29. The Ghost
The Ghost
I am waiting in the practice room, so when she arrives, I am the first thing she sees. She gasps a little, then quickly shuts the door behind her. Locking it.
“Afraid you’ll be seen with me?” I stand from my place on the couch.
She hasn’t moved any further into the room. “No.” A pause. “Yes.” Her deep brown eyes widen the closer I step.
“Which is it?”
“Yes.” She licks her lips, the movement automatic—but it makes me want to crush her against the door and shove my tongue into her mouth. To take her right here, on the floor. Make her cry out loud enough that everyone will hear and know the Ghost has his hands on her.
She only cowers a little when I stop before her. “Because I don’t want to leave yet,” she says.
“And why would you leave?”
“They might throw me out if I do anything wrong.”
I shake my head, slowly. Lean closer, because I can’t help but breathe her in. “Don’t worry about that.”
“So I should just trust you?” She peers up at me through her long lashes.
I’m a little insulted at her skepticism. “Yes.”
“I don’t know you.” She steps around me, making her way to the piano. My music waits for her on the stand, a few of the measures tweaked, but she doesn’t yet notice. “I know nothing about you. And yet you say I should trust you.”
“You trust me enough to fuck you.” It comes out a growl.
“You tell me I should be afraid of you—”
“Yes,” I say, grabbing her arm and wrenching her back toward me. Her eyes widen, hands falling to my chest as if to push me away. But she doesn’t. She won’t. “Because it’s the smart thing to do. But trust that I will give you everything I’ve promised.”
Her face flushes to that pretty crimson color I love. “That’s the thing. I don’t know how I’m supposed to believe you. I want to—” The words catch in her throat, and suddenly she’s clutching at me. “I want to trust you,” she admits.
Something cracks inside of my chest.
For a moment, she looks like a frail, young girl in my arms. Fragile and easy to shatter to pieces. But then she blinks and the real her is back. Like a spider’s web, seemingly delicate but deceptively resilient. Pliable.
I flick my eyes toward the piano. “The music. Play it, and you’ll get what you want.”
When she sits at the bench, my stomach clenches with anticipation. Her body is sweet, but her music is, too. She studies the new sheet with our song on it, revised and rewritten with all of our adjustments. Adagio written at the top. And, again, For you.
I gravitate toward her, coming to stand behind her.
“Why are you doing this?” she asks.
“You’ll have to be more specific.”
She turns toward me again, the music forgotten. The blonde ends of her hair catches the light. “Why do you care if I get what I want? Why should you care about helping me?”
“It’s not about helping you. It’s about feeding my muse.”
Her throat bobs. “Your muse?”
I lean closer. “I am not your old mentor.”
When the words register, a little line appears between her brows in a scowl. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I know exactly what I’m talking about. Jason Howard? If I could, I guess I should thank him for his hand in your abilities.”
“He did nothing—” Her voice catches. “My abilities are all my doing. He didn’t deprive himself of sleep every night just so he could catch up with his peers. He didn’t stare at sheet music until he went blind. All he did was—was—pick my songs and patronize me every second of our lessons.”
Though he is from her past, and long gone, I still loathe that he got to her first.
There’s a spark of panic in her eyes and I hate that it is not me who put it there.
Her obsession, her lust, her rage—I want it all to be mine.
I stare down at her. “And have I patronized you?”
She takes a few breaths. “No. Not—no.”
“I keep my promises, Mallary. Remember that.”