The lounge is noisy with chatter, clinking forks, and laughter, but I’m in my own world on the piano. My fingers skate over the black and white keys, wrenching melodies from my twisted soul.
I should be enraptured right now. This week at Redwood was quiet. Mostly because the Cross brothers haven’t been gliding down the hallways, leaving havoc and broken hearts in their wake.
Rumor has it, they went to visit their mom. In their absence, my locker hasn’t been tampered with. My keyboard’s been kept clean and the music teacher has no more bright ideas to force me on stage.
The quiet was supposed to make me feel safe, but it only set me more on edge.
Dutch isn’t the type to back off easily. I haven’t left Redwood Prep yet which is… obvious. And I drenched his expensive wallet too. He’s going to retaliate.
I just don’t know how.
Or when.
And that frightening wait has been messing with my head.
I inhale deeply and try to push thoughts of his gorgeous face and even hotter physique from my mind.
It doesn’t work and I end up throwing diminished chords into my piece. The music turns choppy, breathing life into my agitation. Or maybe it’s my agitation breathing life into the melody. Either way, they feed each other.
The piece is my own now. These notes don’t belong to the original composer, but it feels right, so I keep going.
I’m in the crescendo. Eyes closed, swaying, head thrown back. The only place I feel free is here in music. Each note pours after the other. A soothing domino effect. Rain soaking into cracked, dry soil.
I’m so glad I was able to come back to it. I’m so glad the darkness mom brought into music didn’t keep me from it.
In the middle of my piece, my skin starts tingling everywhere. I open my eyes and scan the crowd.
The lounge is busy tonight. Wealthy patrons flock to this hole-in-the-wall bar, but it’s not for its smoky interior and subtle but elegant decor.
It’s for the temperamental chef who’s made a reputation for himself.
Gorge’s is the kind of place that hands out menus for appearances sake, but they don’t expect customers to order from it. In fact, it’s always easy to tell the noobs by the way they peruse the booklets.
Gorge is a half human and half supernatural creature. He takes one look at a table and knows exactly what to serve, plus the perfect wine to go with it. There’s never been a table that’s regretted letting him choose.
Or at least, that’s what the manager told me when I started working here.
Rich people and their novelties.
I don’t care if the chef’s ‘super abilities’ are a gimmick. I’m here at Gorge’s because the pay is much higher than bussing. The chef thinks my music ‘pairs perfectly with his meals’ and it means I get a hefty check at the end of every night plus tips.
Gorge’s is safer than being on the street too. The staff look out for me and though customers do walk up to me and try to flirt sometimes, once I start looking uncomfortable, one of the girls steps in right away.
I press my fingers gently on the keys, the notes timid and repressed as I try to locate the reason behind the shift in the air around me.
And then I find him.
Dutch is there, in a booth with Finn and Zane. He’s in a faded T-shirt that stretches across his shoulders. His jeans are ripped at the knees. His amber eyes are like a lion’s, fierce and golden.
My fingers miss the right key and a discordant, ugly note rings through the lounge. No one seems to recognize the fumble, but I still feel flames shooting to my cheeks. I flunked because he was watching.
Finn and Zane leave the table, their intimidating figures blending into the shadows at the back. Dutch remains seated, his eyes locked on me. His expression is one I’ve never seen before. It’s still intense, but it’s not as icy. It’s contemplative and a little unpleasant, like he hates the feelings the music is stirring up in him, but he can’t turn away if he wanted to.
My heartbeat picks up speed because I don’t know what to do with that. Be proud that the god of Redwood Prep is affected by my music? Be sad that it shows he actually possesses a soul?
I sneak another look at him. He’s got his head tilted now and his eyes are closed. The slant of his mouth hits the light and it’s all I can do to keep playing.
Long-buried restlessness clashes with new anger, like a war of opposing waves.
I’m jerked back to that moment when he trapped me against the outdoor sink, drops of water glistening on his tan skin and his body cut and chiseled to perfection, pressing into mine.
I hate that he can make me feel this way, out-of-sorts and breathless.
Ripping my gaze from his, I finish the song with trembling fingers, closing out an abrupt ending.
The chair legs scrape the wooden platform as I push back. Ignoring the applause that breaks out from the diners, I pounce to my feet and burst through the employee-only doors behind the bar.
I need distance. I need a getaway car. But all I can do is wilt against a wall and try to catch my breath.
“Did you see those models outside?”
“I thought I’d faint. I didn’t think people who looked like that existed outside of movies.
