Sins

by Lee, Nadia

  “Where?” I ask.

  “He didn’t say.”

  Like you’d tell me if he did. But then I feel catty and rude. Jonas protects everyone’s privacy, not just Tony’s.

  I go to my room and flop down on my bed. Los Angeles. Parties. Models.

  Thankfully, I don’t get to stew in my frustration for long. A text from Yuna comes in. It has a video of her playing “La Campanella.”

  Grab a Kleenex cuz it’s gonna make you weep with envy!

  Yuna kills it in the video. My God. I stare at the fluid way her hands move, her entire body utterly relaxed and comfortable. She’s always been fabulous with Liszt, but this is the kind of performance that can make a career.

  Beat this! Send me yours before the day’s over.

  Okay, now I owe her a video of “La Campanella.” And there’s no way I’m sending her a less-than-stellar performance. I have my pride.

  I work on “La Campanella.” I have the fingering, phrasing and interpretation down. But the speed is something else. I need to shave at least ten seconds from my playing time. Otherwise the piece won’t have the necessary energy and vibrancy.

  After a couple hours of concentrated practice, I finally record myself playing it cleanly at tempo. I smile with satisfaction.

  Someone behind me starts clapping. I turn and have to stop myself from groaning with annoyance. It’s Marty Peacher.

  With slicked-back hair and hooded blue eyes, Marty could be considered classically handsome, except for two things. The bridge of his nose, which is uneven from having been broken and not set correctly. And those eyes. They always seem sullen and vaguely dissatisfied with the world. Twenty-two years old, he always acts like he’s so much more mature than me or Harry. But compared to Tony, Marty reminds me of an adolescent—too raw, always trying a little too hard.

  He isn’t my favorite person. And for some reason, he’s decided I need his opinion on music, no matter how ignorant and condescending.

  “Bravo,” he says.

  “Thanks. I guess you’re visiting with Sam?”

  “Yeah. Dad thought it’d be good to have some face time with Margot. He has some great business plans.”

  Sam always has these great business plans. He insists on carrying a Dictaphone around, so he can record every brilliant idea that pops into his head. Then he puts it down on a piece of paper and comes over to get Aunt Margot to invest. Apparently it’s never crossed his mind that maybe she has no intention of ever giving him money. Or that she doesn’t respect him or his family.

  “That was pretty good,” Marty says, his tone haughty and know-it-all. “But I think it’d be better if you didn’t rush through it like you’re desperate to go to the bathroom. It should feel like a…a waltz.”

  Where did he get that inane idea? “There’s absolutely nothing waltz-y about this piece, and Liszt never meant anyone to dance to his work…unless your idea of waltzing is to move so fast you pass out from dizziness.”

  “Still.”

  “If you’re so sure of your interpretation, you’re welcome to show me.” I gesture at the piano. Marty can manage some simple jazz pieces, which he’s studied only because he thinks it looks cool to play them in front of girls. But he isn’t nearly good enough for Liszt. He doesn’t practice consistently, and his arms and fingers are stiff. He’s more interested in how people view his performance than the music itself.

  He flushes. “You can be such a bitch. I don’t have to know how to play it to have an opinion.”

  “Sure. But you know what they say about opinions. Some smell better than others.” It isn’t worth getting upset over the “bitch.” It’d be like getting mad at a three-legged dog that can’t win a race.

  He walks closer, purposely invading my personal space. I tilt my head and look up at him, refusing to retreat.

  “One day, you’re going to be sorry you’re so rude to me.” His voice is low, his mouth twisted into something between a smirk and sneer.

  Ooh. I’m shaking in my shoes. “Right. Well, until then, I’ll just try to enjoy my life. And I think there’s something hanging out of your nose.”

  After a moment of indecision, he turns and leaves. One hand surreptitiously goes to his nose as he passes through the door.

  I gather my music and go upstairs. Once on the second floor, I stare at the door to Tony’s room.

  I realize I never got to ask Harry about Mrs. Wentworth’s comment. Whether it’s true or not. My money’s on not, since Mrs. Wentworth was just pissed off that I outed her son as a would-be rapist in front of Aunt Margot.

