The Debt (14 page)

“You look fantastic,” I whispered against Hadley’s ear as I helped her out of the car I’d hired.

We still hadn’t mastered the whole leaving-the-house-on-time thing, so we arrived on campus for the seminar just before it started. Hadley filled a flask for the occasion. I planned to have a good buzz going by the end of the night and was well on my way there when we pulled up in front of the music hall.

“You said that already,” she answered with a smirk.

I wrapped my arm around her waist, appreciating the soft slide of her black dress under my fingers. It was tight, simple, elegant, and perfect against her tan skin.

“And it’s worth repeating.”

I maneuvered us to the far side of the courtyard that led toward to the main entrance, avoiding the others walking up from the parking lot.

“Well, you look pretty spiffy, too.” Hadley adjusted my tie, tugging on the end. “I’d do you.”

“Fuck, sweetheart.” I tugged her hips against mine as I backed up against one tall pillar of the covered walkway. “Screw it. Let’s blow this scene. What can they do to me if I bail?”

“Tempting.” Hadley stared at my chest. She unbuttoned my jacket to sneak her hands inside.

Teasingly, her fingertips brushed over my pierced nipples. I exhaled, pressing my growing hard-on against her lower stomach.

“But then I would have gotten all dressed up for nothing.”

“Not for nothing.” My hands slid down from her hips, finding the bare skin of her outer thighs and trailing up to the hem. “Leave the dress on if you want. I can reach everything I need right where it is.”

“You’re awfully sure of yourself.”

Fingers continued to glide back and forth across my nipples, making it damn near impossible to restrain myself from hoisting her up and pinning her to the pillar.

“Expecting me to give it up on the first date. What kind of girl do you think I am, anyway?”

“A sure thing.”

I lowered my lips to her neck, kissing below her ear and biting at the skin there. Hadley hissed in response, fisting her hands in my shirt.

“I’ve thought about touching you, kissing you, running my tongue over every inch of your body, for so goddamn long, sweetheart.” I licked over the pink skin where my teeth had been, speaking at her neck. “All I’ve thought about since last night is getting inside you.”

“Josh.” Hadley whispered my name like a plea.

Her head lolled to the side, allowing me access as I pressed my lips to her warm skin. I ran one hand into her hair, cupping the nape of her neck.

“I still remember what you taste like,” I told her.

And I did. Vividly. Hadley shivered in my arms.

“Mr. MacKay!”

Dr. Richardson’s sharp exclamation startled Hadley and she went rigid before pulling away. With flat indifference, I acknowledged my professor.

“I do believe that the attendance policy is predicated on entering the building. Perhaps you’d be so good as to escort your date inside.”

He said the word like it left a sour taste in the back of his throat.
Date
. That got my back up and I stood straight, taking a step forward. Hadley stuck her arm through mine, holding me in place. I guess the idea to hit him or otherwise jeopardize my enrollment in this university had crossed my mind, but that happened every time I attended his class.

“Works for me,” Hadley answered as she smacked a disingenuous smile on her lips. “I get paid either way.”

With that, she tugged me along to the entrance.

“You’re terrible,” I whispered as I paused to hold the door open for her. “And I love you.”

“I know.”

Since we were among the last stragglers to file into the music hall, Hadley and I took two seats on the far right aisle in the back of the audience just as the dean took the stage. He prattled on for more than ten minutes about recent alumni accolades and the music college’s tradition of blah, blah, blah. I tuned him out, instead entertaining myself with running my fingertips over Hadley’s bare knee and tracing the goose bumps that blossomed over her skin.

We passed the flask back and forth—discreetly at first and then with an increasing lack of shit-giving—while a panel of two doctoral professors and a guest lecturer went on ad nauseam about the modern landscape for classical musicians and composers.

“Is it just me,” Hadley leaned over to ask, “or does the one in the middle look like he could have been featured on
America’s Most Wanted
in the eighties?”

I bit back a laugh, squeezing her knee.

“Seriously. Look at that mustache. He looks like a serial killer. You know,” she went on as her whisper became less unobtrusive by the syllable, “they show a picture of a guy recently convicted on the news and you’re like, ‘Yep. He looks exactly like a guy who would cultivate rare orchids, raise chinchillas in his backyard, and keep severed human heads mounted on the wall in his basement.’”

