49. The Pianist #2
But… there’s always the chance that nothing happens. Baz can only promise so much.
I don’t let the doubt weigh on me as I sit at the bench again. The crowd’s chatter doesn’t quiet, the partygoers continuing their conversations, even when I flip through the sheet music.
For you.
I have no one’s attention, when I set my fingers, straighten my spine, and take a grounding breath.
Against the murmuring, the song starts low, almost swallowed up by the noise.
I give the music the room it needs to breathe like I’ve always done, even if it’s too quiet. I can hear every note, and I’m certain wherever Baz is, he can too, and that’s all that matters.
Jason did not attend my last recital, even though he was still my mentor. Or, he was in the building, but he was balls-deep in some other girl, in a dingy hallway, while the culmination of my senior year’s hard work echoed around them.
Fingers dancing around the keys, it’s muscle memory at this point, automatic.
Every note, every step on the pedals, every measure that I play through, may be the moment Baz sends the party spiraling into chaos. He told me all I needed to do was play.
Am I only a distraction?
I can see Mariane not too far away. Henri is watching at her side, mesmerized.
To all the guests, I am just background noise, something to fill the space while they chat investments and million dollar vacations, or whatever it is these people talk about.
One two three, one two three.
I focus on the keys, on the push and pull of the melody, imagining Baz is here right next to me, swaying back and forth to the rhythm, making this waltz a duet. All the chatter fades away.
I give myself over to the song, like I did the other night.
One two three.
And then it’s over in the blink of an eye, almost too quick, and I wonder for a second if I’ve botched the ending.
There’s some polite applause by the partygoers closest to the piano.
My head’s spinning. I stumble onto my feet in search of a glass of water, but before I get very far, a woman stops me.
“I saw Bran give you his card, so I thought I’d give you mine.”
She’s tall and lithe, with short black hair that curls around her ears.
“Violet Lavigne,” she says. “I’m an agent. I’ve been looking for someone to play in a few clubs in New York. Do you travel that far?”
“I—yes, I’m actually from the city.”
“Perfect.” She beams. “There’s a soul in your music. You have talent, that's for sure, but also something else.”
“Good isn’t she?”
Leo decides now is the time to feign interest. He has that confident smile, his dark hair combed back. His cologne is too strong.
He puts his hand on my shoulder.
It takes everything in me not to cringe.
“Very,” Violet says.
“Trying to steal my tutor?” It sounds like he’s just teasing, but after a month of living in the same house as Leo, I can discern the sharp edge of his words.
“You know how it is, Beauchene,” Violet laughs.
“Excuse me,” I say, my tongue going dry, too thick to swallow around.
“Think about it Mallary.” Violet’s smile turns genuine again.
“Thanks,” I say for the thousandth time tonight, sliding out from under Leo’s hold. “I’ll be reaching out.”
The guests give me a wide berth the rest of the night. I take a moment outside to breathe, to down a whole glass of water, lingering as long as I can. A small part of me hopes Baz will appear.
I force myself to go back inside when the tips of my fingers begin to turn white.
My only comfort is the familiar faces of the staff, even Maxim constantly scanning the crowd for the next anticipated need.
Every now and then, I see him whisper an order to one of the other guys, and they run off to carry it out.
The hired staff listens to his every word. He is nothing if not efficient.
But the anxiety in my chest has not faded.
I can only hope my pleas for Henri and the staff were heard.
I stand by the window as the clock strikes midnight and a cheer erupts around the room. Everyone holds a flute of champagne, which they all quickly down. Henri is given sparkling grape juice. He doesn’t finish his drink before he is whisked away for bed.
My glass stays poised at my lips, my fingers pinching the thin stem. Eyes scanning the crowd, waiting for something to happen.
I haven’t felt his eyes on me in hours. Not since I sat at the piano bench.
And I want nothing more than for him to be by my side, pretending we are normal.
I can imagine it: circling the room, arm in arm, starting the new year with a kiss, while the guests can’t keep their eyes away.
The face in my imagination is a blur, only the bottom half committed to my memory.
I imagine kissing those lips in front of all these people.
Claiming him for my own. Letting him claim me for all to see.
And I imagine smashing this glass against the wall and slicing his jugular for making my heart beat so rapidly—why hasn’t he done anything?
The plan has changed. This is the only explanation.
I throw back the rest of my champagne and set the glass on a passing server’s tray. The crowd is beginning to thin, guests wandering away from the ballroom and outside for brisk air, or further into the house to do god knows.
No one’s dropped dead.
No screams.
Nothing.
I want to laugh from the relief of it. I won’t have to watch anyone die tonight. Baz had a change of heart. Maybe he’ll go to New York with me. We can put this all behind us, focus on the music. Focus on each other.
But I can’t shake that something feels wrong.
I grab my skirt and make my way out of the room as quickly as I can without raising suspicion. I don’t get very far before—
“Mallary.”
Leo is only a few paces behind, walking slowly until we’re feet apart. My nails dig into my skirt.
“Leaving so soon?” he asks.
“I’m getting tired.”
“It’s hardly past midnight.” He glances around. There are guests milling about, but no one in ear shot. “Why don’t I escort you back?”
“That’s not necessary.”
I go to whirl around, but then his fingers wrap around my wrist and tug. The yelp stalls in my throat as I fall into his chest. Leo is drunk—his eyes are rimmed in red, his hair is disheveled, and his grip too strong.
“I get the feeling that you’re avoiding me,” he says. “Is it because of your conversation with my wife?” His breath is hot.
“No, I—”
“Bastien is a killer,” he says, loud enough that if anyone were close, they would hear. “A murderer. But obviously that doesn’t put you off.” He pulls me closer, his leering face only inches away. At my grimace he laughs. “And I disgust you?”
“Let go.”
“You’ll fuck my bastard of a son, but it’s me who disgusts you? You think we’re animals for having him locked up. But he’s home. He’s with his family. And we’ve given him everything he needs, haven’t we? We gave him you.”
“You’re drunk,” I insist, in some feeble attempt to get him off of me.
His fingers tighten on my wrist so hard I think the bones will crack. “What I am is tired of this.” And then he’s shoving me away. “Be grateful we gave you tonight. That was all his doing. You better hope that Bran or Violet want you. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it? To use us for connections?”
I can’t hide my glare as I rub the bruise forming at my wrist. My teeth have almost bitten through my lip.
“What, you have nothing to say?”
“I told Mariane how I felt. And I told her what I would do—”
“You truly think you can blackmail me? You feel pity for the psychotic son and not the family forced to clean up after him? Think, Mallary, how we would be ruined.”
“That’s not my concern.”
He’s surprised for only a second, before he laughs, his red eyes glassy.
And then he’s advancing on me, and for a moment I don’t see Leo, but I see Jason stalking toward me, the same rage in his eyes, the same disbelief that I would talk back.
It plays out the same: the fists at his side, the narrowing of his eyes, the promise of unspent rage.
But before he can reach for me, before he can ruin his name himself, a feminine voice calls his name from the end of the hall.
Mariane.
She stands there with a disapproving frown. “Whatever she’s said to rile you up is not worth it.”
And though I’m hugging myself, almost cowering against the wall, a part of me wants to clear my name, to argue that I did nothing.
A few of the other people milling around are beginning to notice.
“Good night, Mallary,” Leo says, straightening his jacket. “Happy New Year.”