Very Twisted Things (Briarcrest Academy #3) (2 page)

The hottest fire I’ve ever known lit in my chest. Scorching.

Air
. Just want to breathe. Just get to the top.
Please.

My body rebelled and I inhaled and swallowed water, the burn racing down my throat making it spasm as I tried to cough it out. I struggled but took in more and more, the cold liquid filling my lungs.

Dark spots filled my eyes. This was drowning.

Exhausted.

Done.

My body twitched. I grew disoriented.

I let go of the fight. My hands floated in front of me.

Oblivion.

Darkness.

No bright lights, no tunnel.

No heaven, no mother, no father.

No comets.

No fairy dust.

“She was music with skin.”

—Sebastian Tate

Two years later

WHERE WAS SHE?

I stood at the edge of the patio and adjusted my binoculars, spying on the twenty-something girl who lived in the Spanish-style mansion behind us in the Hollywood Hills. And by mansion, I mean a house three times the size of ours with a red slate roof and a huge archaic-looking door on the front. Impressive. The Maserati out front was sick too. Chick was rich, living the dream.

She was also excruciatingly beautiful with her long dark hair and badass violin.

But
who
was she? A Hollywood celebrity like me? Somehow, I didn’t think so—mostly because she was always alone.

Last night from my hilltop view, I’d watched her eat a solitary dinner out on her patio, taking in how she sliced into her chicken and then chewed, her head bobbing to the music on her stereo. She’d added a serving of cheese puffs to her plate without a flicker of remorse, and for dessert she’d eaten an entire sleeve of Oreos. Her evening drink was a sniffer of tequila. I didn’t judge. Living on the road for five years, I’d had my own share of strange meals.

She was odd.

Since we’d moved in a few weeks ago, I’d concocted all kinds of theories about her. She was a porn star who’d retired and chosen to live out her life in solitude; she was a musician holed up in a mansion, composing an opus that would hypnotize the entire world; or my favorite, she’d killed her last boyfriend with an axe over his refusal to share his cheese puffs and she was now using the house next door as her hideout. Crazy to dwell on someone I didn’t know, but there was something about her loneliness that struck a nerve.

My bandmate Spider thought I was just bored. Maybe.

I tapped my foot.

What was taking her so long?

“Is she naked? Otherwise, what’s the bloody point in spying on her?” Spider asked me in a stage whisper, coming up behind me in the darkness on the patio. The Englishman sipped on his Jack and Coke.

“She’s not out yet,” I said. “And, it’s not really spying. I just like her music.”

He snorted. “Uh-huh. She’s fucking hot, isn’t she?”

Hot as hell—but I wasn’t sharing. I was surprisingly territorial when it came to Violin Girl.

“I think some clubbing would cure you real fast, mate.” He did a pirouette dance move that was straight out of our latest music video.

“Dude. Not tonight.” I needed a break. The paparazzi were all over me now that I was “fake dating” Hollywood starlet Blair Storm to garner good press.

He threw his hands up to the sky. “You’re
Sebastian Tate
, the lead singer of the Vital Rejects whose YouTube video just clocked in at two hundred million views. We’re famous, and all you want to do is wait for her to come out.” He shook his head. “It’s right odd how you fancy her.”

I laughed at his theatrics. I suspected he was drunk. “Coming from the guy with a blue pompadour,” I said.

“Don’t be jealous.” He smoothed his newly dyed hair delicately. “Seriously, I liked you better when you got obsessed with
The
Vampire Diaries
.”

I snorted. “Ha. Shut the fuck up.
You
love that show.”

He grinned. “Never. I hate blood suckers. Fucking pussies.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I watch macho shows, like wrestling and NASCAR,” he insisted.

“Bullshit. You DVR everything on The CW.” I snickered.

He lit a cig and sent me a thoughtful look. “You know, I haven’t had a shag in a while. You think Violin Girl would like me?”

I inhaled sharply. “She’s really not your type. I suggest you stick with your groupies.”

“If she’s female, she’s my type.” He waggled his eyes at me.

An image of her playing for him came to mind, and possessiveness zipped up my spine. I slammed my beer down on the patio table. “Keep in mind, we don’t know
who
she is or if she’s got a boyfriend. She could be married, and we don’t need another scandal.”

His lips quirked, and I suspected he’d played me all along.

I narrowed my eyes at him. I loved the blue-haired freak, but he could be a pain in the ass.

He popped me on the arm. “Wake up and smell the sexual tension, mate. You dig her, which is the most interest you’ve shown in a girl in
five
years. I can’t help but be fascinated.”

I shrugged. Whatever.

“Just go meet her. Knock on her door, pretend you’re lost, chat her up. Hell, take Monster with you. Girls love dogs, especially cute white Chihuahuas with ADHD.”

“
You’re
giving me dating advice?”

He paused and then grimaced. “Scary, huh?”

Spider was a notorious womanizer and generally treated girls like shit.

I sighed. “I don’t want to screw up the Blair thing.”

Spider got quiet, disapproval radiating off him. “Blair’s a piranha. You must really want this zombie movie.”

I nodded. “It’s directed by Dan Hing. Apparently, he had a bad experience on his set with a rock star-turned-actor and despises them. But, if I’m dating America’s Sweetheart, then I look like Mr. Nice Guy.” I paused. “Your arrest last year in Vegas didn’t help our image,” I said, reminding him of the heckler whose nose he’d busted. “We’ve had a shit-ton of bad press and I’m trying to fix it.”