“I know right.”
The waitresses stop to squeal for a bit.
Then one of them says, “I wish I was Cadence whatever-her-name was.”
“I know. I’d literally give anything to be the girl they’re looking for.”
Their words stop me in my tracks. Without thought, I stumble toward them. “What did you just say?”
The women give me frightened looks.
“Who are they looking for?” I ask again, my voice tight.
“I don’t know. The Asian one came back here asking if we knew some girl named Cadence.”
Sweat breaks out beneath my pits and under my shirt.
Jinx strikes again. That’s the only way The Kings would know where I work after school.
How does she keep knowing all this stuff about me?
It’s a mystery for another day. There’s only one reason Dutch, Finn and Zane would be looking for me right after they came back from visiting their mom. And I doubt it’s to bring me souvenirs from their trip.
“Do you know who Cadence is, sweetie?”
The waitresses look pointedly at me.
My nerves and fear skyrocket. I didn’t give the lounge my real name when they hired me, but I still feel exposed.
“Uh, no. I… no.” I blink rapidly.
Way to sound legit, Cadence.
“By the way, what are you doing back here? Your set isn’t over yet.”
I sling an arm over my stomach. “I’m not feeling well, so I’ll change out of this,” I gesture to my performance clothes consisting of a bright red tank top, leather jacket and tight jeans, “and leave now.”
“Alright, sweetie. We’ll tell the manager for you.”
“Thank you.”
As I leave the kitchen, I keep glancing behind my back to make sure none of the brothers have spotted me.
Since Dutch didn’t automatically storm my piano and Finn and Zane were going around asking for me even though I was right in front of them, it means my disguise worked. I’m totally invisible to them.
However, if they keep staring at me, they’re going to see the similarities between this costumed version of me and the one they terrorize at Redwood Prep.
I can’t let that happen.
Throwing myself into the dressing room, I slam the door shut. There’s a small mirror on the dresser and I catch sight of my reflection.
Do I really look that different?
I lift the glass and stare at my face. Vi does my makeup before I leave for the lounge. She takes it as practice and will throw a temper tantrum if I ever attempt to do it myself.
Normally, when I look in the mirror while she’s working, I’ll see bronze-colored glops that look like war paint. But by the time she smoothes it all out, my cheekbones look sharper, my jaw looks slimmer and my nose looks like I did plastic surgery.
Makeup is a scary thing.
Paired with the green eye contacts and the red wig, I’m safe. As long as none of the boys see me up close.
My fingers climb to my wig and I start to wrench it off when there’s a knock on the door.
“Hey, I’m looking for the pianist? The manager told me I could find you back here,” a familiar voice says.
A rush of panic surges through my veins.
It gets ten times worse when I see the doorknob turning.
I have seconds to fix my wig back in place.
Dutch walks in and by now, I should be prepared for the way he fills up the room.
I’m so not.
Without his Redwood Prep uniform on, he looks bigger and taller and more dangerous. I wish I could stop time somehow so I could check him out and edge around him, leaving him in an empty room alone.
His hair’s flopping all around his face and I realize that I like the messy look. Which is disturbing because he’s a menace and a life-ruiner and I shouldn’t be liking anything about him.
Appraising amber eyes study me.
I feel warm all over and quickly avert my gaze.
The more time I spend around Dutch, the more I realize why he doesn’t bother with macho displays of violence. His stare is violent. It’s heavy and dark and commanding.
Unnerved, I lower my voice to a husky pitch and ask, “Did you chase me all the way back here just to stare at me?”
His eyebrows quirk and I hope it’s not because he recognizes my voice.
Since I was a kid, I’ve been able to do great impersonations. Just like music notes, voices each have their own unique pitches.
When Viola was younger, she’d beg me to read bedtimes stories for her. ‘Voices, voices’, she’d insist. And I would get into character for her, changing up my tones to bring the fairytale characters alive.
I lean heavily on that skill now, hoping that Dutch doesn’t see through it.
He slides a hand into his pocket. “I came to—”
“Ask if I’ve seen some girl named Cadence?” I butt in.
My anxiety’s through the roof. I need to get him out of this room, out of this lounge, out of my life as soon as possible.
“I haven’t seen her.” I turn away from him, hoping he takes the hint and backs away on his own.
But I should know better.
Dutch Cross doesn’t leave before getting what he came for.
He lingers in the doorway. His stare caresses me in a way that sets my blood on fire.
