Part 15 (1/2)

”Relax,” Ian whispered in my ear. ”If you grip the mic stand any harder, you'll snap it in half.”

My eyes flicked down to my hands where they had a death grip around the slim, metal pole. I pried my fingers off, leaving smudged handprints behind. I blew out a breath.

”Nervous?” he asked.

I tilted my head back to take in the sarcastic smile that was playing across his lips. It did nothing to ease the tension in my shoulders, and I gave myself a shake. ”Very.”

”I don't get it. Aren't you used to crowds by now?”

I wandered around the stage, the heavy footfalls of my boots echoing around the room. ”Crowds? Yes. Need me to give a speech on the importance of environmental protection? Sure, no problem.” Continuing my pacing, I crossed to the piano, tracing my fingers along the gleaming surface. I brushed my fingertips together, an unconscious gesture I'd picked up from my mother, to check for dust. There wasn't any. ”A solo piano recital? Sure, you got it.”

”Still not understanding.” Ian sat on one of the stools, tucking his feet up on the spokes. His fingers drummed against the worn denim of his jeans.

”I don't like to do anything in half measures,” I admitted to him. ”I've been trained on the piano. I can be talking to the most boring person on the planet, and I know exactly how to arrange my face so that it looks like I'm interested and amused.” I did just that, wiping away all traces of anxiety and giving him my uber-fake smile. ”This? Singing? I'm not good at it. I'm not bad either, but when I do something, I want it to be done well.”

”You don't want to fail.”

”Fail” was one of my taboo words. It wasn't possible, it wasn't acceptable.

”I don't fail,” I corrected him, meeting his gaze across the stage.

He tried to lift the heavy mood in the room with his smile, but even that wasn't strong enough. ”So, you wanna practice then?” He gestured to the microphone.

”Hah, no.” I shook my head. ”I'll be doing this once, and once only. I've practiced at home, worked on my breathing, and I haven't eaten any dairy today-”

”Dairy?” He c.o.c.ked his head to the side.

I rubbed my fingers against my throat. ”It makes you mucousy, harder to sing.”

He leaned his forearms against his thighs, bending over with laughter. Blood rushed to my cheeks, settling hotly underneath the surface of my skin. Lifting his head, he ran both hands over his hair, the thick ma.s.s of it flattening under the pressure and then springing back up. ”You're incredible, you know that?”

Oh, well, d.a.m.n. The tw.a.n.g of a bow string as another imaginary arrow piercing my chest rang through my ears. I shook it off.

Sticking out his chin, he gestured to the piano. ”Will you play for me?”

I shrugged. ”Sure.” Slipping onto the bench, I ran my fingers over the keys-the glossy blacks and the warm whites that had faded with age. ”Any requests?” I asked, watching as he sauntered across the stage and sat down on the bench next to me.

”You pick.”

”Hmmm.” Nothing too complicated; it'd been awhile since I played. I questioned him while I ran through the possibilities in my head, searching my brain for songs I actually remembered. ”Do you play?”

He nodded. ”Decently.”

I nudged my knee against his. ”For all you claim to be a musician, I've never heard you play.”

”You've never asked.” I expected to find a playful smile on his face or a teasing note to his voice, but instead his words were low and flat, and he turned away to stare out across the empty room. ”I've been . . . taking a break from music,” he finally added.

I flexed my fingers over the keys, letting them run over the smooth surface without uttering a note. ”Is this not okay, then? I mean, if you want to bail on this one, I'd understand.” I gave a fake laugh. ”Maybe it would be better if you did so you wouldn't be able to make fun of me afterwards.”

”It's fine.” He nudged my knee back. ”So, are you gonna play or keep me in suspense all day?”

I narrowed my eyes at him and slammed down middle C. He flinched. The note resonated around us, swirling through the air like it had wings. ”You should tell your friend that his piano is just a hair flat.”

”Really?” His thick eyebrows drew together in a frown. He spun his pointer finger in a circle, in a do-it-again gesture.

I played it again, and he closed his eyes. I could practically see him focusing his ears on the sound, his lips slanting to the side.

”Barely,” he said. ”G.o.d, you can hear that?”

I gave him a smug smile. ”Mhmm.”

With one hand gripping the back edge of the bench, he leaned across me and captured my lips in a kiss that made my toes curl in my boots. He'd barely let up and let me breathe when he said, ”C'mon Bianca, don't make me beg.”

Now that would be a sight.

I stared up into his gray eyes, which had taken on a playful quirk, and rolled mine at him. ”Fine.” I shoved him with my shoulder until he sat back up.

Positioning my fingers over the keys, I adjusted my feet over the pedals and started to play. The first movement in Moonlight Sonata had always been a favorite of mine, and it had nothing terribly difficult that I would slip up on. I let the music crescendo around me, striking the quarter notes with a harsh efficiency that seemed to slash the notes through the air. I relished in the minor chords, enjoying the haunting beauty of them that seethed around me like angry waves.

The room was completely silent for almost a full minute after I'd finished, the last strands of music still clinging to the air like shadows.

”That was . . .” Ian ran his tongue over his lips.

”Good?”

”'Insane' is more of the word I was going for.”

I should've felt thrilled and reveled in the comment. Instead, frustration built. ”See, this is what I mean. I can't sing like I play. It's just not at the same level.”

”Who cares?”

”I care.”

”But why?”

”I just . . . I don't . . .” I shoved up to my feet and flattened my hands across the lid of the piano, curling my fingers so that the nails bit into the sensitive skin of my palms. How could I explain to him that everything I did was a reflection on my parents, that every misstep, every miscalculation was just one more reason for them to be disappointed in me? What words could I give him that would make him understand that for all my successes, each of them was just an effort to apologize to my mother for the one thing I could never truly apologize for? And was there even possibly a way for me to do it, to sc.r.a.pe down to the raw, crus.h.i.+ng pain that I'd never once admitted to anyone, not even Renee, without sounding utterly pathetic?

”Hey, forget it. Forget I asked. It doesn't matter.” He spun me, both hands on my hips, his thumbs slipping above the edge of my jeans to rub small circles against my stomach. ”You'll be great tonight, I know it.” Nuzzling his lips against my neck, he trailed soft kisses up to my ear. ”I loved watching you play, that look you get on your face when you strike a chord just right.” His lips reversed their direction, taking the same path back down my neck. Running a hand along the collar of my s.h.i.+rt, he pushed it to the side so he could trail his tongue along my collarbone, stopping to place one delicate kiss on the edge of my shoulder.

With a little pressure, I sank backward, my b.u.t.t landing on the keys and letting out a discordant squeal. I chuckled and ran my hands over Ian's s.h.i.+rt, not stopping until I rested my hands on his shoulders. ”Look at that, you're making music again.”

The corner of his mouth quivered. ”Not me, we.”

He ducked his head down to mine, stepping into the s.p.a.ce between my thighs. My hands found their way up into his hair, tugging him closer to me so that I could sweep my tongue across his lips.

My phone let out a shrill beep, the a.s.signed tone for my parents' dreaded e-mails, and it was like someone doused me with a bucket of ice water. I broke my lips away from his, letting my forehead thump forward against his chest. I never should have turned the sound back on.