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“Lucien,” I said before he shut the door. “Thank you.”
“Of course, my boy. Sleep well.”
He said it like a friend and not like a man paid gobs of money by my father to take care of me, and that was the best goddamn thing to happen to me all night.
I slumped onto the bed. The pain in the back of my head slunk away, and I fell into nothing.
I woke reaching for Charlotte, for her warmth, for her skin and the softness of her hair. I wanted her lips on mine, smiling against my mouth as she told me “Good morning.” I’d only been sharing a bed with her in the townhouse for little more than a week, but it had already begun to feel like real life.
There was only empty space on a cool sheet. She wasn’t in the townhouse.Iwasn’t in the townhouse. It took me a moment to organize the scents and sounds of the room and remember it was Lucien’s guest room in his Park Avenue condo. He was on the twenty-third floor and had a spectacular view of Central Park. I had been thirteen years old or so the last time I’d been here, and of course hadn’t appreciated the view.
Then, I’d wanted only to go higher.
Then, I’d thought I was invincible.
I sat up slowly. No migraine, but my mouth felt like I’d been eating dirt by the handful all night and my stomach wasn’t happy about it. I felt my way around the wall until I found the bathroom door, then had to feel around for the goddamn toilet. I cursed myself for not visiting Lucien more often when I could see the fucking layout of his apartment. And his face. Lucien’s appearance—the exact details—was slipping from my memory, like a sketch slowly erased. My parents too. And Ava. I had Charlotte but only because I touched her face so often. But now that she was gone…what if I lost that too?
The thought made me more nauseated than my hangover.
I took a piss that lasted approximately ten hours and then fumbled my way toward the kitchen. Mercifully, Lucien heard me and directed me to the breakfast table while he poured me a cup of strong, black coffee.
“Hungry?” he asked. “It’s well after lunch time.”
I shook my head. “Am I keeping you from work?”
“Not at all.”
Lucien, like my father, was semi-retired. He had an office on Wall Street where he managed my father’s money and real estate deals and those of several other clients. But mostly for my dad. He was more family than employee and now spent most of his time handling my parents’ retirement. Since my accident, he’d been relegated to my handler, taking care of me after I’d evicted everyone else from my life.
Why him?
I don’t know what it was about Lucien Caron, but he was the only person I could tolerate, even when in the grips of my blackest moods. There was something constant about him that soothed me, or maybe he was just impervious to my vitriol where everyone else had been driven away by it. And I sincerely hoped that that wasn’t going to fade away too.
“And did you sleep well?” he asked now, his voice mild.
“I guess. I haven’t woken up to any epiphany.”
Lucien made a noise likeHmm.I heard the flick of a lighter and smelled smoke. “And Charlotte? Will you speak to her today?”
“No,” I said. “That’s the only thing I know to do. To stay away from her. To let her prepare for her audition without interference or distraction from me.”
“Are you certain she will audition at all?”
“Yeah, she will. She’s strong. And brave.” I swallowed. “She’ll do it and she’ll get in. They’d be crazy not to give her a seat.”
“Hmm.” An exhalation of smoke. “On that note, I have news regarding that transaction you asked me to make in Connecticut.”
“You found a violin?” I asked. “Or did you sell the car?”
“Both, in a manner of speaking.”
Three years before my accident, I bought a 1969 Camaro Z28 Tribute. Black with white racing stripes, monster block, and 450 horsepower after I’d souped it up. I had bought it needing some work, and after I’d spent a year on it, off and on, it was a masterpiece of engineering and speed. I had a buddy who let me drive it at Daytona once, and that had been one of the greatest thrills of my life.
In Connecticut, after we’d been mugged, I’d pulled Lucien aside and told him to buy Charlotte a new violin.
Lucien had been hesitant. “The type of violin you wish to purchase for Charlotte is cost prohibitive. You could drain your savings or draw from your 401(k), neither option I recommend. Or…”
“Or sell the Camaro.”
