Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 100796 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 504(@200wpm)___ 403(@250wpm)___ 336(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100796 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 504(@200wpm)___ 403(@250wpm)___ 336(@300wpm)
“I like you better when you’re naked.”
“I was cold.”
Maybe it was the truth. I’d seen her naked plenty of times, she should be used to it by now. I went to the dresser and grabbed the red plastic bag, then tossed it down on the bed beside her. “This is for you.”
She stared at it like she expected the bag to explode. “What is it?”
She sat up, tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, and reached hesitantly for her present. The bag crinkled as she pulled out the book, and she seemed to recognize what it was instantly. Her gaze flew to me, and the question was loud in her eyes, “What’s this?”
“You have your theme song,” I said, watching her page through the empty composer notebook. “Now you’ll write mine.”
What was the emotion that flicked through her eyes? Interest? She stared at the paper. “I’m not sure I could fit all of you into one song.”
I grinned. “Then write a goddamn symphony.”
The emotion was interest. She liked this idea, but then she sobered. “That might take a while.”
“You’ve got something better to do?”
I watched as she curled her arms around the notebook and held it to her chest. She clutched it like I’d take back the book and the idea at any second. Not possible. I’d had her haunting song stuck in my head most of the morning, and decided I needed my own.
“It better not be like most of the garbage you wrote,” I said. “I want it like yours. Got it?”
She peered at me like I was an imposter, but nodded slowly, too stunned to speak.
“Good. The piano tuner comes tomorrow at noon.” I’d scheduled it around my lunch break so I could keep an eye on both Oksana and whoever the music studio sent over. “Get cleaned up. We’re going downstairs for dinner.”
She crawled off the bed, moving gingerly. Was her body reminding her she wasn’t a virgin anymore? I fucking loved it. I wanted her thinking about me every time she had an ache or saw the marks I’d put on her skin.
“What if I can’t do it?” she asked.
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
She took a deep breath. “What if you don’t like what I compose?”
I shrugged. “Then I guess I’ll have to motivate your ass to try harder.”
21
Oksana
The woman who came to tune the piano reminded me of the first teacher I’d had, an older woman who spent more time in front of the piano than anywhere else, including a mirror. Her frizzy hair, streaked with gray, was stacked on top of her head in a messy bun, and her clothes looked well worn.
Vasilije watched her every move, and I could tell it wasn’t with fascination. He was making sure she did nothing other than put the tuning hammer on the pins and go painstakingly key by key.
She was good. I’d watched my old teacher tune the piano at the opera house, and the woman today followed the same technique, working from the center keys outward. Although she was tuning quickly, it wasn’t fast enough for Vasilije. He glared at her and often glanced at his phone to check the time, sighing with impatience.
“How much longer?” he demanded.
The woman turned the lever a miniscule amount and hit the key again. “At least another hour.” She seemed just as put out by him as he was by her. “I’m sorry,” her tone was pointed, “when did you say this was last tuned?” Her passive-aggressive comment had thoughts of murder flashing in his eyes, and she wasn’t done. “Pianos are extremely sensitive to temperature changes. It shouldn’t be near these windows.”
“Great. Finish up and I’ll move it.”
“No!” the woman and I said at the same time.
The tuner answered before I could. “You move this, and I have to start all over.”
“For fuck’s sake,” he muttered under his breath and his hard gaze traveled to mine. He could blame me all he wanted, but I needed this.
“It’ll be worth it,” I said as my throat tightened.
“It better be. It’s costing me a hundred and fifty dollars an hour.”
Whatever I composed, if he didn’t like it, I’d pay with my body, and I was all right with it. He wanted a song, and although he wasn’t compensating me in money, it didn’t make a huge difference. He’d keep me around until it was done.
It also meant he was the first person who’d ever commissioned a piece by me.
I’d spent the morning eager to get to work, but decided to refrain until the piano was ready to go. I already heard a few strains of a melody I wanted to try. It’d start out sickly sweet, take a dark turn in the middle, then rise into an anthem that sounded as powerful as it was terrifying.
He got on his phone at one point, telling someone he wasn’t going to be back for another hour, so I assumed it was the dealership. With his attention off me, I felt lighter, but I weirdly didn’t like the feeling.