back into its case.
He doesn’t question whether he should go to the door on the other side of the building, and instead jumps on the dumpster, then climbs to the fire escape as if he can’t wait to be at my side.
I back away from the window to make room for him, but I’m suddenly faced with the reality of my shitty apartment.
I shouldn’t care. He’s the one who came here to grovel, but I still stuff some trash under the sink. He’s used to opulence and luxury, not whatever you’d call my pigsty.
Each thump of shoes on metal has me working faster, but by the time Corvus stands right outside my open window, the remains of this morning’s fast food meal are still on my sticky kitchen counter, and the used tissues are piled up on the floor by the TV. Because yes, I cried last night.
And instead of entering, like a normal person, Corvus decides to knock on the glass that has bird shit splattered on one side, because I haven’t bothered to clean it up since I arrived.
“Just come in! Jesus!” I rub my face, standing helplessly in the middle of this mess. I guess now he’ll see I’m even more of a fuckup than he’s already thought.
He first gets the violin case inside, and after gently setting it down against the wall, he steps in, elegantly like only Corvus Van der Horn could in these circumstances.
It’s eerily quiet without his music, and I’m grateful to last night’s Dalton for taking out the trash as soon as he arrived, because at least the place doesn’t smell anymore.
Corvus clears his throat and shuts the window behind him.
I lean against the wall and wordlessly invite him to take the only chair at the counter. I don’t usually host anyone beyond the countless guys I fucked on the mattress in the other corner of the room. Now I wish I’d invested in a bed frame, but it’s too late for that.