They stare at me in shock. “What?”
I allow myself a cursory sweep over their naked bodies.They’re both stunning. It’s a shame to waste the opportunity. But Natasha’s call has put me in a foul mood.
My eyes snag on the dildo before I look away.
“Changed my mind,” I clip. “You can let yourselves out.”
I walk out, slamming the door behind me to the outraged cries ofassholeandjerk.
3
TATE
“Hey, Dad?”I call, peering down the stairs into the basement of our building.
“We’re here!” he calls back.
I head downstairs and smile when I spot Dad talking to Larry, one of the other residents. They’re sitting on the old, rust-colored leather couch—cracked and sagging—left behind by a previous tenant, waiting on laundry in one of the giant, ancient washers. Honestly, a scrubbing rack and bucket would probably work better. The machines are always breaking down.
“How was work?” Dad asks as I walk over to the old piano that’s been here longer than we have and take a seat. He looks paler today, the dark circles beneath his eyes more prominent. He smiles at me and my chest twinges.
“It was good,” I reply, running a hand over the marked piano lid that’s closed over the ivory keys, tracing the dips and grooves of tiny knicks in its dark wooden surface. Each tells its own story about the people who have played on it. All those souls connected by music.
“You going to give us a song, eh, Tate?”
I smile shyly at Larry. His old, kind eyes crinkle at the corners as he looks at me hopefully.
“Um…” I lick my lips, a flicker of nerves rustling in my stomach as I glance toward the staircase.
“It’s only us here, Sweetheart,” Dad says encouragingly.
He’s right. Wearethe only ones here. And even though the old piano is battered and needs a good tuning, there’s a charm about it that I love. I often find myself sneaking down here alone to play it.
To dream.
“I know you’re good, I’ve heard you down here,” Larry says.
He’s a sweet man. He lives here alone after losing his wife a few years ago. Something my father and him bonded over. And it’s a comfort knowing that when I’m at work or out with friends that Dad isn’t alone.
“Okay.” I give in easily because, apart from my father, this is what I love most in the world, and the pull to play is too great.
I get myself into position before taking a deep breath and lifting the lid, revealing the black and white ivory keys. I flex my fingers above them.
Then I start to play.
Once I reach the chorus, the words come on their own.
“I believed your words, but they were all pretty lies. Now I’m left empty and broken with tears in my eyes.”
I close my eyes as they leave my lips, barely more than a whisper. Each syllable gets easier to sing the more times I play this song. It’s as if the music is healing me note by note, the sting lessening each time.
“Is that a new one?” Dad asks, studying me as I play the final chords, letting the melody drift to an end.
“Yeah. Just something I’ve been working on.” I shrug. “Igot inspired after watching that film. You know the one where he’s killed in service?”
I can’t bring myself to look my father in the eye as I wait to see if he bought my lie.
“I like it,” Larry declares, giving me a bright smile.
