Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 100086 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 500(@200wpm)___ 400(@250wpm)___ 334(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100086 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 500(@200wpm)___ 400(@250wpm)___ 334(@300wpm)
I don’t know if Remo will have me back at the club after what’s happened with Corvus. For all I know, I might have to leave town. Might be a good idea anyway, if someone really is trying to kill me.
Or should I just go out into the night, wander the streets and let destiny take its course? Lord knows I could punch someone right now. Maybe that’s the way forward, getting involved with illegal boxing again.
The bright, high-pitched sound of a violin cuts through the usual backdrop of traffic, people’s voices, and the thump of a song played by one of the neighbors. It’s too clean to be called shrill, yet it worms its way into my ears, demanding attention. Determined to devote myself entirely to my gloomy thoughts, I try to ignore it, but when that first note is followed by a series of confident strokes over the strings of an instrument, my gaze drifts to the dirty window.
Like this is what I fucking need right now—a cover of the song that became a meme between me and Corvus, Britney’s “Oops!... I Did It Again”. I used to fucking love that tune, and now it’s forever stained with bitterness. The violinist is good, but listening to this right now is an excruciating three minutes.
When instead of being followed by a different song, “Oops!... I Did It Again” starts again, I lose my shit.
I grab a pillow, even though deep in my heart I want to take the old toaster, open the window into the alleyway and throw it in the direction of the sound.
“Shut the fuck up!” I yell.
My pillow changes course, caught by a breeze, and instead of hitting the violinist in the face, it floats to the side, like a confused bird, hits the wall of a building, then drops to a pile of loose trash bags.
The musician doesn’t follow its trail, but he does look up, each movement of the bow drawing more life out of the instrument tucked under the handsome man’s chin.
My breath catches when our eyes meet, because the man playing right under my window is not a stranger.
A father with a baby attached to his chest stops close by, his boot hitting the pavement to the rhythm of the melody rushing from under Corvus’s fingers and reaching out to me.
Seriously? What is he doing? He wouldn’t play for me, and now he decided to invade my street with this crap? Guess he does know how to torture people, because he’s pulling at my heartstrings so hard I’m bleeding.
“The fuck is this about?” I ask and grab a cigarette. I don’t care that the father walks off with the baby after a glance my way.
The song ends abruptly, as if the person producing the rich, lovely music has been murdered and replaced by the cruel man in black, who’s now watching me with a frown. How dare Corvus be here after everything he’s done?
“Should I… not play?” he calls out before glancing at the two teens watching him from across the street. Each exhale produces a cloud of vapor, and he’s not wearing gloves. I bet his fingers are icicles.
Good. Maybe they’ll fall off and he’ll never touch another man.
I shouldn’t be jealous, I shouldn’t care, but seeing him makes me twitchy. My body craves his warmth like he’s that fucked up radiator, teasing me with just enough heat so I don’t throw it away.
I lean out the window and light my cigarette. “No… Play,” I say, because don’t I deserve this? I don’t know where he’s going with this after last night, but do I really have to deny myself this one pleasure?
Is it relief I see passing over his handsome features? I don’t care, because this music is for me, and once Corvus is done playing, I will shoo him away with the same ease he’s rejected my affection. And all the people whose attention he caught on this winter afternoon will see it happen.
He’s right back where the song broke off moments ago, and I watch him, fascinated that hands I’ve seen cause so much pain and damage are capable of producing music so warm and rich I can’t help the choking sensation in my throat.
I’m no expert, but he plays beautifully. Each passing moment lets him embody the melody further. He’s dancing with his whole body rather than just arms and fingers. And as he weaves the invisible bridge of silky tones, I find the gloom in my heart lifting somewhat.
I’m compelled to clap when he’s done and lowers both the violin and the bow, but I stop myself from following that instinct.
Corvus clears his throat. “May we talk?”
One of the teens in identical puffer jackets whistles in response, as if all this was only a performance for someone else’s enjoyment.