I grit my teeth. “I could play those pieces blindfolded. I think it will be fine.”
Dave sneers. “I don’t think you’re understanding me, girl. You’re notreadyto go to the store by yourself.” He stands from the bed and makes his way into my personal bubble once more, voice growing more imposing with each word. “What if you had an attack? What if someone wanted to hurt you? No. You’ll stay here, where I can keep a close eye on my precious little prodigy.”
I nod, casting my gaze down to my flats and fighting back tears of frustration. “Yes. But I really do need a dress?—”
“Then youalsoknowit’s irresponsible to spend precious hours of your lifeshoppingwhen you could be perfecting your craft.”
Again, I nod, clenching my jaw tight enough to give me a headache. “I guess I wasn’t thinking.”
Dave slides his hand from my hair to my cheek, cupping my jaw and tilting my eyes up to meet his. “I don’t like how distracted you’ve been lately.”
I wriggle out of his hold, bile creeping up my throat. “I’m just tired.”
At my rejection, Dave narrows his eyes. “I don’t think so.” He shoves his hand under my nose, curling his fingers back in a ‘give it over’ motion. “Phone. Now.”
I pull it out of my pocket and pass it over with shaking fingers, thanking the stars that I hadn’t had the chance to unblock Riot’s number yet. Thankfully, our text message history has been deleted, so Dave won’t be able to find any incriminating evidence.
Dave takes my phone and pockets it, his eyes narrowing on me. “Now go and practice your arpeggios. No more of that outdated nonsense. Chop, chop.”
He turns on his heel, leaving just as quickly as he arrived. I stare at the door for some time, listening to the thud of footsteps down the stairs. It’s only when his car starts and peels away from the house that I turn back to the piano. But I still can’t shake the sensation that someone is watching me.
I force my fingers to move over the keys, muscle memory taking over as I begin the first round of arpeggios. While my hands move, I look at the clock, finding it’s already five minutes past the start of my lesson time.
A small sigh blows past my lips. Every ounce of me wants to throw caution to the wind, climb out that window, hop on my bike, and go see Riot. But Dave already seems suspicious of me. Why else would he come back to the house and check on me?
I’d be a fool to risk sneaking out.
“This fucking sucks,” I grumble, glancing out the window toward freedom.
Since Dave took my phone, I won’t be able to let Riot know that I’ll be missing my lesson. He’ll probably be upset, but there’s nothing I can do about it.
I just have to hope he’ll forgive me next week.
19
Riot
I standon the sidewalk outside the guitar shop, smoking a cigarette and watching the street for any sign of Eloise and her sunset-colored bike. I had a successful lesson with Jane today—though her relentless questioning about me and Eloise did nothing for my nerves. Before, I was impatient to see her. Now, I’m practically buzzing with anticipation.
It's five past our lesson time, but I tell myself not to worry. It’s pretty typical for Eloise to be running slightly behind, and I can be patient. When she’s ten minutes late, I think nothing of it. Fifteen, and a prickle of anxiety works its way down my spine. Twenty, and I want to crawl out of my own skin.
Still, I wait. I wait and I hope and I watch, searching for a flash of cherry-blossom hair.
After thirty minutes, I can no longer deny it. I’m well on the way to losing my mind. She hasn’t answered any of the texts I’ve sent, hasn’t even opened them, and I need to knowwhy.
She said she would be here. She wouldn’t have lied to me.
“So where is she, then?” I wonder aloud. “Did she get hurt?”
An image of Eloise on her bike floods my mind, followed by that of a car plowing into the side of her and knocking herunconscious body into the bushes. Though I know how unlikely that would be, the possibility fills me with unending dread.
The only other reason I can think of is that she’s decided shedoesregret our kiss and doesn’t want to see me anymore. I don’t want to believe it, but it’s slightly more believable than the alternative.
Still, I have to make sure she’s okay.
I’m halfway out the back door when I realize I don’t knowwhereI’m going. From the weeks of watching her, I know Eloise turns left when she leaves—toward the shore—but I have no clue where she goes after. Riding aimlessly on my motorcycle through the streets will be a waste of time, especially if she really is somewhere hurt and in need of help.
I need to know where I’m looking first.
