56. Montana
56
Montana
I ’m a ticking time bomb, set and ready for detonation. Before long, it will all be over, but what better way than to go out with a bang? One last performance. The final show of it all.
Lugging the cello on my back, I hold my bag before me, equipped with my outfit and shoes for the evening. I stare up at the Institute. So many thoughts still plague my mind.
I walk up the stone walkway one last time, then make my way down the hallway. I breathe in the earthy, woodsy-like scent of the old building, the musk seeping into my lungs. There are no echoes of heels or footsteps to be found. Most members are solely focused on getting dressed and ready for the upcoming performance in the auditorium, so the place is practically vacant.
Checking into one of the available rooms, I jot my name down out of habit. Once inside, I get straight to work, setting my bag on a desk in the back of the room near the chalkboard. It falls to the floor and topples over, and a shiny silver object drops from my bag.
I pick it up, smiling as I run my thumb over the three-inch metal guitar keychain with the rock emblem from the Alternative Grudge fan page where Markie and I first met online. The same keychain I’d held under Shane’s neck at his mom’s house before our first family dinner. My reminiscent smile fades, a somber expression quickly replacing it the more I think about Markie. I miss her silly humor and the way she always told me off when I was feeling down about myself. I miss her unabashed love for my career choice and the way she never judged me. I even miss her strange jealousy that kicked in whenever I’d talk about my latest conquests. I just miss her.
Grabbing my phone, I send yet another message to Markie that will likely go unanswered.
Money Shot: Some days I wish I’d chosen the guitar. Backstage passes and horny groupies sound a lot more fun than last-minute cello practice at the Institute. Miss you.
Tucking my phone away, I crack open the case of my newly gifted cello. My hands slide over the custom-crafted instrument, disbelief still cycling through me as I stare in awe at the work of art before me. My heart clenches in my chest at the thought of Shane and the trouble he went through to give me this. His words became a part of my being, slithering their way into my soul— show them the beauty in the abrasion. His care and thoughtfulness were things I could barely accept without feeling cautious. Genuine kindness and love, laced with darkness, toxicity, and trauma—everything I never saw myself falling for.
Prepping into position, I draw the bow and test out my newly acquired prized possession. The deeply layered timbre sends the rich tone penetrating through me in waves. The warmth of the sound engulfs me, giving me my home again.
I smile to myself as I coast through one of the performance pieces, the fingers of my left hand pressing firmly on the fingerboard while my right hand works the bow, expressing every last bit of emotion through each and every note. I feel powerful again—strong and determined—like I’m right where I’m meant to be.
Lost in the music, I’m abruptly brought back to reality by the screeching sound of metal on tile. I turn my head, searching for the source of the sound behind me, startled to realize I’m not alone.
“Alek.”
A smile stretches across my face as I take him in. Dark, tailored suit pants hug his long legs, a fitted white button-up covering his expansive chest. A black tracksuit jacket clings to his broad shoulders, and I’m surprised to see he’s even wearing a bowtie tonight. It’s crazy how some men exist like this, looking surreal in their beauty. No flaws, only perfection.
“What are you doing here?” I ask cheekily. “Shouldn’t you be getting ready for the performance? Slicking those locks back with some overpriced hair gel, staring at yourself, flexing and muttering words of self-praise while applying a surplus of expensive skincare?”
He smirks, his deep irises appearing even darker today, a fiery edge to a pre-performance professional.
“There is an idea of a Alek Romanski, some kind of abstraction, but there is no real me, only an entity, something illusory,” he quotes American Psycho , knowing exactly what I was implying. “You think that’s my style, huh?”
I laugh, resting the cello on its pin and the bow on my lap.
“Nah, I’ve seen you save a dog and rescue a lowly street rat from the city bus from time to time. I don’t think Corporate America has sunk its teeth into you yet. But, on second thought, you do scream classic-band-geek-turned-hottie.”
I want to take back the words after I’ve said them, but it’s too late. They’re out in the open now. Alek is just too easy to talk to. Our banter is unmatched, and he makes being sharp-witted a sport.
“Classic band-geek-turned-hottie, huh?” His smile deepens as he grows closer.
“I could see it. A young Alek practicing his cello into the early morning hours while the popular school girls giggle and laugh at the size of your case.”
A haughty chuckle leaves his throat, and he adjusts the strap of his bag over his chest.
“Don’t worry,” I add, “They’d be the same girls coming back once you hit puberty.”
His brows raise, and it appears I’ve appeased him with my charm.
“I supposed that’s what it takes for men to turn mad, eh? Lifelong dejection from beautiful women?”
“I mean, maybe…” I shrug. “Bullying and dejection have done wonders for some.”
