Chapter 4 Eloise
Eloise
I’m halfway home when the storm rolls in.
One minute, it’s all sunshine and clear skies.
The next, the clouds have congregated into an angry dark-gray mass that blocks the sun and paints the horizon with violent streaks of lightning.
I tell myself it’s not an omen, that everything is going to be fine.
I was careful, and there’s no way I’ll be caught.
But then another bolt of lightning reaches down and strikes the pavement where I had just been, and I wonder.
My thighs scream as I pump the pedals harder than I ever have in my life. My fingers have long since turned white, but I’m not sure if it’s from the chill of the rain or the strength that I’m gripping Gloria’s handlebars.
That thought pushes me on, helping me ignore the pain and pedaling toward the coast when I’m sure my legs will fall off.
By the time the gleaming white walls of the mansion come into view, it’s impossible to tell whether it's rain or sweat slicking my band tee to my skin, and my heart thrums loud enough to drown out the thunder rumbling throughout the sky.
Not bothering to stop and catch my breath, I roll Gloria down the old security access path at the back of the property, taking care not to scrape my skin on any of the overgrown vegetation creeping in from either side of the walkway.
I stash my beloved bike behind a particularly large cabbage palm and jog the rest of the way to the mansion, wiping the sweat from my stinging red eyes.
The downpour has slowed to a gentle trickle at this point, and I curse the fickle rains that plague this coastal town. Couldn’t have waited thirty more minutes, could it?
Muttering angrily under my breath, I walk toward the massive oak tree located at the back of the house. An old rope ladder swings idly in the breeze, attached to the tree by one of its upper branches. It’s been decades since it was hung, but I’ve tested it enough to know it will hold my weight.
I double-check my surroundings, and when I’m positive I’m alone, I scale the ladder.
When I reach the top, I pull my body onto the oak's limb, using the steady arm as a balance beam as I move closer to the roof jutting out below the second-story windows. When the branch becomes too unstable, I drop down to the tiled roof, cringing at the heavy thud my boots make. Hopefully, Forest thinks it’s a raccoon or something.
Heart hammering, I scurry toward my bedroom window, my hands shaking as I pry my window open and climb inside. It takes every ounce of willpower I have to slide it closed slowly instead of slamming and locking it immediately like my paranoia suggests.
If the thud didn’t alert suspicion, the slamming window will, and my guard, Forest, will come check on me.
If he does that and sees me like this, he’ll be forced to tell Dave.
And then it will all be over. My freedom, my sanity, the last crumbs of hope I’ve managed to cling to all these years. All of it will be for nothing.
Taking a deep breath to calm my racing pulse, I slide the lock closed and step away from the sill, listening intently for the sounds of footfalls on the staircase leading up to my bedroom.
Nothing.
Taking my first full breath since I stepped foot inside the mansion, I close my eyes and allow the melodic song playing in the background to wash over me.
The track is a recording of me playing about a year or so ago, and it’s just one of many on the playlist I put together.
The playlist is my way of making it seem like I’m upstairs in my room practicing like a good little prisoner when, in reality, I’m sneaking out to have guitar lessons.
I let out a long sigh as the song crescendos, filling the air and causing goose bumps to rise along my forearms. I’ve listened to Clair de Lune thousands of times, but every time I listen to the track, I’m taken back to the first time I played it—only, it’s not a happy memory.
I was only fourteen at the time. Clair de Lune was my opening song for my first solo concert, and I hated it—hated playing it, listening to it, and thinking about it—but what I wanted had ceased to matter years before.
I had long since lost the love of the instrument, and I was miserable.
Going out onto that stage to roaring applause had felt more like walking barefoot across a mat of broken glass.
I played flawlessly, but the success of the moment meant nothing to me.
It was the first time I realized how empty my life had become.
More than that, I discovered how little I cared.
When I hear that song now, I’m reminded of all the things I could have had. Things that were taken from me.
Love, compassion, decency.
I have not experienced those things since the night my mother died. The night my father took her life, and then his own, leaving me alone in this world.
Well, not alone. I still have my manager and godfather, Dave Blasko. Though if I had the choice, I would go without.
