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My phone buzzes on the bed, and I know immediately who it is. Pickin’ up the device, I press my thumb on the home button to unlock it. A message from Monster sits waitin’ for me. I know what he’s goin’ta say, but I don’t want ta look at it.
He’s managed to get me released tomorrow. I tap out my response.
Aye, sounds grand. I’ll be ready, just… give me till the evenin’.
Then I drop my phone on the bed when I leave the room and head up the stairs to where the women are housed. I have one more night with her. I know I do want ta learn more about her. Maybe I can get her to talk about what that arsehole did to her. It will make her feel better, gettin’ it off her chest. I’m sure of it. But it’s not goin’ta be easy on her.
Even as I walk up the feckin’ stairs, I find I’m nervous. I don’t get anxious for shite, ever. I spend my life cleanin’ up the mess of the MC—blood, dead bodies. All that does nothin’ ta me. But Clover, she’s somethin’ else entirely. And I don’t know how to feel about it. I don’t know what to think about it.
Her door is closed. There aren’t any sounds comin’ from the other side. I knock and wait. Moments pass in silence as I stare at the off-white barrier keepin’ me from her room. It hides what she does, all those goddamn secrets I want to know.
She doesn’t respond.
The door stays closed.
She must be hidin’ away. Last night was somethin’ else, though. She opened up and I saw parts of her I don’t think she’s offered up to anyone else. Perhaps she’s regrettin’ talkin’ ta me. Shakin’ my head, I force the idea out because I know she was happy. She smiled more than I’m pretty sure she has in a long while. Maybe she’s thought things through and decided against comin’ to stay at the club.
That causes my stomach to churn with anxiety. I’m never this unsure about someone. Never this nervous and feckin’ tense. Even in the middle of dead bodies and drenched in blood, I’m calmer. This feckin’ wee thing is doin’ somethin’ ta me.
I turn in frustration. I so badly wanted ta see her, but if she’s outside, I can have a smoke while chattin’ to her. That’s probably where she is. Headin’ back towards the staircase, I’m about ta make my way down when I hear it. A melody. So faint—so quiet. I’m sure I’m hearin’ things. But I take the stairs to the third floor instead of goin’ to the women’s section. The higher I get, the louder the sound is. A song. The tinklin’ of ivories. It’s a feckin’ piano.
When I reach the floor where the music’s comin’ from, I turn left and follow the siren’s song that’s lurin’ me to my death. I shove the door open and follow the music. I don’t doubt it’s her, because it’s as if she’s emittin’ that very light that shone in her eyes last night, in the music she’s makin’. And when I do find Clover, sittin’ in a room I never knew existed in this godforsaken place, I’m not at all surprised.
Her small frame is perched on a black wooden bench. Her fingers fly over the keys as she plays “River Flows In You” by Yiruma. The only reason I even know the feckin’ song is because some of the girls at the club were playin’ it and it caught my attention. Even though I’m more of a classic rock lover, there are times a simple instrument can entrance.
The melody is gentle, just like the girl who’s hypnotised me with it. She doesn’t hear me or even notice me. Her eyes are closed, her fingers moving like dancers on a stage. She’s confident in every note, and her chest rises and falls as she breathes through the song. It’s as if she’s lost in the music, in a memory I can’t see, and I’m frustrated beyond recognition because I want to be there. I want to see what she does. Feckin’ Christ. I want to be in her memories.
Leanin’ against the doorframe, I fold my arms and keep my gaze glued to her. Her dreadlocks hang down her back as she plays. There are so many thoughts racin’ through my head right now, things I probably shouldn’t be thinkin’ about, and others that make me want ta break all my feckin’ rules about women.
As she comes to the end of the song, she slows down but never opens her eyes, and I wonder if she knows I’m here. Can she sense me like I do her? But she doesn’t look my way. Instead, she starts a new song, and as much as I should be annoyed or frustrated, I’m not. I’m hooked. I’m caught by her net, and I don’t want to be let loose.