“Enlighten me,” he says, taking a seat and dropping his dark canvas bag to the floor.
“Jeffrey Dahmer, Ted Bundy, Richard Ramirez, uh…John Wayne Gacy. All bullied then, madmen now.
“Those are some pretty notorious individuals, Montana. I’m thrilled you think so highly of me.”
I chuckle, enjoying his company, when I peer at his bag again and a thought crosses my mind.
“Wait, but honestly, why are you here? I didn’t think I’d see anyone in this building today. Getting in some last-minute practice without the pressure of the stage?”
His gaze drifts off to the corner of the room, staring absentmindedly as if he never heard my question at all.
“Alek?” I call, tipping my head.
A long moment passes before he raises his hand, pointing toward my cello case near me while still gazing across the room. “Where did that come from?”
His odd demeanor startles me some. His vision seems clouded, as if he’s staring into some sort of daydream before me.
“My stepbrother. Why are you here, Alek?” I ask again.
“Stepbrother,” he mutters beneath his breath.
I begin placing my cello back in the case, hesitating to ask him any other questions because he clearly doesn’t want to answer. His jaw works in a circle, the muscles in his neck tightening as he tips his head to the side and cracks his neck.
In a calculated move, he turns in his seat to face me, kicking his bag between his legs with his boot. My eyes fall to it, wondering what it’s for. It’s far too small for any equipment for our instruments and far too awkward a shape for a suit to fit inside.
“I really thought it was you,” he says with a hint of a laugh. “After all this time, I thought, Jesus, I've actually found her.”
My stomach tightens, his sudden change of character sending my pulse skyrocketing.
“I said to myself, there’s no way she can be the most picturesque woman, with eyes that practically sear through you with their beauty, while somehow still possessing the talent and intelligence of a scholar. She quotes Bach, for Christ’s sake.”
The corner of my lip twitches, and I force a little smile.
“You’re far too kind to me,” I say quickly, swallowing thickly. I reach for my music sheets and begin stacking them together. “We should probably hurry up if we don't want to be late—”
“You know, if I’m being completely transparent, I wasn’t entirely sure how I wanted to do this.” He runs his palm over the back of his neck before leaning over and gripping the zipper of the bag.
“Alek?” I question, my heart stumbling over itself within my chest. “Do what? What’s in the bag?”
He reaches into the black duffle, and my hand tightens around my bow, anxiety looming. A slow, demonic grin gradually slides across his handsome features. The bag opens a crack, and he removes a long black velvet case about the size of a large envelope.
Standing, he approaches me with it. My body freezes in place, my eyes the only thing moving, tracing his steps until he’s standing directly over me.
“I bought you this after our first meal together at that crappy diner.”
He opens the case, presenting me with a diamond-studded emerald teardrop pendant necklace. My stomach feels a sudden sinking sensation, and the weight of a thousand bricks on my shoulders pins me to my seat.
Removing the necklace from the case, he violently drops the velvet box to the floor, making me jump. He regards the necklace in his hands, holding it out before his face as he studies it.
“I saw it in the window of some pawn store off Fifth, a few blocks from your place, and thought to myself, what better gift to give to a promising young academic.” He shakes his head at it, an odd look of disbelief overtaking him. “A broke whore slutting herself out for attention could use some cheap, pre-owned diamonds around her neck, am I right?”
My body trembles, beads of sweat dotting my forehead and neck. Alek’s eyes shift from the necklace, then pin me to my seat.
“But I couldn’t for the life of me give you this. I couldn’t gift you this cheap piece of shit necklace because even fake diamonds seemed too lavish for a girl so senseless.”
He slowly walks around to my side.
“Trust that I had high hopes for you, because I did. I watched your efforts—how you seduced Conductor Hopkins’ son in hopes of gaining access to him, relentlessly pursuing the cello to get near him. Did you ever question how or why the seat actually opened up?”
My shoulders are tight with tension, and a lump forms in my throat.
“Let me tell you, Mick Geigon was a hard sell. He just didn’t want to let it go. Wasn’t ready for retirement. Took a bit of convincing, but we got him there, didn’t we?”
The horrified look on my face must have reached him because he continues, “And here you thought your talents alone were your ticket in, tsk, tsk…”
Fear and trepidation threaten to thwart my strength.
“So thirsty for answers, you became a slave to the song. The Isle of the Dead, the need for a chance at a new path…” He laughs. “You’d had Conductor Hopkins pinned all along, so zoned in on him being the one that you never even questioned reality. I’d led you astray, using particular elements I hoped you'd pick up on, and you so effortlessly fell for the bait. Such a pity, truly. You didn’t even fight for answers.”
“Why?” I ask through gritted teeth, a reluctant tear deceiving me and falling down my face. “Why'd you do it?”