Dave will be home soon, so I shake away my morbid thoughts and move into the bathroom, peeling off my water-soaked clothes as I go.
After wringing my jeans and shirt out in the bathtub, I stash the incriminating evidence at the base of my laundry hamper.
I leave my underwear out to air-dry on my shower bar, but there’s nothing suspicious about that.
Fully naked, I hop into the tub and turn on the shower, flinching as ice-cold water pelts my skin.
There’s no use waiting for it to heat. Dave read an article years ago about the benefits of cold showers for your skin, and the morning after, the water heater was cut off.
Ever since, I’ve had to endure miserable, frozen showers morning and night.
But at least I have a shower. Many do not.
The reminder makes my stomach twist with guilt, and I focus instead on all I have to be grateful for. A clean house. Food in my belly. Warm, clean bedding.
Guitar lessons with Riot.
The last thought sends a jolt through my body, and a pleasant warmth replaces the ice in my veins. I can’t deny how my body responds to him, but I also don’t know what to do about it. I don't know how to fight it.
I close my eyes as my hand slides between my thighs, fingertips brushing the slick, sensitive skin.
A sigh escapes my parted lips as images of my teacher swarm my mind.
His tattoo-covered skin, gauges, and outrageous, messy, long black hair.
The sinful rings at each side of his bottom lip and the strange silver bullhook-like piercing hanging from the center on his nose.
Eyes the color of a golden sunset just before it dips below the horizon, catlike and piercing in a deadly sort of way.
Everything about Riot looks dangerous, but that’s just the thing. Beneath his hard exterior is someone who feels so much, so deeply. And it makes me want to know more. Need to know more.
My fingertips swirl my clit as I imagine him flashing one of his famous smirks, and I come undone. My muscles shudder and clench as waves of pleasure course through my veins, heating my skin and dulling my mind to everything other than the memory of Riot’s hand on mine.
It’s gone as soon as it came. I come to with my hand braced against the wall, my chest heaving in small, shuddering breaths, and an ocean of shame filling my stomach.
I cannot believe I just… Riot is my teacher!
Plus, he’s at least a decade older than me.
There’s no way in hell anything would happen between us.
And even if I wanted it to—which I don’t—it would be wrong.
Wouldn’t it?
With a heavy sigh, I finish washing and turn off the water, noting how my fingers have become waterlogged.
I quickly towel off and blow-dry my hair, rush through a light application of makeup, then pull on one of the designer dresses Dave purchased for me last week—skimpy and uncomfortable as hell, but beautiful.
Breathing heavy, I check the alarm clock beside my bed, relieved to see I still have ten minutes. With nothing else to do, I grab a dirty tee from the hamper and wipe down the windowsill, making sure to remove every last piece of dirt I dragged in from outside.
At exactly 6:30, I turn off the recording and exit my room. The silence in the house is stifling without the classical music blaring from the speaker, and it takes me a moment to gain my bearings and put my mask in place before I descend the stairwell.
Once downstairs, I grab two Honeycrisp apples from the fridge and then pass through the kitchen into the foyer.
I’m unable to contain a small, genuine smile as I meet the narrowed eyes of the security guard.
He’s currently standing in front of the main entrance, hands clasped at his waist and shoulders pulled back in a militaristic stance that complements his cropped black hair and solemn demeanor.
One eye dark green, the other so light blue it’s practically white—devoid of a pupil and unseeing.
His gaze flicks toward me, then to the treats I’m clutching in my palms.
“Hey, Forest. Hungry?”
His mouth thins in a severe expression I’ve come to expect from the thirty-six-year-old. I wait a moment for him to respond, and when he doesn’t—he never has—I toss one of the apples to him.
Without moving his eyes from my face, Forest reaches up and snags the treat midair. He brings it to his mouth and takes a bite, and I’m met with the rarest whisper of a smile.
“You’re welcome, Forest.”
He waves me off, but I don’t miss the way his eyes crinkle at the corners.
Though he’d never say it, I know he’s grown to enjoy the afternoon treat I bring him every day.
And even though he never talks back, it feels nice interacting with someone without having to keep up the mask.
No fakeness, no half-hearted small talk.
I can be myself around Forest—but it’s only because he’s been paid handsomely to keep my dark secret.