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I pull up to my place at three-fifty pm. I live in a cute little apartment tucked between an old, forgotten bookstore and an antique shop. If you walk too fast, you might even miss it. Stepping inside feels like walking into a secret, quiet, and worn place. The outside brick is original, painted a deep smoky gray that glows warmly under the afternoon sun rays. Inside, the windows are tall and narrow, draped in sheer black curtains. My living room and kitchen connect on an open floor plan. One wall of the living room comprises a bookshelf, the dusty shelves littered with true crime, horror novels, poetry books, and some old texts from college. The wall with the window holds a writing desk filled with strewn files, Polaroids, and red yarn that forms a chaotic constellation of my most recent investigations.
Upstairs, my unmade king bed sits in the center of my bedroom. The sage green duvet cover lies haphazardly to one side. On the inside wall, I have my bookshelf that’s filled primarily with dark romance and fantasy. Some trinkets adorn the shelves, and flickering, flameless candles are assembled throughout. I have a wicker chair in the corner with a throw blanket tossed atop, and a sliding glass door on the far-left wall. I walk over to my bathroom, which is located on the right.
I quickly freshen up, wearing long black slacks over a pair of nude heels, with a modest business casual navy top. My red hairis pulled back in a matte nude claw clip, with a couple of strands hanging free to frame my face. I’m wearing my clear, square-frame glasses instead of my contacts today. I lightly reapply my deep mauve lipstick, take one last look in the mirror, and head downstairs.
I climb into my deep green ‘93 Volvo 240 wagon and head for Books and Brews. The car was handed down to me from my mother, and I’ve maintained it myself. It might not be the most flashy thing, but she’s durable, and she’s timeless. Books and Brews is a cute little coffee shop by day, brewery by night, that triples as a bookstore. It’s one of my absolute favorite places to go in downtown Hollowcrest, and it’s about ten minutes from my apartment. The vibes are immaculate, and there’s a pretty decent area to conduct meetings like this one.
I drive up and park, get out, and head for the door. I walk in, the smell of fresh espresso and cinnamon consuming my senses. I breathe in deeply with my eyes closed, pausing to take it all in. When I open my eyes, I spot Mr. Reilly sitting at one of my favorite tables in the far corner of the room. The lighting inside Books and Brews is low and golden, spilling from vintage lamps and scattered sconces throughout. The walls are lined with floor-to-ceiling shelves that house books of every shape and size that range from the battered classics to the brand-new BookTok hits. The area is consumed by large leather armchairs that huddle in the corners, the upholstery weathered by time. A few tables and chairs are littered between spaces.
Today, the crowd consists of the usual locals and students lost in their studies. A soft, melodic indie tune is playing overhead. I steal a glance at Mr. Reilly before making my way to the counter to order.Damn, is he something to look at. He’s leaning back in a chair that appears way too small for his large frame, his posture one of relaxed nonchalance. He’s beautiful in thatI’m probably dangerousway.
He finds my lingering gaze, and I glance away before awkwardly motioning to him that I’m gonna grab a coffee, asking if he wants one. He waves his hand to say no, and I head to the counter. I peruse the large chalkboard hanging over the wall, pretending to read through the list of this week’s featured flavors. As a creature of habit, I order my usual iced shaken espresso with sweet cold foam.
I grab the coffee and head over to the table in the corner.Pleasedon’t trip, I think to myself. How humiliating would it be if I spilled my coffee all over this guy the first time I ever spoke to him? I make it to his table, coffee perfectly intact. I set the coffee down on my side of the table and extend my right hand.
“Mr. Reilly. Nice to meet you.” Wow, his hands are huge compared to mine. His handshake isquiteconstricting. It reminds me of the time Van had me pinned against that door by my throat. I shiver and pull my hand away, running it down my pant leg and taking the seat across from Riven. I bring my straw to my lips, taking a sip before looking his way. This time, when my eyes find him, Ireallylook.
