Chapter 9
Riven
Is Sloane Keenan checking me out right now?
It’s not hard to assume when her stunning emerald-green eyes trail up and then down before flicking right to mine.
I wonder what she sees in them as I watch her swallow.
It reminds me of when I had her delicate throat in my hand, and I force that thought away as quickly as it comes.
Looking at her without the mask allows me to see her features.
I knew she was beautiful before, but she is fucking gorgeous this unfiltered.
Her face is dusted in the most exquisite arrangement of freckles.
Her full lips are painted in a deep pink color that makes me wonder what it would look like smeared across her face.
My jaw flexes, and I resist the urge to look away.
Her natural red hair is pulled up with a couple of loose strands framing her face.
Her clothing is professional, but it doesn’t stop me from noticing how nicely it outlines her toned body.
I tilt my head, assessing the intricate black ink that’s swirling down her left arm.
I spot an old TV filled with static, a broken mirror with a faceless woman inside, and the intricate twisting of vines around an old Victorian house.
It’s beautifully haunting. I want to know what every inch of it means.
When I find her eyes, they’re already on me.
They’re rimmed in a pair of clear square glasses that give off a hot secretary vibe.
I squander my reckless thoughts, pulling myself away from the ledge I’m so dangerously close to stepping off of.
I bet she thought this was a good outfit to maintain a professional appearance.
It’s likely the same reason she won’t call me by my first name.
I respect it. Plus, I need to figure out what her angle is.
When she called me requesting a meeting about my lecture on music, it made me think that she’s probably digging into Reverb, and not her father.
Either way, I have to get her to back off.
Something tells me the “outlier” Sabel was referring to just might be the woman currently sitting across from me.
“Nice to meet you as well, Sloane.” I don’t bother asking a third time for her to address me by first name. She wants to maintain a professional boundary. I’ll allow it, for now.
“What is it that you wish to further discuss?” I ask flatly.
“Well, I understand that music can influence emotions. You alluded to as much in your lecture. What I want to know is, well, do you think that …” She pauses, bringing her right hand up to her earring and twisting it between her fingers.
I watch her, wondering if it’s a nervous tic.
I make a mental note of it. She lets her hand fall, bringing it back down to her coffee cup.
Those fucking gorgeous eyes find mine again, as if she suddenly found the nerve to say what’s on her mind.
“Do you think that music, sound, can make people behave a certain way?” she asks, smiling shyly in a way that I find entirely too adorable.
So, she’s here for Reverb, and she’s on the right track.
Something in her gaze strips the lies from my own, seeking to draw the truth from me. I settle for a partial truth.
“Actually, yeah,” I say, leaning forward and resting my elbows on the table. “Some frequencies can stimulate specific brain waves that can produce certain actions and even influence emotions.”
Talking about this stuff tends to bring out my nerdy side, causing me to speak faster. “Think of it like this. During a baseball game, when the ball strikes the bat, creating that reverberating ‘ding,’ what’s the crowd’s immediate response?”
She tilts her head to the side, considering my question. I like that she’s smart enough to know where I’m going with this. She looks up at me, smiling. “To clap and cheer!” she exclaims. I can’t help but grin back at her.
“Yes, so the auditory input that the crowd receives creates a physical reaction that is collectively subconscious.”
She nods in understanding. “And like when everyone at a concert sways together to the beat of the music,” she adds.
“Yep.” I try to rein in my obvious enjoyment, but it’s impossible.
She gives me that look again, the one that says she’s weighing every word before she speaks. “If music can influence thoughts and feelings, and even small collective behaviors, then who’s to say that it can’t go deeper than that?” she asks, skirting dangerously close to the truth.
“Go on,” I say, not particularly liking where this is going.
“What if someone could integrate certain frequencies into music that would force people to behave and think a certain way? Is it possible?” she asks without hesitation.
Yes, I know it is, but I don’t say that. I can’t say that, no matter how much she makes me want to.
So, instead I say, “I suppose it would be plausible, yes.” I need more from her. “If you don’t mind me asking, what is it that you’re working on?”
She doesn’t speak for several seconds, and I start to think that she won’t tell me. She nibbles on her lower lip, drawing my gaze to it. I hate the way I’m imagining what they would feel like against mine. Her voice pulls me from the thought.
“I’m researching Reverb and their sudden rise to fame. I mean, the fans are oddly … feral, don’t you think? It’s like they are under the influence of something that goes deeper than the music.” I don’t miss the way she grimaced when she called my fan base feral.
“Do you like them?” I ask, my words devoid of thought. I immediately wish that I could take the question back. Whether or not Sloane Keenan likes my band is not relevant, and I internally point a finger at my ego to stay the hell out of this.
Her cheeks flush a shade so light that I almost miss it. Hmm, that’s interesting. Now, she’s twirling her earring again. Definitely a nervous habit, then.
“I …” She takes a sip of her coffee before continuing.
“I do. The songs are pretty good. I love the anonymity of it all, too. I think that it’s a beautiful depiction of someone who wants people to love him, his music, without compromise.
” She pauses, looking off toward a crowd coming in, but not seeing them.
There’s something else hidden behind her eyes.
“I also wonder if he’s afraid of being seen,” she adds. She doesn’t have to elaborate, because I know she doesn’t mean physically. She doesn’t realize how right she is.
“Anyways,” she says, waving a hand in the air, “I’m sure you don’t wanna hear about that stuff. Do you think it’s possible, though?”
“Yeah. In theory. Look,” I say, getting back on track with my primary purpose for meeting with her.
“I don’t think that anything is going on with their music.
Not like that. I think that this is how fan bases are now.
Half of them have been loyal since the beginning, the followers who are truly in it for the music.
The other half are bloodthirsty, feral, borderline psychotic, and with no sense of boundaries.
Social media has made things so toxic nowadays. ” It’s part truth, part lie.
She looks disappointed when she replies, “Um. Yeah. You’re right.
Probably nothing to it.” She closes her notebook and pockets her pen, taking one last sip of her coffee to finish it off.
I allow my eyes to linger there for a moment too long.
I shouldn’t be staring at her the way that I am.
I shouldn’t want her the way that I do. But fuck, if her circling those full lips around that straw doesn’t make my dick hard.
Get it together, Riven. She’s just drinking coffee.
I attempt to rein myself in as she flutters her eyes up to mine. What I see in them is not helping this situation. I lose my grip, unraveling. The only thing that I want right now is to pull her into the darkness with me and never let her leave.
“Thank you, Professor Reilly,” she says sweetly, taking a step away before giving me the chance to respond.
Before I can think better of it, I reach out and grab her wrist. That annoying inner voice of mine urges me to at least ease my grip, so I do.
Her gaze flicks to mine as confusion, quickly followed by a hint of anger, crosses her features.
The beat of her pulse speeds up against my grip, and I let go of her altogether.
“What are you …” she starts. I don’t let her continue. I get up and walk out, and I don’t look back.