“But he was always so polite,” I stated with affected shock. “Willard was quiet and kept to himself. He brought his trash cans in from the curb on time and watered his lawn.”

“I blame the schools. And violent television poisoning our youth.”

“I heard,” I began after taking a swig from the flask and handing it back to her, “that poor Willard’s mama used to dress him up in skirts and make him serve tea at her book club meetings every Sunday afternoon.”

“Well,” she drawled in an exaggerated Southern accent, “I reckon that explains why his mama’s head was found fixed atop a fifteen-foot stack of Oprah’s Book Club selections on the front lawn of the public library.”

“Shhh!”

We both glanced behind us at the chastising sound. It was one of those irritated shushes that came out louder, and therefore more conspicuous, than the conversation it sought to admonish. Hadley lost it; she burst into strangled laughter. I slapped my hand over her mouth, cradling her head to my shoulder to shut her up.

The senior citizen behind us—maybe a member of the faculty or just a local resident who had nothing better to do than attend the public event—could have passed for the unspoken but mutual vision Hadley and I shared of Willard’s mother. It was fucking priceless. That face could drive a man to serial murder.

“She’s very sorry,” I told the woman. “My sister’s a bit touched in the head.”

She scowled, not softened by what I thought was a charming smile. Hadley tried prying my hand from her mouth, but I wouldn’t budge.

“Her crib was lined with lead paint—”

Punky bit me.

“Ow. Fuck,” I hissed, and yanked my hand from her teeth.

She’d gotten me pretty good, the feisty shit.

“Behave,” I snapped at her.

Hadley’s satisfied grin was wide and her eyes were bright with mischief.

“You know what Father said. If you can’t control yourself, we’ll have to send you back to the hospital.”

“I’ll be good.” Hadley leaned toward me, propping herself up with one hand on the armrest between us. “Please. Don’t tell on me. I’ll do anything.” Her other hand slid over my thigh just as her lips met my jaw.

Goddamn.

“Okay.” I took the point of her chin between my thumb and forefinger. “I’ll let you play with Mr. Rogers again, but this is the last time I cover for you.”

Yes. In that scenario, my cock was named Mr. Rogers. There was no good reason for that.

Punky nodded, making a show to zip her lips and tuck the imaginary key into my breast pocket before primly settling back in her seat with eyes trained to the front.

The guy next to me leaned over. “That’s your sister?”

I kept my expression flat, eyes on the stage, and barely tilted my head in his direction. My hand slid up Punky’s thigh.

“Twin.”

As the evening wore on, Hadley kept me amused and sauced through the remainder of the lecture and then the following talkback. When the dean again took the stage to announce Alexei, I found that I’d relaxed from my edgy demeanor.

Much to my relief, the dean made no mention of me. I wasn’t sure why I had been so convinced that Alexei’s presence meant that my name would be paraded out for the audience, begging that I stand for acknowledgment. I hadn’t toured in years, and even then it was a small population who would have heard of me. I hadn’t been a staple of the morning shows or fluff pieces on the evening news since I was a child. Interest in me was relegated to the audience that followed classical music. Shit, there were four-year-olds in China who were already surpassing my once-bright talent.

I guess that made me an arrogant prick, wrapped up in my own ghost. I wasn’t here as a novelty. I wasn’t special among this crowd. I was just another student attending a required function. The dean’s personal invitation was just a matter of formality he felt obliged to uphold.

Hadley took my hand and entwined her fingers with mine as the audience applauded for Alexei. He crossed the stage, offering a tight nod before taking a seat at the piano. He looked the same—taller, thinner than the slightly overweight kid I’d once known and always despised.