  But whatever. I don’t care. You can’t blame someone for a mistake they made when they were a twelve, no matter what it is. And especially not when it’s obvious they’re still remorseful about it nine years later.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Ivy

  After putting away my music, I send my awesome video to Yuna with a short message: Watch it and weep! It’ll be a great surprise when she wakes up in Seoul.

  Then I spend the rest of the day in a sitting room, where I can watch the foyer through the doorway and the driveway through the huge bay windows. I need to see when Tony gets back so I can talk to him. I want him to know he isn’t alone, like Yuna did for me when I arrived at Curtis with butterflies in my belly. I want him to know I’m hopelessly fascinated by him…that I find him interesting and amazing.

  But Tony doesn’t arrive. Instead, Aunt Margot and Uncle Lane leave—with a suitcase, which is interesting. I didn’t know Uncle Lane was home early or that they planned to be gone overnight. “New Orleans will be nicer. No roaches,” he says as he leads her out.

  Soon I understand what made them leave: Sam and Marty. They walk out of the house, their faces red and tight. I guess they didn’t get any money from Aunt Margot.

  I shake my head. Sam needs to find another backer. Aunt Margot will never give him a penny. It isn’t the first time she’s snubbed them. She hates it every time they visit, calling them shameless, classless bloodsuckers. But for some reason, Sam is desperate to have her invest in his ventures. Before I left for Curtis, I overheard him tell Marty that as long as she invests, the venture can succeed, and they’ll become like the Blackwoods—rich and important. Somebody. I didn’t understand Sam’s logic then, and I still don’t. But then, business and economics aren’t my strongest suit.

  A little later, Jonas comes into view. “Miss Ivy, dinner is about to be served.”

  “I’m not leaving until Tony’s home.”

  “He came back three hours ago,” he says. “While you were practicing.”

  “Why didn’t you say something?”

  “Your specific instructions were not to be bothered unless there’s emergency or your aunt or uncle needs you.”

  Unbelievable. “You knew I wanted to talk to Tony.”

  “I did. But you didn’t indicate the desire was urgent.”

  “Didn’t you see me ready to pound down his door earlier?”

  “I saw you knock, yes,” he says, unflappable as usual.

  I might as well deal with a robot that can’t do anything unless it’s spelled out explicitly. Anybody with a bit of common sense would’ve let me know. “Did you tell him about dinner?”

  “Yes.”

  Since his parents are gone, maybe Tony will come down. I head to the dining room. Harry is already seated, tapping away on his phone. “Hey, Ivy,” he says absent-mindedly.

  “Didn’t Aunt Margot say no phones at the table?”

  He’s still focused on the screen. “Mom’s not here. And I need to figure out what I’m going to do tonight. Not wasting a night like this at home.” Suddenly, he stops and looks at me. “Wanna come?”

  Under different circumstances, I’d probably say yes, but I know in my gut Tony won’t be hanging out with Harry tonight. “I’m good, thanks.”

  Dinner is finally served. Tony doesn’t show. I keep looking at his empty seat. Is he packing to go to L.A. right now? Is he even planning to at leas
t say goodbye?

  I can’t focus on the food, and declare myself full after a few bites of soup and salad. I don’t want to sit here and dine like I’m okay. I want to see Tony.

  Harry stares. “You don’t want your blackened redfish?”

  “Go ahead and eat it if you like.”

  I stand up and go to the second floor, hesitating at the top of the stairs. What if Tony’s determined to leave? There isn’t much reason for him to stay in this house where he’s unhappy.

  Maybe I should just turn around, walk back downstairs and let him go, I tell myself. It might be good for him to hang out with his best buddy. Everyone needs at least one person who sees the absolute good in them, and I don’t think Tony’s had much of that in his life. I doubt his brothers or friends tell him he’s perfect already—men can be terrible at communication.