He jutted out his chin, and I let out a sigh and rubbed my temple. Acting like his dad was wearing thin.

He changed gears. “Emma sent me an email asking if we’re going to the Briarcrest Academy reunion in September. Are we in or what?”

“She’s in charge?” I bit out.

He nodded.

Great
. Old feelings of betrayal swept over me as I remembered the fool I’d been for her in high school. She’d used me to make her asshole ex jealous, but the kicker had been she’d gotten pregnant—
and hadn’t known who the father was
. Those had been the worst six months of my life waiting for the DNA test to come back.
Me
a father at eighteen? It had seemed like the end of the world.

I made the Catholic cross sign with my hands.

“Aren’t you a non-practicing Presbyterian?” He smirked.

“Emma,” I muttered. “Just thanking the heavens I escaped being her baby daddy.”

“Yeah, glad that award went to Matt Dawson. Total wanker. I bet they’re miserable together.” He shot me a concerned look. “You
are
going, right?”

My mouth tightened. “I don’t want to see Emma.”
What if I still had feelings for her?
But I did want to see my older brother Leo and his wife Nora, who’d been one of my best friends at the prep school in Highland Park, Texas.

He stewed on that. “I say we go, get hammered, wreck the school gym—maybe jump on stage and play a song—call it a regular day. I promise to not get arrested this time. Scout’s honor.”

Movement came from next door, and I put the lenses back on my face. “Shhh, she’s out,” I said as she walked outside to her patio, carrying her violin. She flicked on her porch lights, and a low whistle came out of me at the sexy red-as-sin robe she wore, its silky material flashing around her long legs as she moved about. Her hair was down, too.

This was new. Where were the usual yoga pants? The ponytail?

She looked like she
knew
someone watched, but that was impossible since our outside lights were off. Even the light from the moon hit our house at such an angle that she shouldn’t be able to see us just by glancing over. She’d need a high-powered lens to know I was here.

Spider mumbled something and went back inside, probably to watch The CW—or go clubbing. I barely noticed.

Usually she played facing her rose garden, but this time she walked to the right side of her patio, which faced
us
. Weird. But she didn’t play. She just stood there without moving. Staring toward our house. Uneasiness went over me.

What was she doing?

Could she see me?

As if it were a fragile bird, she positioned the violin under her chin and began playing, arms bent and wrist poised, making the most exquisite sounds. And I don’t mean classical like Beethoven or Mozart; I mean body-thrashing, blood-thumping, hard-as-hell music that had me rooted to the ground, like she’d slapped iron chains on me.

Dark and seductive notes rose up in the air, and I got jacked up, recognizing a Led Zeppelin song, only she’d ripped its guts out and twisted it into something electric. She pushed the bow hard, upping the tempo abruptly, her movements controlled yet wild. My pulse kicked up and my eyes lingered, taking in the slightly parted toned legs and the way her breasts bounced as she jerked her arms to manipulate the strings.

Her body arched forward in a curve, seeming as if she might break into a million pieces before she finished the piece or climaxed first. Then, her robe slipped off her right shoulder, exposing part of her breast. Creamy and full, it quivered, vibrating as she moved her arms. Her rosy nipple teased me, slipping in and out of the folds of the material, erect from the cool mountain air and deliciously bitable. I pictured my mouth there, sucking, my fingers plucking, strumming her like my guitar until she begged me to—

Stop
, I told myself just as an appreciative groan came out. Whoever Violin Girl was, she didn’t deserve me lusting after her while she was pouring her heart out with music.

I zoomed in as far as the binoculars would go, watching her surrender to the music as she bent and swayed from side to side with her eyes closed, black lashes like fans on her cheeks. Every molecule in my body focused on her, hanging on to each note she pulled from her instrument.

She finished and kept her head bowed for the longest time, perhaps letting the emotion wash over her like it had me. Then, she bowed to the banana trees and gnomes in her garden, waving her hands in a flourish as she rose.

The entire event was surreal, yet poignant as fucking poetry.

I let out a deep breath I didn’t even realize I’d been holding.

Who the hell plays
Stairway to Heaven
with a violin? She did.

Violin Girl was music with skin. She was real and dark and twisted and I wanted to eat her up. I wanted to consume her and every single note she ripped from her violin.

Bam!
She snapped her head up, her eyes lasering in on mine, making every hair on my body stand at attention.

And then …

Standing there in the moonlight, she untied her robe and spread apart the sides ever so slightly, her movements seeming almost hesitant, as if she’d had to work herself up. Unfamiliar jealousy hit me and I panned out and checked the rest of the patio, expecting to see a lover. Whoever it was, I wanted to rip him apart piece by piece.

And didn’t that thought surprise me.

My gaze searched her patio, the backyard, her upstairs balcony. Nothing. No one.

She flicked her dark hair back and stroked the lapels of the robe, her fingers lingering over the lacy material. Suddenly the evening smacked of something
more
than just music. Her arms moved back and forth across the front, opening the robe halfway and then closing it as if she couldn’t make up her mind.

My eyes went up, trying to read her face. Still as a statue, the only movement was her mouth as it trembled, her full upper lip resting against the pouty lower one. Tears ran down her face, but they seemed more of a defiant act, her jaw tightly set, her shoulders hunched inward as if she’d held it in too long and was giving in, but not without a fight.