BAD WICKED TWISTED: A Briarcrest Academy Box Set (87 page)

I made the Catholic cross sign with my hands.

“Aren’t you a non-practicing Presbyterian?” He smirked.

“Emma,” I muttered. “Just thanking the heavens I escaped being her baby daddy.”

“Yeah, glad that award went to Matt Dawson. Total wanker. I bet they’re miserable together.” He shot me a concerned look. “You
are
going, right?”

My mouth tightened. “I don’t want to see Emma.”
What if I still had feelings for her?
But I did want to see my older brother Leo and his wife Nora, who’d been one of my best friends at the prep school in Highland Park, Texas.

He stewed on that. “I say we go, get hammered, wreck the school gym—maybe jump on stage and play a song—call it a regular day. I promise to not get arrested this time. Scout’s honor.”

Movement came from next door, and I put the lenses back on my face. “Shhh, she’s out,” I said as she walked outside to her patio, carrying her violin. She flicked on her porch lights, and a low whistle came out of me at the sexy red-as-sin robe she wore, its silky material flashing around her long legs as she moved about. Her hair was down, too.

This was new. Where were the usual yoga pants? The ponytail?

She looked like she
knew
someone watched, but that was impossible since our outside lights were off. Even the light from the moon hit our house at such an angle that she shouldn’t be able to see us just by glancing over. She’d need a high-powered lens to know I was here.

Spider mumbled something and went back inside, probably to watch The CW—or go clubbing. I barely noticed.

Usually she played facing her rose garden, but this time she walked to the right side of her patio, which faced
us
. Weird. But she didn’t play. She just stood there without moving. Staring toward our house. Uneasiness went over me.

What was she doing?

Could she see me?

As if it were a fragile bird, she positioned the violin under her chin and began playing, arms bent and wrist poised, making the most exquisite sounds. And I don’t mean classical like Beethoven or Mozart; I mean body-thrashing, blood-thumping, hard-as-hell music that had me rooted to the ground, like she’d slapped iron chains on me.

Dark and seductive notes rose up in the air, and I got jacked up, recognizing a Led Zeppelin song, only she’d ripped its guts out and twisted it into something electric. She pushed the bow hard, upping the tempo abruptly, her movements controlled yet wild. My pulse kicked up and my eyes lingered, taking in the slightly parted toned legs and the way her breasts bounced as she jerked her arms to manipulate the strings.

Her body arched forward in a curve, seeming as if she might break into a million pieces before she finished the piece or climaxed first. Then, her robe slipped off her right shoulder, exposing part of her breast. Creamy and full, it quivered, vibrating as she moved her arms. Her rosy nipple teased me, slipping in and out of the folds of the material, erect from the cool mountain air and deliciously bitable. I pictured my mouth there, sucking, my fingers plucking, strumming her like my guitar until she begged me to—

Stop
, I told myself just as an appreciative groan came out. Whoever Violin Girl was, she didn’t deserve me lusting after her while she was pouring her heart out with music.

I zoomed in as far as the binoculars would go, watching her surrender to the music as she bent and swayed from side to side with her eyes closed, black lashes like fans on her cheeks. Every molecule in my body focused on her, hanging on to each note she pulled from her instrument.

She finished and kept her head bowed for the longest time, perhaps letting the emotion wash over her like it had me. Then, she bowed to the banana trees and gnomes in her garden, waving her hands in a flourish as she rose.

The entire event was surreal, yet poignant as fucking poetry.

I let out a deep breath I didn’t even realize I’d been holding.

Who the hell plays
Stairway to Heaven
with a violin? She did.

Violin Girl was music with skin. She was real and dark and twisted and I wanted to eat her up. I wanted to consume her and every single note she ripped from her violin.

Bam!
She snapped her head up, her eyes lasering in on mine, making every hair on my body stand at attention.

And then …

Standing there in the moonlight, she untied her robe and spread apart the sides ever so slightly, her movements seeming almost hesitant, as if she’d had to work herself up. Unfamiliar jealousy hit me and I panned out and checked the rest of the patio, expecting to see a lover. Whoever it was, I wanted to rip him apart piece by piece.

And didn’t that thought surprise me.

My gaze searched her patio, the backyard, her upstairs balcony. Nothing. No one.

She flicked her dark hair back and stroked the lapels of the robe, her fingers lingering over the lacy material. Suddenly the evening smacked of something
more
than just music. Her arms moved back and forth across the front, opening the robe halfway and then closing it as if she couldn’t make up her mind.

My eyes went up, trying to read her face. Still as a statue, the only movement was her mouth as it trembled, her full upper lip resting against the pouty lower one. Tears ran down her face, but they seemed more of a defiant act, her jaw tightly set, her shoulders hunched inward as if she’d held it in too long and was giving in, but not without a fight.

Violin Girl was trapped in a cage of darkness.

It still didn’t stop me from holding my breath, silently begging her to bare herself to me. She’d already laid bare her music. Part of me needed the rest of her.

She jerked the robe closed, making me groan in disappointment.

And then she did something completely crazy.

The lonely girl next door flipped me the bird.

“Sixteen minutes. That’s how long it took for the emergency helicopters to reach the crash site where Flight 215’s right wing had been bombed by terrorists. Reports said they found me floating on top of a seat cushion, my legs dangling in the water, although I have no memory of getting there. Covered in cuts and bruises, I had a broken leg and wasn’t breathing when they pulled me up in a harness. The truth was, the real Violet died that day in the Atlantic.”