I'm working my best to remain calm, but these truths have my bones rattling with rage.
“I’d grown tired of this path,” he sighs, talking so casually. “Sanity is so monotonous…tiresome, unimaginative.” He drops onto his haunches before me. “Tragic.”
He smiles with a supercilious air to him, his ominous gaze making my blood run cold. Standing again, he begins pacing before me, his leather shoes against the granite tile making the most distressing clicking sound as he does.
“Watching women take and take, but never truly giving in return. I-I’d lost interest in the day-to-day activity on CyprusX. Frankly, the chase bored me. The gluttonous nature of the lust-fueled whores was too easy for the right price. My needs required a taste for something that demanded a bit more interactive play. I morphed into a man who craved violence. A reawakening, if you will.”
“B-but you’re married…your wife. Your career,” I whisper, short of breath. “Julliard.”
“Yes, and?” He pauses his movements, standing before me. “I bet most of the men you’ve seduced in your life are married. And my career?” he scoffs. “God, this naivety is infuriating.”
He’s a man grown tired of one destiny, claiming sanity owned that life. He just wants a chance at the other path before it dissipates. Dreary, fluid, vibrant in all the worst ways, he requested a song this time—music that bleeds from one life into another—a harmonious transition, as he described it.
“You once quoted, a musician not only practices their art, but forces their way into its secrets ,” I say, my voice shaky. “Your art is your secret,” I whisper, almost to myself, realizing my discovery. “Hopkins is your cover.”
“And you once told me I played too technical,” he retorts, eyes narrowing as his Cheshire grin grows. “I believe I’ve infused some emotion now.”
“What have you done?” I ask, standing from my chair. It screeches across the floor and I push back into it, slowly stepping away from him.
“I studied your movements, followed your trajectory, traced your history…I know you knew her. The one no one wants to talk about in this town. It’s what brought you here. To me.”
Anger coils in my belly. It wasn’t the only thing.
“It saddens me, really. How is one supposed to achieve such a level of notoriety if they’re unknown?”
He slowly stalks toward me, and I take a step back.
“I equate it to music. How does one truly become accomplished at something?” He waits for me to answer, then huffs, frustrated by my lack of participation in his game. “Through repetition, of course.”
His plan was to kill me next.
“You were so close. Made all of this so much more enlightening for me. Thrilling, even.”
“Help!” I scream.
“The place is cleared. Everyone is at the auditorium preparing for our grand concerto, so don’t waste all your good screams for nothin’,” he says, getting agitated. “Go ahead, try it on,” he suggests, taking another step toward me with the necklace in hand.
Shaking my head, I refuse to take my eyes off him as I continue walking backwards, clumsily falling into music stands and chairs as I do.
“C’mon, let me see it around your pretty little neck,” he says, lunging at me.
I grab the only thing in front of me, a black metal music stand, and pick it up like a bat. Swinging it through the air, I narrowly miss him as he ducks backward, dropping the necklace to the floor. His grin grows at my fear, his fever for creating pain near boiling.
Alek stalks forward, and I go to swing again, but my foot gets caught in the base of another music stand behind me. I tumble onto my bottom, falling back into a cluster of chairs and stands. My heels scramble against the ground, attempting to back away from him further, but he bends down over me and grips my ankle, yanking me toward him with a painful tug.
Screaming out, I claw at the ground, grasping at anything I can to get away, flailing my body in an attempt to kick out of his hold. He wrestles his heavy frame over me, his massive thighs locking over mine. His fist finds my face, the force snapping my head to the side like a rag doll. The pain is excruciating, and the blow rattles my brain before I feel another sharp sting on my scalp.
“Ahh!” he screams into my face, holding a fistful of my ripped hair between his fingers. “It’s glorious!”
Blinded by the pain, my hands continue their outreach, trying to find anything nearby to fight him off. My palms encircle the base of a metal stand I’d knocked over, and my fight returns. While he’s struggling to contain my legs, I swing it over my head, smacking him in the side of the face.
“Fuck!” he curses, blood immediately pooling down from his temple.
It’s not hard enough to take him down, and he continues to wrestle me against the cold tile, grabbing for one of my wrists and squeezing the bones so tight I feel them grind together. But it’s enough to slip a knee out of his hold.
Bringing my knee to my chest, I quickly kick with all my force, hitting him dead square in the nose with my heel. The crunching of his facial bones provides the ultimate satisfaction and breathes a new will to fight within me.
He falls back, gripping his face while cursing out again. “You bitch!”
Scrambling, I slip out from beneath his weight, getting my feet under me enough to head toward the door. Before I can get there, he stumbles to a stand, blocking the only exit. Holding one of his hands out toward me, the other clutches his nose that’s surely broken, the blood pooling down onto his jacket.
