And didn’t that thought surprise me.
My gaze searched her patio, the backyard, her upstairs balcony. Nothing. No one.
She flicked her dark hair back and stroked the lapels of the robe, her fingers lingering over the lacy material. Suddenly the evening smacked of something more than just music. Her arms moved back and forth across the front, opening the robe halfway and then closing it as if she couldn’t make up her mind.
My eyes went up, trying to read her face. Still as a statue, the only movement was her mouth as it trembled, her full upper lip resting against the pouty lower one. Tears ran down her face, but they seemed more of a defiant act, her jaw tightly set, her shoulders hunched inward as if she’d held it in too long and was giving in, but not without a fight.
Violin Girl was trapped in a cage of darkness.
It still didn’t stop me from holding my breath, silently begging her to bare herself to me. She’d already laid bare her music. Part of me needed the rest of her.
She jerked the robe closed, making me groan in disappointment.
And then she did something completely crazy.
The lonely girl next door flipped me the bird.
“Sixteen minutes. That’s how long it took for the emergency helicopters to reach the crash site where Flight 215’s right wing had been bombed by terrorists. Reports said they found me floating on top of a seat cushion, my legs dangling in the water, although I have no memory of getting there. Covered in cuts and bruises, I had a broken leg and wasn’t breathing when they pulled me up in a harness. The truth was, the real Violet died that day in the Atlantic.”
—from the journal of Violet St. Lyons
CHEST HEAVING, I ran back in the house from the patio and came to a stop in front of the fireplace, the enormity of my performance settling on my shoulders. I panted. I clutched my pounding heart. Mortified. Excited. Good lord, I’d played for Blond Guy.
I’d nearly stripped for him.
I wholeheartedly blamed the tequila I’d consumed earlier.
My hands went to tapping against my leg erratically, my new go-to reflex since the crash. Without fail, if I were stressed, my hands bounced around, trying to ground me.
I groaned and paced around the den like a madwoman.
No way to deny it—I was officially an exhibitionist.
Blond Guy had moved in a few weeks ago on a bright and sunny morning in May without a cloud in the sky. I’d been out on the back patio, messing around with some of the plants, when he’d raced down the road in his gray Hummer and pulled in at the house behind mine. A girl with crazy red hair and a man bigger than the Blond Guy had pulled in behind him in a black Escalade. Siblings? Most definitely family, I’d decided as they carried suitcases and bags in the house, the sounds of their laughter echoing across the grass that separated our secluded properties. Like a shadow, I’d hidden behind a palm tree and squinted across the distance to watch them. I felt silly and tried to tear my eyes away, but when Blond Guy pulled out a guitar—and not just a regular guitar, but a Gibson Les Paul, the same model as my dad’s—I’d been lost.
A musician.
My interest had quickened.
Yesterday, thanks to my handy telescope, I’d been shocked when I’d caught him watching my house with binoculars right at the time when I usually played my violin outdoors. Immediate anger filled me—along with a good dose of something I couldn’t identify. Anticipation? Fear? Most definitely both.
Words like creep and Peeping Tom brushed at my mind, but somehow I refused to associate him with those. The truth was, I hadn’t knowingly played for anyone since the crash because the thought of having eyes on me gave me the shakes and made me want to hurl. My therapist called my fear PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder); I called it cowardice. I hated it.
I used to be Violet St. Lyons, violin prodigy, but now I was just a freak.
Either way, my music career was ruined. They don’t let pukers play in the New York Symphony; it kinda ruins the show.
But he was watching me, obviously listening to my music.
And I’d wondered if I could play knowing he was out there.
My therapist said I should bite the bullet and play on stage whether I lost my cookies or not. Her theory sounded simple, but doing it was another thing. The remedy is in the poison my father had liked to say, and that was the one voice in my head I gravitated toward.
I wanted to try. I wanted to push myself.
Like the flakes in a snow globe, music has danced around in my head since I was a little girl, and without it, I was lost.
I’d already lost my parents.