  I don’t want Tony to leave, but at the same time, if he has to go, I want him to hear from at least one person that he’s amazing and good and deserves nothing but success and happiness. Sometimes a few sincere, kind words are all it takes to help you keep going when you feel like you’re dying inside. My parents’ telling me I was awesome, and many great, beautiful things would come my way so long as I tried hard and hung in there… That got me through a lot after their deaths…especially when I felt lost in Tempérane and knew no one.

  Tony’s room is almost at the end of the hall. I knock on the door and wait.

  Nothing.

  I press my ear to the door. I swear I can hear something on the other side, but maybe it’s just my heartbeat.

  “Tony?”

  Nothing.

  Hmm. Maybe I should make sure. Jonas said he’s back. I turn the knob. The door opens soundlessly.

  I stick my head in. “Tony?”

  The room is dimly lit, the curtain drawn. Heart pounding, I step inside and close the door. I feel like an intruder—well, I am an intruder—but I can’t stop myself from looking around. I want to know everything there is to know about him before he leaves. Besides, he’s been in my room before, while I’ve never been in his, even when he was living abroad.

  It’s a feeble attempt at justification.

  His room’s neat, not a speck of dust anywhere. Unlike mine, it’s spartan, with almost no personal effects. There’s the framed diploma from Princeton on the wall, but the bookshelves are empty. Only one photo is on the desk—a gorgeous golden-haired child.

  Katherine. He must’ve been very close to her. But there aren’t any other photos of the family.

  I look around, nibbling the tip of my index finger. How strange. This has been his room all along. So even if he hasn’t been here in the last nine years, shouldn’t there be something—comic books from way back when, posters of musicians or movie stars, school projects? Edgar’s room—which is neatly cleaned and organized now that he’s moved out—still has his old things. A guitar, scuffed shoes with cleats, jerseys of his favorite football players, trophies from various events and competitions, boxes of old sketchbooks with their edges curled and discolored, comic books, toys and so much more.

  If I didn’t know better, I’d think this was a guest room.

  Then it suddenly hits me. Tony wasn’t sent to Europe because Uncle Lane and Aunt Margot had high hopes for him. He was exiled, and all his belongings were either packed into storage or thrown away because there wasn’t any expectation that he’d be back.

  With the realization, my heart begins to ache. I wipe my eyes, sniffing. Oh, Tony. How he must’ve suffered. I didn’t know…never suspected the depth of what he must have lost. When my parents were killed, it was something I couldn’t do anything about. I miss them terribly, but I also know they loved me to the very end, and that always gives me comfort. Tony has lost his family because his parents chose not to want him. That had to create unbearable emptiness insi—

  “What the fuck are you doing here?”

  Oh my God. I jump at the hostile voice, a hand over my racing heart. My knees shake, but I manage to turn around. “Tony?”

  He stands inside the balcony doors, now slightly ajar.

  “Didn’t Mother teach you not to go in someone’s room without permission? She’s pretty strict about etiquette,” he says, his words biting. He’s carrying a bottle in his hand. I can’t tell if it’s empty.

  “Have you been drinking?” I say, since he’s totally right about his mom, and I suddenly feel apprehensive about his mood.

  “What if I have? What’s it to you?” He smirks, walking toward me. “I’m not giving you any, so don’t even think about it.”

  “I don’t want any. I can always ask Uncle Lane if I want some.” He’s very progressive about alcohol.

  “Right,” Tony says bitterly.

  Then I realize he probably didn’t know that about his own dad. He hasn’t spent any time in Tempérane since he was twelve. Although Uncle Lane went to Europe a few times, it was always with Aunt Margot. I doubt they went out of their way to see their exiled son.

  “You still haven’t told me what you’re doing here,” he says.

  I lick my lip. There’s such a dark edge to his voice that I can’t help but wonder if I made the right choice in entering his room. Too late now. He’s standing between me and the door. I should just say what I came here to say. Honesty is the best policy in a situation like this…I think. “I just wanted to see you.”

  “Is that so? Mother didn’t send her pet up to pack my shit and tell me to get the fuck out of town?”

  I gasp at the hostility and anger. “No!”

