Page 73 of Phantom
Ugh, why the hell is he up so early? All I want to do is grab him by his collar and drag him back to bed to sleep. Or hey, if we’re in bed,notsleeping would be fun, too.
At the prospect of doing one, or both, of those things, I hop out of bed and head to the bathroom to run through my morning routine. Whatever he’s working on, I want to listen before I interrupt him, and I’m afraid he’ll stop if he hears me moving around.
Once I finish taking my medicine and getting ready, I keep his T-shirt on but find a thong in a small stack of my clothes on a nearby dresser and slide it on. Ready enough, I tiptoe silently to his den where he’s playing a beautiful piece I’ve only heard through the vents in my dorm.
The den is warm and cozy, illuminated by the blazing fireplace and candles from his desk. Sol is so immersed in his piece that I wonder if he would’ve heard me with a bulldozer. From this view, I can see the expressive side of his face furrowed in concentration. His forehead above his dark brow is wrinkled, his soft lips a hard line, and that midnight eye is ablaze with focus. My eyes can’t help but travel farther down his form.
The black long-sleeved shirt hides the tattoos I know are underneath the fabric, but I can still see his shoulder muscles move with every octave change. His biceps stretch the cotton with each chord. He’s absolutely mesmerizing.
I stand in the doorway, leaning against the wooden frame, watching him until my eyes flit around the room to the photographs on the wall. The glow from the candles and fireplace flickers over every one, giving each a more mysterious backdrop. They’re gorgeous and I’m more than a little jealous of whoever got to be behind the camera lens.
After glancing over all the frames hanging on the walls, I go back to admiring the way his hands fly over the piano until he reaches the lowest octave. His fingers falter on the keys and he stops abruptly, stiffening and staring carefully straight ahead.
“Scarlett, I didn’t realize you’d be up so soon.”
“Yeah, about that… if you’re an early riser, this is so not going to work out. I’m a night owl through and through, mister.”
He doesn’t chuckle along with me and only keeps staring at the wall. His lack of response makes me frown, but I try a different tactic.
“Did you take the photos? I remember you saying you wanted to travel the world—”
“Ben took them for me,” he interrupts. His voice is gentle but his words are clipped. “Listen, I’ll meet you in the bedroom. I’m sorry my playing woke you.”
“Your playing didn’t wake me, but you not being in bed holding me did. Come back and sleep with me for a few hours,” I insist and try to step forward, but he flinches and I halt in my tracks. “I, um… I slept really well and woke up naturally. It’s early for a weekend but I think with being down here, not having any light makes it easier to fall asleep and stay that way.”
He jerks his head once in a nod. “Good… I must’ve lost track of time, then. I’ll meet you in the bedroom. We can talk about today’s plans.”
“Sol… are you okay? Why won’t you look at me?” I inch closer and keep going despite the way his muscles bunch up on his back. “Sol, look at me.”
He swallows but remains facing forward. “Scarlett, I—”
“Sol, look at me,” I demand, barely resisting the urge to stomp my foot at him.
When he looks up at me, I finally see his face. He’s got his bone-white skull mask on still, but an eye patch covers his right eye.
“Oh my god.” My hand flies to my lips. “Sol, are you okay?”
He flinches at my question. “Yes, I’m fine—”
I rush to him anyway and reach for his eye patch, but he captures my wrist.
“You said you wouldn’t,” he accuses, pain clouding his face, as he reminds me of the promise I made to him in bed.
“And I won’t. Not your mask, but your eye… are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” he growls back, but there’s no menace to it. It’s more like he’s… embarrassed?
“Sol, why do you have an eye patch on?”
He sighs before letting go of my wrist and answering. “You may know that my eye on this side… it’s a prosthetic.”
I nod slowly. Jaime had said Sol has a fake eye, but I didn’t fully know what that meant. I’m thankful he’s willing to explain it to me. Maybe one day he’ll explain how he got it, but this already looks painful for him to talk about, so I let him take the reins.
“It’s an acrylic shell that was fitted over an implant in my eye socket,” he continues. “The color prosthetic doesn’t fit perfectly. I put one of my comfortable ones on so that my eyelid can still work normally. This one is just a clear acrylic layer over tissue. I’ll go change it now—”
“No.” Taking a chance, I slide over his lap, straddling him with my legs dangling over the piano bench before he can stand up.
I quickly realize when my core meets the bulge in his thin pajama pants that I didn’t think this all the way through.