I tightened the belt on my robe and let out a puff of air. That’s why tonight—after those shots—I’d found some backbone, slipped on my robe and gone out to perform. Technically, I hadn’t been able to see him, so I hadn’t known for sure if he watched, yet I’d felt his eyes on me. Burning. Waiting for me to take it all off.
Which begged the question, did he watch because he liked my sound or did he watch because he was attracted to me? Probably the first. I wasn’t much to look at lately, not with my yoga pants and T-shirts.
Nerves settled by my breathing exercises, I headed to the kitchen where I scrounged for a celebratory chocolate bar and a soda. My brain knew my eating habits were out of control since my parents were gone, but I couldn’t seem to muster up the effort to do better. I devoured the Hershey bar and then headed to bed, checking my phone on the way. I sighed. No one had called. My friends from rich kid prep school hadn’t. My fellow musician friends from the Manhattan School of Music hadn’t. Even my promise-ring-kinda-fiancé Geoff who was now dating a fancy socialite hadn’t. They’d given up on me. Not that I blame them, of course; I’d pushed them away. And really, who’d wait two years for me to get my shit together when it might not ever happen? I swallowed down a sip of soda and burped. At least alone I didn’t have to worry about the niceties.
I eventually crawled in bed, but by two in the morning, sleep still eluded me, and I considered taking one of the sleeping pills my doctor had prescribed. Instead, I got up and went out to the balcony to peek through my telescope. It was dark at his house and hard to make out details, but I found him sitting out on his patio, a guitar between his legs and a beer on the table. I zoomed in my Celestron 2000, my eyes taking in the tattoos that snaked up his muscled biceps that my fingers suddenly itched to touch. I bit my lip. He was beautiful. Transfixed, I watched him smile to himself as he’d play a few strings then stop and jot down something on a piece of paper. Writing music?
Who was he?
Who was I?
Two years ago, I’d been a girl surrounded by fairy dust. I still vividly remembered walking into our Upper East Side apartment, not a clue that my parents had planned a surprise trip to Ireland for my birthday and we’d be leaving for the airport within the hour. They’d made such a big deal of it, trying to get me to guess what my present was. This had included my dad doing his crazy version of the river dance while my mom pulled out a stuffed leprechaun and danced along. They’d been so silly. Fun. Everyone had loved my parents, even the crabby old lady in 4A who hated everyone.
But thinking of my past perfect life was a knife in my heart, so I pushed it away. Instead, I studied Blond Guy’s chiseled face and my imagination went wild as I imagined me showing up at his house, wearing nothing but my robe and carrying my violin. He’d open the door without a word and let me inside. I’d play for him while his hands touched my skin.
Bringing me back to life.
At that, I shivered as warmth infused my skin, pooling in my lower body. I got back in bed and relaxed—effortlessly—for the first time in months and drifted off to sleep. Yet, instead of my usual nightmares about the crash, I dreamed of him. I dreamed he sat by my bed and watched me sleep, that he reached out his hand and pushed hair from my face. His touch made me tingle all over, and even in my dream, my consciousness recognized that I wanted to play again for the boy next door.
T
HE NEXT MORNING, I walked into Java and Me, the local coffee joint and independent bookstore where I came each morning after my run. Decorated in black and white, it was heavy on modern style and Hollywood celebrities. It was also close to my neighborhood and the local market where I did my shopping.
Coming here was my routine. Next, I’d do a slow drive-by at the orphanage on Campbell Street, the one with the lake out front with the ducks. I’d never been inside, but maybe today I’d pull into the parking lot and go inside and meet Mrs. Smythe, the director. She’d called me several times this past month to help plan a benefit gala, and I knew I couldn’t put off meeting her forever. That orphanage was mine. Part of the reason I moved here.
I got my latte and found a seat next to the window.
Blair Storm and her usual entourage took the large table next to me. With big boobs and puffy lips, she was a thirty-something starlet who’d been plucked, highlighted, and mani-pedied to perfection. Pamela Anderson from Baywatch came to mind. She tended to spend most of her time primping and checking the waddle under her neck.