Alexei launched into a selection from Stravinsky’s
Petrushka
. It was a good choice, considered the last time Stravinsky was, well, Stravinsky. Alexei played it suitably. He lacked sensitivity to the inherent emotion of the piece, taking the song out of context from the ballet and therefore disarming it of meaning, and he favored his left hand in an obvious way. Alexei played the song for impact. He chose what the listener should feel and when, rather than trusting the intended meaning to come through from the original. And even that manufactured emotion felt inauthentic. His rendition was like asking someone who had never tasted saffron to somehow replicate the flavor. As a person and a musician, he lacked depth. He was emotionally sterile, which was perhaps the greatest offense he brought to the piano.

We were philosophically at odds. I doubted very much that he had any special affinity for music. He touched the keys as a student who had been instructed to do just so. His body was rigid on the bench, immune to the harmonies that poured out from his hands. It had always been my assumption that Alexei played for money, recognition, and because somewhere along the line he’d been told to do so and excel at it in the process.

Of course, one could say that it made me a hypocritical asshole to condemn a man’s pursuit of fame and fortune when I had both and required neither. But I hadn’t practiced twelve to fifteen hours every day for the checks it had earned me. I hadn’t endured muscle cramps and tedious repetition for the satisfaction of my name on a marquee. I played because I fucking loved the piano.

The first time I set my fingers to the keys, I’d been fascinated, enthralled. The first time I performed onstage for a crowd that had paid to see me, I knew I’d found my purpose in life and nothing would ever fulfill me the same way.

I realized then, as I stared down at my leg, that the fingers on my left hand pantomimed the notes while my foot rode the imaginary pedal. My head pounded, either from the whiskey or the persistent agitation I’d felt for the last week. What made me sick? The memory of why I gave up my passion or the effort it took to abstain in favor of nursing my fear and anxiety?

“Baby,” Hadley whimpered at my ear, “you said you’d take me to the Taylor Swift concert. There aren’t even any words to this song.”

I tried for a smile in return, though I’m sure I failed. To her credit, Hadley didn’t let it show if she was disappointed that her joke didn’t have the desired outcome. I kissed her temple, squeezing her hand tighter.

For the remainder of the performance, my fingers wandered through the air with my tongue piercing flicking through my teeth like a metronome.

The reception was dry: dry conversation, dry personalities, dry of anything mood-altering to imbibe. We’d finished off the last of the flask while trekking across the courtyard to the reception hall. Hadley made a valiant effort to dig my demeanor out of the ditch, but I found myself distracted.

“Hey.” She tugged the end of my tie, demanding my attention.

We stood off in a corner of the room, doing our best to survive the night unnoticed.

“If you don’t at least pretend to stare at my tits or cop a feel of my ass, I will be forced to take drastic measures.”

Okay. Now I was listening.

“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to ignore you.”

“I’m here to distract you and otherwise save you from yourself, right?”

“Essentially. And you’ve been great company. I’m just—”

“I know. But how can I charm you with my biting wit if you keep scanning the room like someone is going to jump out and attack at any second?”

“Good point.”

“Ask me to dance.”

“You hate dancing. More to the point, you can’t dance. You sort of have this flailing, jerking, Elaine Benes thing that you do, but it definitely isn’t dancing.”

Punky fisted her hand in the waistband of my pants and tugged me against her chest. With narrow eyes and a low voice she said, “Listen, MacKay. When a woman gives you an invitation to handle her in public, you count your lucky stars and take her to the floor.”

Fuck, I loved this girl.

I escorted her to the center of the room where faculty and a few students danced to the live string ensemble. As my mother had taught me, I took Hadley’s waist and one hand in mine, leading her through the waltz. She proceeded to step on my feet on every third beat.

“Let me lead,” I said.

“I am. I thought you knew what you were doing.”

I pulled her body flush against mine, trapping her hand to my shoulder. I could and would command her body. Hadley sucked in a sharp breath, tensing before releasing her muscles to my control. As she relaxed, her head came to rest against my chest.

“Not half bad, huh?”

“This isn’t even dancing anymore,” she said. “This is just foreplay.”

“Sweetheart, leaving the house was foreplay.”

“May I cut in?” Alexei asked in a thick Russian accent.

Oh, for the love of Christ. How was it possible that in a single day I could be interrupted three times from wooing—yes, fucking wooing her panties right to the goddamn floor—the woman I needed to bed with a fiery urgency that threatened to cripple my dick?