Chapter 6 Sloane
Sloane
“Did you have a good time?” Lydia asks.
“Yeah, I did,” I say back, staring out the back driver’s side window of the Uber.
It’s not a lie, I did enjoy myself. But as entertaining as it was, it was equally suspicious.
Thinking back on it, several people in the crowd had the same dazed, hypnotic look in their eyes that Lydia did.
And now, all I can think about is whatever happened in that room with Vantros.
The mystery of it all has my thoughts reeling the whole ride back to my apartment.
? ? ?
I walk back downstairs after a long, thought-filled shower. Lydia is sitting on my deep green velvet sofa in my living room, a cup of chamomile tea in hand. I plop down next to her, a low sigh escaping my lips.
“Tea?” Lydia asks, reaching around the side of the sofa and grabbing an untouched cup for me. She hands it over to me, and I sigh when the warmth of the cup touches my skin.
“Thanks,” I say, taking a sip of the tea and setting it back down on the end table beside the sofa.
“Out with it,” Lydia says, turning to fully face me on the sofa.
“Didn’t you find it weird the way everyone was acting at the concert?” I ask, taking another sip of tea.
“What? Weird that everyone was enjoying themselves? Can’t you loosen up and live in the moment?
Gosh, Lo. You are such a Virgo.” Ah, there goes her obsession with astrology.
That girl loves to psychoanalyze a person’s entire Zodiac chart, and she’s usually spot on.
She’s informed me that apart from being a natural born Virgo, I’m also a Scorpio Moon and Libra rising.
I usually nod and smile, not completely into the whole Zodiac thing as much as she is.
She leans her head back against the sofa, sighing as she turns her gaze toward me. “You don’t have to overanalyze everything, you know. You are allowed to have fun.”
“I know, I know. I just …”
She interrupts me, sitting straight up and wiggling her eyebrows as she says, “I saw the way you were looking at Van. You were fan-girling over him like the rest of us. All heart eyes and sex face. Mhmm. I see you.” She’s giggling now, and it’s a warm, contagious sound.
“I was not!” I say defensively, shoving her a little. Was I? No, definitely not. Not when he was on stage and not when he was pressed up against me in that room. A memory that I do not mention to her. There’s too much to unpack there, and now is not the time.
After finishing our tea and a couple of The Haunting of Hill House episodes on Netflix, we call it a night.
I head upstairs to my room, and Lydia to my guest room downstairs.
I climb into bed immediately, worn out from the concert and drowsy from the chamomile.
Sleep claims me quickly, filling my mind with flashes of ethereal music, cults, and men in beautiful masks with large hands.
? ? ?
Monday morning comes way too quickly. I spent all day yesterday on my sofa binge-watching old horror films. It’s my guilty pleasure.
Now, it’s unfortunately time to get back to reality.
The more I thought about Reverb, the more I wondered if something was going on with the actual music.
I recall that seminar I attended on the psychology of music with the handsome professor.
I distinctly remember him saying something about music and its effects on emotions.
Except, all I can remember when I try to think back on the specifics of that particular detail is how the man saying the words was affecting me.
I pull up my internet browser and search for professors at Blackthorn University.
A few clicks later, and I’m face-to-face with Mr. Handsome himself.
Riven Reilly. I say it out loud, hating how good it sounds coming out of my mouth.
It has been quite the dry spell. I shake my head to clear the reckless thoughts.
A quick investigative background search on Mr. Reilly tells me that he’s thirty-two, an Aries, and that he graduated from Blackthorn University with a Bachelor’s in the Science of Psychology.
He also finished with a 4.0. Sexy and smart.
I’m able to find that he lectures regularly at the university and does occasional fieldwork at a local psychiatric facility in Hollowcrest. His parents were divorced, and his mother passed away from breast cancer when he was twelve.
The thought of him losing his mother at such a young age makes me sad for him.
As for his dad, there’s very limited information on him.
He has one sibling, a younger brother named Raithe, who bears a striking resemblance to him.
Lastly, and for research purposes only, it would appear that Mr. Reilly is not married.
I call Blackthorn and ask for Riven Reilly’s office number.
They tell me he doesn’t have one, which I suppose isn’t that unusual.
I lie, telling the nice lady on the other end of the line that I’m a student of his in need of reaching him for a project that I’m working on.
To my absolute amazement, she gives me his cell.
That was entirely too easy. They really should work on their security.
I pick up my cell, take a breath, and dial Riven Reilly’s number. Here goes absolutely nothing. It rings three times before I hear a deep, “Hello,” on the other end. The sound of his voice sends an unwarranted shiver down my spine.
I smile into the receiver, flipping on my very best journalist voice.
“Hi. Is this Mr. Reilly?”