I sighed. I sounded jealous. I guess she was extremely pretty if you liked white-blond hair and flashy clothes. I paled in comparison. Literally. I needed to work on my tan. I resolved to get a bathing suit and lay out by the pool. Maybe Blond Guy would want to come over and join me? No. That was crazy. I didn’t need to get involved with anyone.
A delicate hand tapped on my shoulder, interrupting my thoughts, and I turned to meet a pair of the thickest, longest set of fake eyelashes I’d ever seen. A spider could live there and no one would ever know.
“Excuse me, I’d like a refill,” Blair said sweetly, thrusting her recycled paper cup with the Java and Me logo in my face.
I blinked. Really? She’d seen me here a dozen times as a customer.
“Sorry. I don’t work here.” I indicated my e-reader and latte. “If you want more coffee, the employees wear black and white—you know, the people with aprons and name badges.” I smiled. I’d grown up with girls like her, Park Avenue Princess types who thought everyone owed them.
“Your shirt is black and white.” She nudged one of her girlfriends, and they both burst out in a fit of laughter.
I looked down at my black Ramones shirt and grimaced. Band shirts and flip-flops hadn’t always been my everyday attire. At one time, slinky and soft had been my go-to fabric. Couture even. I put my back to Blair, hoping she’d forget about me and move on. Although it was unlikely, the thought of her realizing who I was gave me hives. Literally. An itch had taken up on my back, between my shoulder blades.
She jabbed me on the arm again, this time more insistent.
I tensed and pulled as far from her as I could.
“Honey,” she said, the syllables drawn out and sugary enough to make me gag. “Don’t you know who I am? I’m Blair Storm. I just wrapped up a James Cameron movie and a Maroon 5 music video with Adam Levine.” She preened as one of the girls in her group clapped excitedly. I halfway expected her to take a bow. “I’m one of the biggest stars in Hollywood, and if you don’t know that, then you must live under a rock. Now, be a sweetie and get me a refill.”
In my head, I tapped out “Rip Her to Shreds” by Blondie on my violin.
I scowled. “I’m fully aware of your awesome magnificence. And I’m not your sweetie.”
“What did you say?” she said, straightening up in her seat, glossy lips now in a straight line. The occupants around us froze, eyes bouncing from me to her. Even the manager speared me with a glare saying, Don’t bother the talent!
Anger bubbled up, and I opened my mouth to let her have it like I would have before the crash, but I froze, blood rushing to my face. My free hand—the one that wasn’t clutching the table—twitched to tap.
She thrust her cup at me again, eyes glittering like hard diamonds. “I must have misheard you.”
I ignored her and turned my head away, tucking myself close to the window. Pretty soon, I’d be splattered against it like a bug.
“Hello? Are you deaf?” she snapped, and I knocked my coffee over as I jerked up from my seat. Brown liquid seeped across the table and dripped on the floor. I watched it spread, unable to get napkins, unable to move. Paralyzed. My gut knew a panic attack was not far behind. I took up panting and tapped my leg.
She eyed me, her gaze flicking over my hands. “Clean-up on Aisle Stupid,” she called out over a mock microphone as the rest of her group tittered.
Every eye in the place swiveled to stare and I had a flashback to the day I’d gotten out of the hospital in Dublin. Reporters, photographers, gawkers—they’d swarmed me, camera lights flashing in my face. Geoff hadn’t made it to the hospital yet, so it had been a poor, unprepared nurse who’d pushed me in a wheelchair out to a waiting car, and there wasn’t a thing she could do about the horde. I’d braced myself for a question or two, but nothing like what hit me. They’d bombarded me.
How does it feel to be the only survivor, Miss St. Lyons? Like shit.
How did you manage to escape the plane and get on the seat cushion? By levitating, jerk.
What did you see when the bomb exploded? People dying, asshole.
Did you get to say goodbye to your parents? Fuck you.
“Hello? Are you still with us?” Blair smirked as she waved her hands in front of my face.
With nausea rolling around in my stomach, I bolted out the door of the Java and Me and stopped at my car, chest heaving like I’d run a marathon. I sagged against my car.