As the silence settles, I realize that I shouldn’t be so dismissive. Dutch would never tell me—the real me—the reason he’s so hell-bent on making my life miserable. But he doesn’t know this version. Maybe I can pry it out of him while in disguise.
Turning abruptly, I lift my chin. “Why are you going around asking for her anyway. Did she do something to you?”
He takes a step into the room, slowly, as if I’ll disappear like a mirage if he moves too fast. His face is set in a thoughtful expression. His strong nose and chin cuts through the shadows.
The silence is oppressive and the temperature rises when he gets close to me. I’ve never felt such tension before. It’s so fragile that one word will make it shatter.
“What’s your name?” he asks. The vibration of his voice rattles me in a way that not even music has the ability to.
His body’s bigger than I remember, his hard chest stopping a mere breath away from my face. He’s my enemy at Redwood Prep. But right now, he’s not looking at me like he wants to break me.
It takes me a moment to realize I’m gawking. I slam my mouth shut and shift from one leg to another. “Why do you want to know?”
“Because every perfect song deserves a name.”
My eyelashes flicker. Did the broody beast just say something romantic?
As his amber gaze burns into me, I swear my entire heart flutters right out of my ribs and starts beating like a bat around the room.
I see it then—the interest flickering in his gaze. I thought he came to track me—the real me—down. But he’s not. He’s back here because he has a thing for my alter ego.
Power surges through my body, crackling like lightning. There have been so many moments at Redwood Prep when it felt like the light at the end of the tunnel was getting smaller and smaller. So many moments when all I wanted was a chance to level the playing field.
I haven’t had many opportunities to get back at the great Dutch Cross. Now that a door is open in front of me, I feel bold.
There’s no way I’m letting this moment slip through my fingers.
With an unimpressed eye roll, I smirk at him. “Does that line usually work for you?”
A ghost of a smile crosses his face, but it’s gone so fast I’m not sure if I imagined it.
“That’s usually all it takes, yeah.” He shrugs, but the glint in his eyes is anything but casual. “How long have you been playing?”
The interest in his voice takes me by surprise. “A while.”
“I’ve never heard anyone deconstruct Chopin like that. Your piano teacher must love you.”
The mention of my piano teacher reminds me of Mr. Mulliez and it makes me greedy for Dutch’s pain.
I take a deliberate step forward. “People evolve. I don’t see why music can’t either. Music is a reflection of us. Of who we are, where we come from and who we want to be.”
“It’s also a measure of perfection. If we don’t play it exactly right, we don’t win.”
I scrunch my nose. “I think our obsession with holding on to things, trying to preserve them so they’re exactly the way they always were, can keep us from seeing what’s important.”
His gaze slips down my body. When it slides back up, I realize that this is not a game I can play lightly. “And what is that?”
I dig my teeth into my bottom lip. “Composers are trying to convey a feeling, not a perfect score. It’s easier to destroy the classics when I think a few of those guys might be the first to destroy their own work too.”
My words earn me a slow grin that sends flames dancing all the way to my toes.
I freeze, hating myself for noticing. This is Dutch—the ruiner of lives and souls. The guy who’s made sure that, in the last few weeks at Redwood Prep, I’ve had something to destroy my entire day.
I drag Mr. Mulliez to the front of my mind and keep my heart on the mission. How do I use Dutch’s interest in a way that’ll hurt him the most?
I keep chewing on my bottom lip. Since I don’t spend most of my time snatching candy from babies like Dutch does, the ideas aren’t coming as quickly as I thought.
I need to stall for a while longer.
“You should know how important it is to mark your own path,” I say huskily. “After all, you’re a musician too.”
“How did you know that?” He peers closer at me. “You’ve been following my band?”
The air freezes in my lungs when I realize I might have given myself away. If I admit I’ve heard of his band, he might ask me about my favorite song or something. But I haven’t actually heard Dutch play yet.
The rims of my nostrils flare as I think on my feet. “I haven’t.” I reach for his hand and lift it. “You’ve got callouses on the tips of four fingers, but no callouses on the thumb. It’s the mark of someone who spends more hours playing guitar than they do eating and sleeping.”
Fear and something else that I don’t want to name streaks down my spine as Dutch interlocks our fingers.
He leans over. “I’m going to tell you something and I mean this sincerely.”
I shiver. “W-what?”
“I heard you at the showcase and I haven’t been able to get that melody out of my head. I’ve never heard anyone play like that before.”
My gaze lands on his. “I wasn’t playing for you.”
“I know. You weren’t playing for anyone but yourself.”
