Page 60 of The Ruthless Note

Faster.

Faster.

The crescendo I’ve been craving.

I close my eyes and give myself to the moment.

Time is a foreign concept. Transient. It flows without touching me.

I don’t know how long I’ve been playing when I finally feel something other than rapture. It’s a tug on my soul. A fire that blazes over my skin. Someone is looking at me.

I glance up.

The Cross brothers.

They’re standing at the back of the party, but Zane and Finn have their backs to me and are talking to a pack of girls who surround them. It’s not them who made me feel like I’d set aflame.

It’s Dutch.

Oh crap. He came.

Not only that, he’s standing with Paris. Her hand is on his arm and she’s bobbing her head to the music, using the slow, sultry rhythm of the song to rub herself all over Dutch.

A sharp pain knifes my stomach. I rip my gaze away and focus on playing.

Unfortunately, I can’tun-see him and Paris together.

Are they a thing now? Did he sic Paris on me because she’s his new queen and I’m supposed to serve them both?

My throat locks up the more I think about it.

It hurts.

And that pisses me off.

Why should it bother me if Dutch is with Paris? They should both jump off a bridge together.

As I play angrily, a new thought hits. What will I do if Dutch storms the stage and rips my wig off in front of everyone? It’ll be game over. I’ll be scarred for life.

I keep an eye on him as I play, but he doesn’t approach me. He just stays in the back, glaring a hole through my face and letting Paris grind on him—as much as she can in that tight mermaid dress.

The minutes now feel like hours. Each tick of the clock claws at my skin and bones. I can barely work through the rest of the set.

My hands are shaking so badly I fumble on the keys.

It's embarrassing.

And the shame makes me even more tense.

Dutch leans down to whisper something in Paris’s ear, his eyes still on me. I feel stretched out and exposed. It’s like I’m standing naked behind the piano, the parts of me that are private and precious exposed to the world and labeled worthless.

I retreat into myself.

Finally, Paris releases Dutch and climbs up on stage to relieve me of my duties. While she’s up there, she gives a short little speech. The crowd applauds for me, but I barely hear them. With a small and nervous smile, I dip my head and hurry to the exits.

That's when I see Christa. She’s drunkenly stumbling into Paris’s lavish house.

Her eyes lock on mine. Her stare is heinously dark.

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