She didn’t care who died from her policies—collateral damage didn’t vote and certainly didn’t donate.
That was why I kept my distance. That, and the constant reminders I was a disappointment, a failure for dropping out of college and refusing to trap a billionaire heir into marriage.
So now an imposing Russian man stood in my store, watching me with the intensity of a freaking coiled snake and I was almost certain it traced back to her.
Maybe she wanted to scare me into compliance.
Maybe she finally screwed over someone she shouldn’t have.
The world narrowed to my own heartbeat. I pressed my fingers into the record sleeves, grounded by the soft edges of the cardboard. Something solid. Something here.
Breathe. Focus.
My thumb flicked over the glossy album covers, too fast, pretending interest I didn’t feel.
He was just an incredibly hot dad visiting Georgetown, touring the campus.
Killing time.
My pulse didn’t buy it.
People had accents, even savagely sexy Russian ones. My fingers faltered over a sleeve.
People had tattoos, even businessmen. Hell, half the city was inked.
I swallowed hard, flipping the next record like it could flip my thoughts with it.
Not everyone was a threat.
Not everything was her fault.
I forced my shoulders down and pushed my ribs out, trying to pull oxygen into my lungs.
He was just a customer.
And I was just a girl pretending she wasn’t terrified.
“American jazz is actually a huge genre,” I said, focusing on my job again. “If you usually prefer classical, I would recommend something a little more precise, something with more orchestration. Miles Davis’sKind of Bluewould be a good option. It’s very minimalist and is structured like a symphony, so it’s a perfect bridge for classical listeners.
“Or you might like the Dave Brubeck Quartet. Their albumTime Outhas some weird time signatures that classical listeners either love or hate. It’s very cerebral and mathematical. If you like the logic and the rhythm of classical music, this would probably be your best option.”
I loved talking about music. How it lingered, clinging to memories, to loss, to heartbreak, to joy, to every moment that ever mattered. How one song, played at the wrong or right time, could undo you… or save you.
There were so many options, and even though jazz had never been my personal favorite, I still loved helping people discover artists. After about five or six recommendations, I realized I was rambling.
He just stood there politely, listening to what I was saying and even looking at the records occasionally, though his eyes were mostly on me…watching me…studying me.
Of course, he was studying me.
I was the purple-haired girl who was seconds from crying all over my guitar while singing a song fromWaitress.
He either thought I was crazy or ridiculous…both were probably right.
“Were you thinking something clean in the composition? Or gritty? Or”—I swallowed—“something that hits you right in the chest?”
I kept my eyes glued to the crates, flipping vinyl with careful precision. If I turned around, he’d knock the breath out of me again.
I listened instead. Waiting for a footstep, a drag of leather sole, the hiss of suit fabric. Anything that indicated he was still where I left him.
