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Along with the tension between us, it’s dank and stifling down here, which is not helped by the fact that I’ve always had a sensitive nose. It smells so bad, of urine and rancid sex no doubt, that I want to puke. I blow out a breath to hold off a wave of nausea.
He grabs my hand and stands up, tugging me up with him. “Come on, there’s another room. One that’s clean.”
Holding my breath, I follow him because, really, what choice do I have?
He leads me down a hallway and opens the door to a smaller room. There’s soundproofing on the ceiling like the music rooms in school, just bigger and cozier, which isn’t saying much since this room is spare.
There’s a large wide window overlooking the back garden, a row of rose bushes filtering the strong sunlight from the south. One entire wall is covered with shelves filled with vinyl records. There’s an old record player on a low bookshelf sitting beside a new turntable with a canary-yellow base. I spot a black box with two circular things on top, which I don’t recognize.
Knowing me and my curiosity, he offers, “It used to be my father’s music room, where he practiced his trumpet. Now it’s mine.”
The way he says it, low and almost melancholic, touches on a poignant undercurrent beneath his simple words.
He waves to the double bed and explains, “After my father died, I stayed down here till late in the night. Listening to music till I fell asleep on the sofa. Finally, my mom put a bed down here.”
Other than that, there’s an old desk, with a chair and a couple of single file cabinets, like one would find in an office.
“I’d sit for hours while he practiced or played music. More than half of this collection is his,” he says fondly as he tenderly reaches out and touches a few records.
“Did you cry alone when your father died?” I let slip, thinking back to the time he’d held me when my dad died.
I wave my hands in apology. “Sorry, not my business.”
He grabs my hand and hauls me closer to him. “Yeah, I did,” he replied. “I cried alone.”
His proximity, with his enticing scent of a pine resin, sweet, yet sharp and tangy, addles my brain.
He wraps his arms around me, linking them at the base of my spine. I remember the day in the art room, when he found me crying over my dad. That day haunts me still. It’s hard to forget one of the worst times of my life when Lucian was somehow able to make everything better.
“You said never to cry alone,” I whisper.
“I lied. For you, I lied. I didn’t wantyoucrying alone,” he replies, his voice a husky rasp. He shrugs one shoulder. “Me, it’s not so important.”
“You make no sense, you know that. You sit with me when I cry over my father, but then you humiliate me in front of the entire school.”
“I had my reasons for doing what I did.”
“What was your reason back then?”
He looks down at me quizzically. “To comfort you, of course.”
I expel the breath I was holding. “And in front of the entire school?”
He pauses for a long moment, his gray eyes turning stormy again. “To protect you.”
“From whom?” I prompt. “Roxie?”
“Among others.”
I tilt my head, examining him, really trying to look deep, because I don’t know whether to believe him. He says he did it to protect me. Could be true, could be a lie. Ultimately, it doesn’t matter. I would do well to remember that these moments of intimacy are meaningless. He won’t protect me when it matters and I’m here for business, nothing else.
Anyway, no one ever comes back from coercion and extortion. No relationship can grow from a poisoned well, that much I know.
After all, isn’t that how I want it?
CHAPTER9
STAR
