55. The Pianist
The Pianist
The lounge is full. Every seat at the bar is taken. Dozens of people, sipping on spirits and wine, their hushed conversations floating across the space.
The walls are a deep red, almost the color of blood. It gives everything within a crimson tinge, the exposed-bulb lights emitting a soft yellow, the furniture all leather and velvet. A mirror spans the entire wall behind the bar, reflecting the patrons’ vices back at them.
This is one of those rooms I could have only dreamed of getting into a few months ago. These people wouldn’t have given me a second glance.
But now, it is nearly ten o’clock in the evening, and they are all waiting for me.
When the time comes, I step up onto the raised platform. The grand piano here isn’t quite as high-end, but it’s still better than anything I performed on during university. The murmuring goes quiet.
I've played here before. But this time, I know he is here.
He sits toward the back, alone at a table with two fingers of whiskey.
It’s still a shock to see his face out in the open and not the white mask.
He’s wearing a suit without a tie, the open shirt underneath exposing his neck.
Our eyes meet. I can feel the heat of his stare even when there are so many people between us.
None of those people matter, not when he is here.
The past few months, I’d assumed the familiar sensation of being watched was all in my head, especially at these things, when there were dozens of people staring at me anyway.
Baz told me he’d been here all along, waiting until I was ready.
When the crowd is almost silent, I take my deep breath, stretch my fingers across the keys.
And play.
This time, a jazzier tune, something more fitting for a club with a hefty membership fee. Energetic enough not to put them to sleep, but subdued enough the conversation can continue.
His stare never wavers. All through the thirty minutes, I never feel his attention wander once. My music fills the room, twisting through key changes and accidentals. He has to know I’m playing for him. I wouldn’t be here if not for him. In the end, I suppose he did fulfill his promise.
If I’d relied only on the Beauchene name to give me a leg up, it could have taken months, if not years, for people to notice. Or care. Especially if I stayed employed as Henri’s tutor long term—I could have easily gotten stuck in that position with little room to grow.
Maybe it’s a good thing Baz was there.
Because now I’m here, playing for dozens of people who’ve probably never lived off bodega takeout.
Violet told me the manager of the club wanted me to play weekly.
That check alone would’ve paid for my student loans, the utilities, our groceries.
I don’t need the money now. And being able to play for music’s sake, because I like it, and not have to worry about the bills…
It’s all because of Baz.
When the thirty minutes is up, there’s a whispering of applause. I get a fifteen minute break before they’ll expect me to play again.
Baz doesn’t wait for me to make my way over. I stand from the bench, and he’s there, offering me a hand. “These people aren’t appreciative enough.”
“It’s a different audience,” I say. “They’re not here for me.”
“They are, though. They came here for this—this—”
“Vibe?”
He raises a brow. “Yes. This vibe. That you are helping create with your music.”
He leads me towards his table. At some point, while I was not looking, he procured a drink for me. I reach for it and take a sip—vodka cran. Like I’ve ordered for myself every other time I’ve come to play at this club.
“I like it,” I say. “There’s less pressure.”
He stands close. Too close. A knuckle skimming against my hip. I think if he comes any closer I might have to kiss him.
“Mallary Doyle.”
Violet Lavigne maneuvers through tables, shooting me a conspiratorial smile. She eyes Baz up and down.
“And who is this?”
“Oh! This is…” I realize we never came up with an excuse. I can’t tell her who he really is.
Yeah, so you know my former employers who died tragically in the house fire on New Years? This is their son who’s supposed to be dead. Oh and also, he’s responsible for their murder.
“Sebastien Doyle,” he says before I can come up with a lie.
“I didn’t know you were married.”
I didn’t either.
“Good as,” he says. He holds out a hand for her to shake.
His smile is too charming. Even though he hasn’t truly socialized in years, he wears that easy, confident mask well.
If I had any doubts he was a Beauchene, it’s clear they began molding him into the perfect heir before his isolation.
His crooked grin is too similar to Leo’s.
“I was away for a bit, but I’m glad to finally meet you. ”
“Likewise.” Her gaze lingers on him, maybe trying to discern why he looks so familiar. “Mallary did tell me about the waltz. You wrote that?”
He grins. “It was a team effort.”
“The song is what caught my attention. There’s something… uncanny about it. I’m glad I went to the party, to be able to hear you play it.”
“That was all Mallary.” Baz’s thumb rubs against mine. “She could play anything and wow you.”
Violet gestures to the room. “And now look where you are! Funny how things work out that way, isn’t it?”
“Yeah.” I squeeze Baz’s hand.
Violet glances toward the bar. “I have a few friends from Foxhall waiting.”
I blink. “Like, the studio?”
Violet's smile is proud. “You have a few minutes left? Let me introduce you.”