“I knew you had some street in you after that event at Wesley’s, but I had no idea you’d be this vicious, you little fuck.” He peers at the blood-coated hand covering his nose.
“Let me out of here and you can keep your secrets,” I demand, my chest heaving in the aftermath of our scuffle. “I won’t say a word.” I lie.
“You aren’t leaving this room with them,” he retorts. “Sad, you thought otherwise.”
We stand across from each other, both unmoving. I wipe away the warm blood that’s oozing down over my eye from his strike, ensuring my vision remains intact. My eyes drift down to his canvas bag, which is now directly between us.
“You know what’s sad?” I question, gripping another metal stand in my hand.
He tips his head, intrigued by my ability to continue playing his game. “What’s that, darling?”
“Your reduced expectations of women and what they’re capable of.”
He laughs. “You women and your assumptions of power. Always riding along on the coattails of a man and his cock, feeling the progressive movement of someone else's strength.” He steps forward, slowly prowling toward me. “Nothing but a pair of tits and an ass to entertain us. Should’ve stuck to your day job.”
“Then I’d have missed the pleasure of meeting you, Alek,” I taunt.
He smirks, stalking toward me as I continue to hold out the stand, taking steps back to maintain our distance. “You’ve been a fun little plaything, Montana. I can’t wait to fuck your cold, hard cunt.”
He lunges again, and I swing, hitting his upper arm as the stand falls from my hands. The metal tears through his jacket, and he pauses to look at it. It’s then that I understand why he’s wearing it.
“Keeping your shirt clean?” I say, backing up until the backs of my thighs hit a wooden desk at the back of the room. I’m scrambling, I have no other defenses, but I’m not done yet. I’m still alive, and a fighter till the day I die.
My hands catch the lip of the desk, and I scour the surface behind me, searching for my bag.
“Blood doesn’t come out of Armani, Montana,” he states, as if I’m an imbecile for even suggesting otherwise. He steps over the remaining music stands in his designer loafers, pushing a wooden chair away with a loud shriek until we’re chest to chest at the desk.
My throat grows tight, my palms sweaty as my fingers clasp around it.
“That’s a shame.” I angle my head up, luring him closer. He cocks a brow, still interested in playing with his prey, it seems.
“What’s that?” He eyes my blood-covered face, trailing his gaze to my lips and back.
I breathe in his signature citrus scent wafting its way toward me, the air thick as ever between us.
“It’s a wondrous feeling, flaunting your dirt.”
The corners of Alek’s eyes wrinkle, trying to figure me out.
Gripping my guitar keychain in my right hand, I raise it back before quickly stabbing it through the flesh on the underside of his 5 o’clock shadow. His hands circle my neck, fingers tearing into my skin, squeezing tightly as blood flickers from his wound in thin, sharp spurts.
I try to scream, attempting to formulate any type of noise, but he pushes forward, the desk toppling back as he throws me back against the chalkboard. My body rattles at the force, my arms fighting to reach him. He presses so hard on my windpipe as I claw at his forearms, attempting to reach the keychain and give it one more good shove through his flesh. But I can’t reach it as I gasp for air, getting nothing into my burning lungs. I can do nothing but scrape into his arms with my nails, hoping by some miracle he bleeds out before I lose consciousness.
Alek’s bloodshot eyes look down on me, his face so close to mine that his bloody, sweat-soaked hair tickles my face. Haziness grows, and with every second that passes, a cocoon of white light envelops me.
I’m losing consciousness. My lungs are set ablaze with the need for oxygen.
A picture of a young Gabriella flashes before my eyes. The one with the kids on the stairs, with her gallant smile and a protective arm over her little brother. As my consciousness fades, the image comes to life. Wind blows through her dark locks, and she brushes it away, finally clearing her face. She smiles at me, radiance laced with pride, nodding, and without words, my sacrifice is felt.
I have to let go now. It’s ending, and I did my best to seek justice for them.
But just as the picture grows blurry, my focus slips over to the other boy as he comes into view. The one with the curly hair and rosy smile. The mischievous twinkle in his eye that stayed despite his own horrors.
The one who fostered my trauma and matched it with his own.
The one that stole a part of me I didn’t know I owned.
The one who proved me wrong.
Not all men take.
Alek’s neck twitches as he swallows, gasping for air, and large splatters of blood slop out of his wound, slapping in puddles along the tile beneath us. I beat down on his arms until mine numb into nothing, the life slowly being stripped from me. I’m losing my fight.
He coughs, spitting out blood, coating my face as the keychain jerks and a surplus of blood now sprays from his artery. The white light returns, crystalizing over my vision just as the grip on my neck tightens and the world around me fades.