Page 59 of Claimed By Desire

My face turns red because yeah, I was staring, but screw him. “You’re infuriating. You’re insane!”

“I’m doing what I have to do to keep you safe.” He hits the trigger on the drill a few times like a cowboy shooting at the sky. “Now, if you’d excuse me?” He brushes past me carrying some of the boxes into the living room.

I retreat back to the bedroom—now apparentlyourbedroom—and take a shower. When I get out, he’s hard at work running wires and cutting holes. I last just long enough to make some coffee, pour it into a to-go mug, and sneak out the front. The noise of drilling and some creative Russian curses masks the sound of my escape.

It’s a nice morning. I go for a short walk, but inevitably end up at the music shop again. I pass it three times before I work up the nerve to head inside.

The old woman’s sitting behind the counter. She’s in another tracksuit—this one primarily a sea-foam green with white accents—and has a visor over her white hair. “I was wondering if you’d come inside,” she says and sound genuinely happy to see me again.

I smile sheepishly. “You noticed?”

“You passed me twice. Hard to miss you.”

“Three times,” I say and when she laughs I relax a little bit. “My name’s Natalya.”

“Pattie. Are you playing again today?”

“Would you mind?”

“Not in the slightest, but I’ll warn you, I’m going to lurk around and listen. Also, I’m very nosy.”

“That’s fine with me.”

She beams and gestures toward the back of the shop. “She’s all yours then.”

When I sit on the bench and begin to play, all the stress slowly releases from my shoulders. The tension from waking up in Alex’s bed, the frustration at his noise, the distracting, pulsing need at the sight of his shirtless body. Nothing is simple about my life right now, but this, right here, playing my music, this grounds me. This brings me back home.

Pattie makes me tea when I’m done and I stand up at the front desk with her for a little while. She tells me about opening the shop twenty years ago with her late husband, about playing in local jazz bands around the city before that, about teaching and fixing and living a life of music.

“It sounds amazing,” I tell her, practically gushing at the idea. “I’ve always wanted to play for people, but?—“

“You’ve seriously never performed before?”

“Not really. I mean, for my family and my piano teachers, but, you know—“ I gesture in the air. “Not for an audience.”

“Incredible. Honestly, I’m not saying this to bullshit you, but you’re extremely talented. And I’ve heard a lot of pianists in my time.”

“Thank you,” I say even though I’m not sure I believe her. I know I’m good—that’s not even arrogance, it’s just a fact—but there’s a limit to how far I could go. Maybe once upon a time, maybe if Ihad a different, more supportive father, if my family had let me pursue the dream?—

But that’s not my life.

“I like to put on little concerts in here sometimes. Just private things for music friends of mine. You should come one night.”

“I’d love that.”

“Perfect. Give me your email. God, I love email. My daughter set me up with gmail and now I’m addicted to the stuff. I send like twenty of these things a day.”

We exchange addresses and I leave feeling refreshed and happy. I don’t know how, but it feels like I just made a friend and found a way into a world I didn’t even know existed. A little musical oasis.

I start walking back to the apartment. The sun’s out and birds sing in the trees. I’m light and breezy, and barely paying attention to my surroundings.

Which is how I don’t notice the black BMW until it turns right in front of me, tires spinning out of control, smoke billowing up as it slams on its breaks.

The door throws open and I stagger away, hands coming up to stifle a scream.

Chapter 23

Alexander

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