—from the journal of Violet St. Lyons

CHEST HEAVING, I ran back in the house from the patio and came to a stop in front of the fireplace, the enormity of my performance settling on my shoulders. I panted. I clutched my pounding heart. Mortified. Excited. Good lord, I’d played for Blond Guy.

I’d nearly stripped for him
.

I wholeheartedly blamed the tequila I’d consumed earlier.

My hands went to tapping against my leg erratically, my new go-to reflex since the crash. Without fail, if I were stressed, my hands bounced around, trying to ground me.

I groaned and paced around the den like a madwoman.

No way to deny it—I was officially an exhibitionist.

Blond Guy had moved in a few weeks ago on a bright and sunny morning in May without a cloud in the sky. I’d been out on the back patio, messing around with some of the plants, when he’d raced down the road in his gray Hummer and pulled in at the house behind mine. A girl with crazy red hair and a man bigger than the Blond Guy had pulled in behind him in a black Escalade. Siblings? Most definitely family, I’d decided as they carried suitcases and bags in the house, the sounds of their laughter echoing across the grass that separated our secluded properties. Like a shadow, I’d hidden behind a palm tree and squinted across the distance to watch them. I felt silly and tried to tear my eyes away, but when Blond Guy pulled out a guitar—and not just a regular guitar, but a Gibson Les Paul, the same model as my dad’s—I’d been lost.

A musician
.

My interest had quickened.

Yesterday, thanks to my handy telescope, I’d been shocked when I’d caught him watching my house with binoculars right at the time when I usually played my violin outdoors. Immediate anger filled me—along with a good dose of something I couldn’t identify. Anticipation? Fear? Most definitely both.

Words like
creep
and
Peeping Tom
brushed at my mind, but somehow I refused to associate him with those. The truth was, I hadn’t knowingly played for anyone since the crash because the thought of having eyes on me gave me the shakes and made me want to hurl. My therapist called my fear PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder); I called it cowardice. I hated it.

I used to be Violet St. Lyons, violin prodigy, but now I was just a freak.

Either way, my music career was ruined. They don’t let pukers play in the New York Symphony; it kinda ruins the show.

But
he
was watching me, obviously listening to my music.

And I’d wondered if I could play knowing he was out there.

My therapist said I should bite the bullet and play on stage whether I lost my cookies or not. Her theory sounded simple, but doing it was another thing.
The remedy is in the poison
my father had liked to say, and that was the one voice in my head I gravitated toward.

I wanted to try. I
wanted
to push myself.

Like the flakes in a snow globe, music has danced around in my head since I was a little girl, and without it, I was lost.

I’d already lost my parents.

I tightened the belt on my robe and let out a puff of air. That’s why tonight—after those shots—I’d found some backbone, slipped on my robe and gone out to perform. Technically, I hadn’t been able to see him, so I hadn’t known for sure if he watched, yet I’d felt his eyes on me. Burning. Waiting for me to take it all off.

Which begged the question, did he watch because he liked my sound or did he watch because he was attracted to me? Probably the first. I wasn’t much to look at lately, not with my yoga pants and T-shirts.

Nerves settled by my breathing exercises, I headed to the kitchen where I scrounged for a celebratory chocolate bar and a soda. My brain knew my eating habits were out of control since my parents were gone, but I couldn’t seem to muster up the effort to do better. I devoured the Hershey bar and then headed to bed, checking my phone on the way. I sighed. No one had called. My friends from rich kid prep school hadn’t. My fellow musician friends from the Manhattan School of Music hadn’t. Even my promise-ring-kinda-fiancé Geoff who was now dating a fancy socialite hadn’t. They’d given up on me. Not that I blame them, of course; I’d pushed them away. And really, who’d wait two years for me to get my shit together when it might not ever happen? I swallowed down a sip of soda and burped. At least alone I didn’t have to worry about the niceties.

I eventually crawled in bed, but by two in the morning, sleep still eluded me, and I considered taking one of the sleeping pills my doctor had prescribed. Instead, I got up and went out to the balcony to peek through my telescope. It was dark at his house and hard to make out details, but I found him sitting out on his patio, a guitar between his legs and a beer on the table. I zoomed in my Celestron 2000, my eyes taking in the tattoos that snaked up his muscled biceps that my fingers suddenly itched to touch. I bit my lip. He was beautiful. Transfixed, I watched him smile to himself as he’d play a few strings then stop and jot down something on a piece of paper. Writing music?

Who was he?

Who was I?

Two years ago, I’d been a girl surrounded by fairy dust. I still vividly remembered walking into our Upper East Side apartment, not a clue that my parents had planned a surprise trip to Ireland for my birthday and we’d be leaving for the airport within the hour. They’d made such a big deal of it, trying to get me to guess what my present was. This had included my dad doing his crazy version of the river dance while my mom pulled out a stuffed leprechaun and danced along. They’d been so silly. Fun. Everyone had loved my parents, even the crabby old lady in 4A who hated everyone.

But thinking of my past perfect life was a knife in my heart, so I pushed it away. Instead, I studied Blond Guy’s chiseled face and my imagination went wild as I imagined me showing up at his house, wearing nothing but my robe and carrying my violin. He’d open the door without a word and let me inside. I’d play for him while his hands touched my skin.