His emotions about that still confused him. Demons didn’t have feelings like humans—they were supposed to be evil and soulless, after all—yet he felt a heaviness in his chest when he thought about Miguel’s death, and he had since concluded it must be some form of grief. That he was even capable of that emotion said things about him that weren’t good.
“That’s amazing!” Eva said. “I’ve always wanted to study Cuban music. Where’s your friend now? Do you still keep in touch?”
“No.”
“But why not? You must have been close if he taught you how to play.”
“Yeah, I guess so.” He winced. Demons were notclosewith people.
“So why don’t you keep in touch?”
Damn, she was persistent. The woman had a knack for finding all the weak points in his story.
“He was killed,” he finally said.
Her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry. I keep asking you the worst questions, bringing up stuff that must be hard to talk about.”
“It’s fine. I don’t mind talking with you.” And he didn’t. Also weird.
Thankfully she didn’t ask for more details, instead choosing another topic to drill him on. After another hour or so of drinks and music, their between-set conversation mellowed out from the interrogation into the easy camaraderie he’d felt when they first met.
He found her funny and relatable, and the fact that she was a little bundle of walking sex appeal didn’t hurt his enjoyment of her company at all. She talked to him about songwriting, her horny best friend, and her hippie parents, and he actually liked listening to what she said.
The little minx plied him with drinks and conversation until he finally let his guard slip and allowed her to talk him into going on stage. By then, it was one in the morning, and the crowd had thinned substantially. Those remaining were mostly lovers with their heads together, the odd lonely stray collapsed at the bar, and a few groups of over-exuberant partiers staggering about and laughing uproariously at inappropriate moments.
They climbed on the stage together, Ash kicking himself for agreeing to this. He hadn’t touched a piano in decades and half wondered if he’d forgotten how to play. That pain in his chest that he thought must be grief was associated with Miguel and, therefore, playing music.
He sat behind the old upright. There were chips in the carved wood and bottle-rim stains all over the top, and a few keys in the lower octaves were missing altogether.
Holding her flute to her lips, Eva looked at him, smiling encouragingly. The silence in the bar suddenly seemed deafening. He took a breath and held his hands over the keys. They trembled slightly, which was embarrassing, so he curled them into fists tight enough that his knuckles cracked. Better.
Stretching them back out over the keys, he tried to think of something to play. He couldn’t. Eva was still looking at him. Damn it, this was awkward.
He stopped thinking and slammed his hands down. With distant, detached amazement, he watched himself launch into a wildly improvised montuno with ridiculous chord changes. Somehow, it worked. The Latin-style progression was dissonant as hell, but it worked.
Immediately, he worried he’d gone too fancy and that Eva wouldn’t be able to follow by ear, but of course that wasn’t the case. She soloed over his chords effortlessly, finding a recurring theme that he quickly picked up on and echoed back to her. He dropped his left hand down an octave to cover the bass while she embellished on that theme, flying up and down the rapidly changing scales with melodic grace.
As their duo picked up energy, he felt a strange lightness in his chest. Like he was flying. Like the rest of the world had melted away. He heard himself laughing—something he hadn’t done in years. He was actually fucking laughing. It was exhilarating and addicting, more so than any human drug he’d ever before tried.
Somehow, they finished together in perfect unison. They could have practiced for a month and not nailed a better ending. He stared at Eva and she stared back at him, lowering her flute in slow motion. Distantly, he heard people clapping, but he was only aware of one thing at that moment.
He climbed off the piano bench and staggered off the stage like he was wasted, when in truth, he was mostly just high on whatever thrilling emotion the music had awakened within him. Eva was grinning and staggering like she felt the same way.
The second they stepped off the stage, they were fused at the lips.
He pushed her up against the wall and deepened the kiss. Her arms snaked around his neck, pulling him closer, her flute still clutched in one hand. Their lips parted, tongues winding together. It felt fucking amazing. He didn’t try to hide what was going on down below, pushing his hips against hers so she knew exactly what was on his mind.
“Eva, whoa, girl!” someone cheered from behind them.
Ash lifted his head. “We’re still in the bar.”
Suddenly, he noticed the contrasts of light and dark were exaggerated, different. Something was tingling in his nostrils, making his perception more vivid. Something was way off, and a distant alarm bell started ringing in his head, but he was way too turned on at the moment to care about anything but Eva. His attention lasered in on her, and he was aware of nothing else.
Her chest was rising and falling rapidly, her silvery-gray eyes heavy-lidded. “Oh, yeah.”
“I want you.”
“Damn,” she breathed, eyes closing briefly. “Let’s get out of here.”