An airy voice came from behind me. “I don’t mean to pry, but that Blair’s a meanie who gets way too many lip injections and tummy tucks. FYI, she’s older than everyone thinks. Rumor is she paid ten thousand dollars to get a fake birth certificate that makes her ten years younger, which would mean that instead of the thirty-three she claims, she’s really forty-three. Which is like ancient in LA. And don’t even get me started on her breast size—hello, terrifying! And totally fake. I bet she can’t even sleep on her stomach, so who’s the real winner there? Can you imagine the back pain? Or the ill-fitting bikini tops—okay maybe that part would be cool. Whatever. I prefer my B cup any day.” She paused. Probably to take a breath. “Seriously, don’t let her get to you.”
I’d spun around to see the person who’d witnessed my fiasco. She was young, about my age, with brown hair that was pulled back with a sparkly headband. I recognized her immediately as the regular who always wore pink. She took a sip from a coffee, looking chic in a fuchsia angora sweater and white pencil skirt with a long strand of pearls draped around her neck. Three-inch white stilettos graced her feet.
She was a life-sized Hello Kitty, business version.
I blinked at the sheer pinkness of her, but then came to my senses and sent her a smile. “I know. Stupid for getting worked up about it. Maybe if I fawned over her or asked for her autograph like everyone else, she’d be nicer.”
The girl agreed. “She’s not nice to me either, and she’s dating one of my clients.” She added in a whisper, “Word is she’s struggling for those younger starlet roles now. Her last cover for Cosmo was completely photoshopped. Awkward.”
Wow. Pinky seemed to know a lot about Blair.
I grinned. “She’s an empty-headed bubble with Manolo’s and lipstick, and she needs to be popped,” I said, acting it out with my fingers. “Pop!” Apparently, I was much braver away from Blair.
The girl’s nose scrunched up as she bounced on her heels. “Yes! And she shall forevermore be known as Bubbles.”
I grinned. “So … you’re in the movie business?” I asked as I relaxed against my silver Maserati.
She nodded and hurriedly fished a card from her Chanel clutch. “Mila Brady, PR person at your service. And before you say it, I know I’m young—twenty-three if you must know—but I already have a couple of big-time clients. Ever hear of the Vital Rejects? Spider—his real name’s a secret—and Sebastian Tate are the front guys. Total hotties.” She blushed. “I actually used to be over th
e moon for Sebastian back in high school—but I’m over it.”
Had I heard of them? I shook my head. “If they’re recent, then I’m clueless. I’ve been out of touch for the past year or so.” Understatement. I’d been hiding out in a Hollywood mansion, refusing to see anyone.
“Oh.” She looked disappointed. “Do I detect a New York accent, then? Are you an actress? You’re pretty. Like really pretty. You could use a new shirt maybe though. One with more color. Just a thought.” She grinned. “Sorry. I talk a lot. Sometimes it’s stupid stuff, but I can’t turn my brain off.”
I shook my head. “No, don’t apologize. Yes, I’m from Manhattan, and no, I’m not an actress. I—I’m a violinist.” I said the words haltingly. It had been months since I’d talked to anyone about music.
“Cool. Why did you come to LA?”
I waffled, shifting my feet, settling with the truth. “California was as far as I could get without a plane. I recently got a job playing at an Italian restaurant, although I haven’t started yet.” Yep, one day you’re a star violinist, the next day you’re playing for celebrities sucking on spaghetti Bolognese.
“What restaurant? Are you here to make a record? Sign a deal? Are you in a band? You know, if you need help getting your name out there, I’d be glad to do the work for you. Just throwing that out there.”
“It’s called Masquerade.”
She nodded. “Great. I’m supposed to meet up with some friends there this week—maybe I’ll see you.”
God, I hoped not. What if I wasn’t able to play?
“I’m V by the way,” I said impulsively, holding my hand out.
She shook my hand. “What’s V short for?”
I didn’t even blink. “Just V.” I didn’t want her to know who I was. Not really. Not when as soon as she pieced it together, she’d get that apologetic look in her eye, and then I’d feel guilty all over again for killing my parents.
Very Twisted Things (Briarcrest Academy #3) Page 2