His beauty from the back of an auditorium and from across this coffee shop is nothing compared to being this close to him. He is … breathtaking. He’s wearing a short-sleeved black Henley with three buttons at the top. The shirt is loosely tucked into a pair of fitted black slacks, outlining his lean, muscular form. I don’t miss that the first two buttons of his shirt areunbuttoned, and Idefinitelydon’t let my eyes linger to look any further. His midnight-black hair is tousled in that messy way that makes you want to run your fingers through it. His jawline is something written about in those dark romance novels, and the way that he’s clenching it now does things to me. His lips are pouty and plump, and I imagine what they’d look like when they’re used and swollen. He must notice my wandering gaze, because he smirks. Is that adimple? Damn, why do the hot guys always havea freaking dimple? I shift in my seat, suddenly nervous. I avert his gaze for only a second before my eyes flick back to his.
And it’s those eyes that do me in. They’re heterochromatic in the most primal sense of the word. One is slate gray, like the color of a puffy storm cloud right before it rains. The other is as black as onyx, and the beautiful contrast makes me swallowhard.
9
Riven
IsSloane Keenanchecking me out right now? It’s not hard to assume when herstunningemerald-green eyes trail up and then down before flicking right to mine. I wonder what she sees in them as I watch her swallow. It reminds me of when I had her delicate throat in my hand, and I force that thought away as quickly as it comes.
Looking at her without the mask allows me to see her features. I knew she was beautiful before, but she is fucking gorgeous this unfiltered. Her face is dusted in the most exquisite arrangement of freckles. Her full lips are painted in a deep pink color that makes me wonder what it would look like smeared across her face. My jaw flexes, and I resist the urge to look away. Her natural red hair is pulled up with a couple of loose strands framing her face. Her clothing is professional, but it doesn’t stop me from noticing how nicely it outlines her toned body.
I tilt my head, assessing the intricate black ink that’s swirling down her left arm. I spot an old TV filled with static, a broken mirror with a faceless woman inside, and the intricate twisting of vines around an old Victorian house. It’s beautifully haunting. I want to know what every inch of it means. When I find her eyes, they’re already on me. They’re rimmed in a pair of clear square glasses that give off ahot secretaryvibe. I squander my reckless thoughts, pulling myself away from the ledge I’m so dangerously close to stepping off of.
I bet she thought this was a good outfit to maintain a professional appearance. It’s likely the same reason she won’t call me by my first name. I respect it. Plus, I need to figure out what her angle is. When she called me requesting a meeting about my lecture on music, it made me think that she’s probably digging into Reverb, and not her father. Either way, I have to get her to back off. Something tells me the “outlier” Sabel was referring to just might be the woman currently sitting across from me.
“Nice to meet you as well, Sloane.” I don’t bother asking a third time for her to address me by first name. She wants to maintain a professional boundary. I’ll allow it, for now.
“What is it that you wish to further discuss?” I ask flatly.
“Well, I understand that music can influence emotions. You alluded to as much in your lecture. What I want to know is, well, do you think that …” She pauses, bringing her right hand up to her earring and twisting it between her fingers. I watch her, wondering if it’s a nervous tic. I make a mental note of it. She lets her hand fall, bringing it back down to her coffee cup. Those fuckinggorgeouseyes find mine again, as if she suddenly found the nerve to say what’s on her mind.
“Do you think that music, sound, can make people behave a certain way?” she asks, smiling shyly in a way that I find entirely too adorable. So, she’s here for Reverb, and she’s on the righttrack. Something in her gaze strips the lies from my own, seeking to draw the truth from me. I settle for a partial truth.
“Actually, yeah,” I say, leaning forward and resting my elbows on the table. “Some frequencies can stimulate specific brain waves that can produce certain actions and even influence emotions.”
Talking about this stuff tends to bring out my nerdy side, causing me to speak faster. “Think of it like this. During a baseball game, when the ball strikes the bat, creating that reverberating ‘ding,’ what’s the crowd’s immediate response?”
She tilts her head to the side, considering my question. I like that she’s smart enough to know where I’m going with this. She looks up at me, smiling. “To clap and cheer!” she exclaims. I can’t help but grin back at her.
“Yes, so the auditory input that the crowd receives creates a physical reaction that is collectively subconscious.”
She nods in understanding. “And like when everyone at a concert sways together to the beat of the music,” she adds.
“Yep.” I try to rein in my obvious enjoyment, but it’s impossible.
She gives me that look again, the one that says she’s weighing every word before she speaks. “If music can influence thoughts and feelings, and even small collective behaviors, then who’s to say that it can’t go deeper than that?” she asks, skirting dangerously close to the truth.
“Go on,” I say, not particularly liking where this is going.
