The fallboard lifts and one hand finds the keys straight away, ass sitting so I can filter the vibrations into reality. Notes ring out, discordant and conflicting at first. It makes me frown and place the martini on the top of the old Steinway, my other hand joining in with the dissonance.
Eventually, the sound comes well enough for the notes to form comprehensive manner, a tune of the bleakest intent produced. It builds in intensity, occasional deviations taking flats and sharps over the lacking chords.
“Pretty,” she says from somewhere.
I glance back at her hovering in the doorway, her arms crossed. “Me or it?”
“Damn sure you already know just how pretty you are.” She walks forwards until she’s closer to me, eyes watching my hands still moving rather than focusing on my face. “And as you don’t like fawning, conversation about you looks isn’t on the cards any time soon. It’s your brain I’m here for. Or the fucking mess it’s in.”
I smile a little, remembering that first time in this room. “Come, sit next to me. This is evolving because of you. It’s impressive.”
She frowns but moves to sit anyway, her body perched awkwardly. “When did you learn to play?” My brow arches, fingers still caressing the new sound gently. “The piano, Malachi.”
“From birth.”
“Birth?”
“I learned to play with everything from birth. It’s what Jones’s do. Can you hear that?”
“What?”
“You.”
“Me?”
“Yes. Novel. Complex.” I can smell her this close, almost taste her still after that kiss. Anger, hostility, irritation – with me. And yet I remember her on that floor, remember her holding my head, keeping me safe the first time and then fighting with Gray the second time, not caring for his aggressive demeanour nor his usually overbearing presence.
My hands stop, body turning to face her “Don’t you find him intimidating?”
“Who?”
“Gray?”
“No. Should I?”
I chuckle and turn back to the keys to let the song come again. “You’re playing with devils, little Alice.”
“I’m not playing with anyone. I wouldn’t know how.”
I think she would. I think she knows exactly how to play with men like us. She charms us with morality and candidness, gives us something to consider rather than leaves us with trivial girlishness. No screaming from this little Alice. No giggles either. We’re wrong, unethical, and unscrupulous in our ruthless behaviour.
“He likes you,” eases out of me, a jealousy hidden beneath the tone. “He doesn’t like anyone apart from Hannah. And perhaps me.” He doesn’t. And he’s spoken with Alice, spent time with her and made whatever this is now happen. Maybe they fucked when the screens went blank. Wouldn’t surprise me now he’s amenable to fucking again
The thought enrages me, enough so that the notes ring dissenting again, fuelled frustration etching in. “Why are you still here?”
“Because I like you.”
My hands stop, face tilted to look at her again. “You do?”
“Must do.” She stands and looks around the room, gentle hands picking up some old sheets of my grandmothers music. “For whatever reason, I felt safe with you last night. If it was night. I haven’t felt safe for a long time, Malachi. Your arms made me feel secure.”
“Safe?”
“Yes. Safe. Secure. Freaky, right?”
The sound of those words, of a real sense of feeling attached to them, fills me with something. I don’t know what it is. It’s purposeful, though. Resolute about something I can’t find. It’s both confusing and infuriating my mood further.
And why the fuck are my hands still shaking?