  “Then what are you doing here?” He tilts his head until it’s almost horizontal. “People don’t want to see me. Not really.”

  “That isn’t true, Tony. I wanted to know if you were okay.” I swallow, praying for courage, as realization dawns on me that the hostility and anger aren’t directed at me. They’re more directed at…himself?

  He straightens up, the smirk wiped clean. “Did you, really?” Then he laughs humorlessly. “You’ll be better off staying away from me.” He walks toward me. He isn’t moving fast, but he looks purposeful—almost menacing.

  My heart jumps to my throat. I start to retreat before I catch myself. Tony would never hurt me. Despite his rudeness at times, there’s a core of decency inside him.

  He raises his hands in front of my face. “You see these?”

  “Your hands?”

  “Yeah. There’s blood on them. I thought I could wash it away, but I was wrong. I could cut them off at the wrists, but the stain would stay. Everything I touch becomes tainted.”

  Oh no. Tony. Mrs. Wentworth’s evil words flash through my mind, and I realize he holds himself responsible for whatever part he might’ve inadvertently played in Katherine’s death. My heart breaks for him. The weight of torment he must’ve carried in the last nine years would have crushed someone less strong. Tears fill my eyes, but I blink them away, worried he’ll consider them a sign of pity. He’s too proud for that. He needs sympathy. Understanding. And the realization that he’s innocent.

  I wrap my hands around his. “There’s no stain. What happened was a long time ago. An accident. Nobody could’ve foreseen or prevented it, Tony. It isn’t your fault.”

  His expression shutters.

  I grasp for something positive. “These hands are talented, Tony. If you wanted to, you probably could’ve studied at a conservatory.”

  He starts to pull away, and I tighten my grip.

  “You used these hands to keep me safe from Caleb and his friends at the party. You’re a good person. You stopped them from ‘tainting’ me with their ugly—”

  “Shut up.”

  “No. You shut up and listen—”

  He uses my grip on his hands to yank me forward. I gasp, stumbling against him.

  “Tony—”

  His mouth crushes mine.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Anthony

  I hate her.

  I hate her for saying what she’s saying.

  I
hate her for insisting there’s something good in me.

  I hate her for seeing me as worthy.

  I hate her for being in my mind every damn moment.

  And most of all, I hate her for making me yearn for things I can’t have—love, acceptance, warmth and light. She represents all of that and more, and it slices me to ribbons.

  My kiss is brutal, designed to bruise and hurt. Even humiliate.

  Because she needs to leave me alone. She needs to get the hell out of my head, my mind, my dreams. She needs to stop making me wish for things I can’t aspire to, things I can’t reach for anymore, not when my soul is stained pitch-black. How fucked do you have to be when not even your death can fix what’s broken?

  But her fingers tighten on my shoulders. She parts her lips, and our breath mingles—her caramel and cherry flavor going straight to my cock, making me hard and aching.

  I push my dick against her belly, deliberately being as crude as possible. I want her to slap me, tell me I’m a monster and leave before I lose control and try to hold on to her. She deserves better. It’ll hurt if Mother shuts her out like she did everyone else for being nice to me.

  Ivy gasps against my lips. And instead of pulling away, she flicks her tongue across mine.

  It sets my body on fire.

  I shove a hand into her hair, holding her tight as I devour her, seeking her sweetness and warmth. She takes all my rough aggression and turns it into an aching desperation pulsing through my veins. If we were in medieval times, I’d be on one knee, pledging my life to her. The thought is shocking, but it doesn’t cool my lust. It makes me hold her tighter, praying I can somehow be worthy, that I’m the kind of guy with even a sliver of light in his soul.

  Then we’re moving, and the backs of her knees hit the mattress. She falls onto the neatly made bed, and I follow her down, my mouth still fused to the softness of her eager lips. Breathing hard, she reaches for my shirt, her hands jerky and impatient. I’m gratified at seeing how clumsy her fingers are. They can fly across the piano with perfect control, speed and mastery, playing some of the most technically challenging pieces. But now, with lust flushing her cheeks, she can barely undo my belt buckle.