I shift forward so our faces are close enough that I can see the dark flecks in his golden eyes. “And who do you play for?”
His jaw tightens. A thoughtful look crosses his face. “I don’t know. It’s more of a habit than anything.”
That felt real. That felt raw.
I can’t believe Dutch Cross is letting me into his thoughts like this. It feels almost evil to use it. And that just goes to show that I’m not as horrible a person as he is.
I let my gaze linger on his lips. “Music can be so many things, but if it’s a burden, it’s a sign that something’s wrong.”
“Maybe.”
My chest squeezes, hard.
No, I am not connecting with the biggest pain in my butt. He will not become human to me.
Dutch steps closer until his sneakers are kissing my boots. Bach he smells like heaven. It’s pure fabric softer and sandalwood, and if temptation had a scent it would smell like this.
“I know I’m not the only one feeling this,” Dutch says softly, looking both relaxed and intense at once.
“No,” I grab his collar. “You’re not.” Roughly, I drag him closer and smash his mouth to mine.
It’s only supposed to be an angry press of the lips, but the moment the warmth of his full lips soak through to mine, all other thoughts fly out the window.
I’m not only kissing my worst nightmare. I’m enjoying it. It’s sick and twisted and I crave more with a desperation that takes my breath away.
Dutch’s fingers brush my cheek and then slide to the back of my neck, pushing me forward and harder against his mouth. It’s like he’s trying to tell me something. Like he’s trying to tell me everything.
The desire inside me twists tighter and tighter. It’s a discordant sound. As messy as the notes I played when I first caught sight of him in the lounge.
I should resist it.
I have to.
But there’s a draw to him, unadulterated and magnetic. The more I want to resist, the harder it is to let go.
He feels the moment I melt because his lips soften above mine, sliding more than attacking. It’s so unexpected—that tenderness. A man as big and dark as Dutch shouldn’t be capable of such a thing.
But he keeps kissing me like I’m precious and my knees buckle. I slide my hands up his arms, tracing a path over the lines covering his muscular biceps. My fingers thread in his hair and it is every bit as soft and thick as I’d imagined.
He grunts when my nails make their first pass over his scalp and I do it again. His hold on my head tightens in a way that’s both strangely sweet and possessive.
I can’t help the strangled little sound that escapes my throat when his tongue runs over the seam of my lips.
For a second, the world is full of possibilities.
Then I remember who I’m making out with and my senses return to me, piercing through the bizarrely tenuous energy that sizzles in every interaction I have with Dutch.
I wedge my hands between my body and his massive chest and shove. I’m not strong enough to move him, but with this version of me, he’s extra respectful.
Dutch eases back, staring at me through hooded eyes.
I’m overrun with emotions—anger, desire, regret, frustration. There’s shame too and with it, the anger surges. On instinct, I lift my hand and smack him hard across the face.
The sound of skin meeting skin reverberates in the quiet.
Dutch’s head flies to the side.
My chest heaving, I raise my hand as if I’ll slap him again and then I drop the arm. I’m insane. He’s insane. And this shouldn’t have happened, but the least I can do is get an answer.
“You came in here looking for some girl and now you’re kissing me?” I accuse in my husky voice.
Dutch’s jaw works. He’s still staring at the side, his face turning a strange shade of red.
I stab a finger in his chest. “Why were you here tonight? Why were you looking for Cadence?”
“Is it that important to hear the answer?” he growls.
I’m trembling with vehemence. “Yes.”
He studies me for a long moment and steps back. When he opens his mouth, I know the answer to the madness he and his brothers have been laying on me will finally be revealed.
But there’s a knock on the door.
“Are we interrupting?” Zane asks.
I gasp and turn away from the brothers. Dutch may not recognize me, but if I’m under Finn’s sharp gaze and Zane’s experienced eyes, they might start to pin the pieces together.
“Yeah,” Dutch growls.
I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and realize that my wig wasn’t completely in place. There’s a strand of my brown hair peeking from underneath it.
Panicked, I lower my head and brush past the boys.
Dutch grabs my hand. “Wait, where are you going?”
“I have another gig,” I lie.
“Stay.”
I shake him off, making sure to keep my face lowered. “If you want to talk, meet me at the Crossroads Cafe this Saturday.”
Dutch’s stare lingers on me when I hurry down the hallway.
I hope he shows up on Saturday, but I have no intentions of meeting him. It would be better if the prince of Redwood Prep left this version of me the hell alone.
