Page 50 of Phantom
It leads me through the bedroom door and into a hallway, where each note dances and bounces off the stone walls. The lack of windows everywhere I go seriously has me questioning where we are. Last night, I remember being carried down, not driven or flown out of the city. But despite the fact that New Orleans is notoriously below sea level, here I am in what appears to be an underground castle home with electricity and running water. I pass by a modern kitchen, a fully equipped personal gym, and even more stunning photography from all over the world.
If Sol took these himself, his talent doesn’t stop at music. Each photo sucks me in and makes me feel like I’m actually there.
I slow alongside another photograph beside an open doorway. This one is a stunning black-and-white picture of graves inside St. Louis No.1, the cemetery tourists flock to in droves, like bees to honey. But this one is different than any I’ve ever seen, depicting a grand raised plot with the Bordeaux family name inscribed in the stone—
“Come in,petite muse.”
Sol’s voice echoes from the room I’m standing outside. How he knew I was here, I have no clue. I thought I’d been pretty quiet on the plush rugs, but I guess the phantom really does see and hear everything.
I round the corner into a living room with the same aesthetic as the rest of the home. There’s photography, soft rugs, stone walls, but this time there’s also an inviting black leather couch and an ottoman with two matching chairs. The seating curves in a semicircle and faces the back corner of the room where a sleek, black grand piano sits in all its glory. A big-screen TV hangs above a lit gas-log fireplace on the right side of the room, but unlike every other home I’ve been in, the piano—and not the TV—is the room’s focus.
The piano is angled away from the door, making it so that Sol’s back is turned slightly to me. His long, strong fingers skillfully roll over the keys, and I can’t help but stare as his inked upper back muscles flex underneath his thin white shirt. Mesmerized, I set the beignets on a small table next to the door, unable to step farther into the room for fear of breaking the spell.
But he knows I’m here, a fact he confirms by seamlessly segueing the current song to the one he sang to me last night. My chest aches to know the words to the French version, but they’re just beyond the tip of my tongue.
I listen for a few more minutes, letting my eyes close as I hum along to the music. When I open my eyes on what I know is the last note, I look up to see Sol’s midnight eye blazing on me. He slowly drops his hands from the black and ivory keys.
We hold each other’s gaze until my rapidly increasing heartbeat thrums in my chest. I swallow down the sudden need to throw myself at him. The overwhelming sensation is so foreign, I have trouble fighting against it.
I’ve never had much luck with guys. Obviously, taking someone home from Bourbon Street to my dad’s rental house was absolutely out of the question. But even after I moved into my dorm, no one has ever kept my interest. If I did express wanting to get to know someone more, the guy would inevitably run for the hills without so much as asking for my number. Not to mention the fact that Jaime is the worst wingman ever. Every time I thought I had a real shot at someone, he’d assume the big brother role and scare them off.
So I have no experience to shed light on what to do right now.
No man—not a single one—haseverlooked at me the way Sol is right now. It fuels a need in me I’ve never felt, not even on my wildest manic nights. It’s exhilarating and terrifying at the same time.
“I told you that you knew it.” Sol’s voice breaks me from my thoughts.
“Knew what?”
“The song.” Sol nods to the piano. “You were singing the words under your breath. I told you that you knew it. You seem to know every song I play. Even the ones I’ve written myself.”
“Oh.” I shake my head, faintly remembering asking for the words during my panic attack. “I don’t know the French lyrics. But I’ve always had a knack for predicting music. My father used to joke that ‘Little Lettie’s never let a song pass her by without knowing it first.’”
Sol’s smile lifts up faintly. “My mother was the same way.”
“Your mother?” I ask, trying to remember what I’ve heard through the New Orleans rumor mill. For all Jaime’s love of gossip in the Bordeaux Conservatory, he hates talking about the Bordeauxs themselves.
“She’s gone.”
My heart clenches at the gravity in those two words, and I grip the doorframe to stop myself from going to him.
“I’m sorry. My dad is gone, too. My mom ran off when I was a kid.”
God, shut up. He does not care.
“I’m sorry, too,” he offers. His sincerity hits straight to the bone in that way only people who’ve experienced the same grief can understand. “Your father was a great musician. New Orleans loved him.”
“You knew my dad?” My voice cracks on the last word.
He shakes his head sadly. “No. But I listened to him plenty of times. I used to sneak off with my brother to Frenchmen Street to hear him play. Ben’s never been much of a music fan. He takes after my father.” The left corner of his lips lift up like he’s told an inside joke and I can’t help but smile back.
But then my smile falters. “Why am I here, Sol?”
Without answering, he stands up from the piano and shoves his hands into his sweatpants pockets before walking slowly toward me. My pulse races faster and faster with each step until he stops with only a few feet between us. The intensity in his gaze never wavers, and I suddenly have to fight the urge to flee. But I stand my ground and raise my chin to meet his sparkling midnight eye.
“Last night, you had some sort of breakdown,” he answers, searching my face. “You took too many pills and I had to bring you here, to my home beneath the opera house. It was the only way I knew to get you help without taking you to the hospital. I wasn’t sure how many pills you took, so I made you throw them up and I had our family doctor assess you.”
The facts don’t hurt my pride as much as I expected them to, thanks to his gentle tone. I knew most of the information, but hearing it all laid out is a lot to unpack.
