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

Violin Girl was trapped in a cage of darkness.

It still didn’t stop me from holding my breath, silently begging her to bare herself to me. She’d already laid bare her music. Part of me needed the rest of her.

She jerked the robe closed, making me groan in disappointment.

And then she did something completely crazy.

The lonely girl next door flipped me the bird.

“Sixteen minutes. That’s how long it took for the emergency helicopters to reach the crash site where Flight 215’s right wing had been bombed by terrorists. Reports said they found me floating on top of a seat cushion, my legs dangling in the water, although I have no memory of getting there. Covered in cuts and bruises, I had a broken leg and wasn’t breathing when they pulled me up in a harness. The truth was, the real Violet died that day in the Atlantic.”

—from the journal of Violet St. Lyons

CHEST HEAVING, I ran back in the house from the patio and came to a stop in front of the fireplace, the enormity of my performance settling on my shoulders. I panted. I clutched my pounding heart. Mortified. Excited. Good lord, I’d played for Blond Guy.

I’d nearly stripped for him
.

I wholeheartedly blamed the tequila I’d consumed earlier.

My hands went to tapping against my leg erratically, my new go-to reflex since the crash. Without fail, if I were stressed, my hands bounced around, trying to ground me.

I groaned and paced around the den like a madwoman.

No way to deny it—I was officially an exhibitionist.

Blond Guy had moved in a few weeks ago on a bright and sunny morning in May without a cloud in the sky. I’d been out on the back patio, messing around with some of the plants, when he’d raced down the road in his gray Hummer and pulled in at the house behind mine. A girl with crazy red hair and a man bigger than the Blond Guy had pulled in behind him in a black Escalade. Siblings? Most definitely family, I’d decided as they carried suitcases and bags in the house, the sounds of their laughter echoing across the grass that separated our secluded properties. Like a shadow, I’d hidden behind a palm tree and squinted across the distance to watch them. I felt silly and tried to tear my eyes away, but when Blond Guy pulled out a guitar—and not just a regular guitar, but a Gibson Les Paul, the same model as my dad’s—I’d been lost.

A musician
.

My interest had quickened.

Yesterday, thanks to my handy telescope, I’d been shocked when I’d caught him watching my house with binoculars right at the time when I usually played my violin outdoors. Immediate anger filled me—along with a good dose of something I couldn’t identify. Anticipation? Fear? Most definitely both.

Words like
creep
and
Peeping Tom
brushed at my mind, but somehow I refused to associate him with those. The truth was, I hadn’t knowingly played for anyone since the crash because the thought of having eyes on me gave me the shakes and made me want to hurl. My therapist called my fear PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder); I called it cowardice. I hated it.

I used to be Violet St. Lyons, violin prodigy, but now I was just a freak.

Either way, my music career was ruined. They don’t let pukers play in the New York Symphony; it kinda ruins the show.

But
he
was watching me, obviously listening to my music.

And I’d wondered if I could play knowing he was out there.

My therapist said I should bite the bullet and play on stage whether I lost my cookies or not. Her theory sounded simple, but doing it was another thing.
The remedy is in the poison
my father had liked to say, and that was the one voice in my head I gravitated toward.

I wanted to try. I
wanted
to push myself.

Like the flakes in a snow globe, music has danced around in my head since I was a little girl, and without it, I was lost.

I’d already lost my parents.

I tightened the belt on my robe and let out a puff of air. That’s why tonight—after those shots—I’d found some backbone, slipped on my robe and gone out to perform. Technically, I hadn’t been able to see him, so I hadn’t known for sure if he watched, yet I’d felt his eyes on me. Burning. Waiting for me to take it all off.

Which begged the question, did he watch because he liked my sound or did he watch because he was attracted to me? Probably the first. I wasn’t much to look at lately, not with my yoga pants and T-shirts.

Nerves settled by my breathing exercises, I headed to the kitchen where I scrounged for a celebratory chocolate bar and a soda. My brain knew my eating habits were out of control since my parents were gone, but I couldn’t seem to muster up the effort to do better. I devoured the Hershey bar and then headed to bed, checking my phone on the way. I sighed. No one had called. My friends from rich kid prep school hadn’t. My fellow musician friends from the Manhattan School of Music hadn’t. Even my promise-ring-kinda-fiancé Geoff who was now dating a fancy socialite hadn’t. They’d given up on me. Not that I blame them, of course; I’d pushed them away. And really, who’d wait two years for me to get my shit together when it might not ever happen? I swallowed down a sip of soda and burped. At least alone I didn’t have to worry about the niceties.

I eventually crawled in bed, but by two in the morning, sleep still eluded me, and I considered taking one of the sleeping pills my doctor had prescribed. Instead, I got up and went out to the balcony to peek through my telescope. It was dark at his house and hard to make out details, but I found him sitting out on his patio, a guitar between his legs and a beer on the table. I zoomed in my Celestron 2000, my eyes taking in the tattoos that snaked up his muscled biceps that my fingers suddenly itched to touch. I bit my lip. He was beautiful. Transfixed, I watched him smile to himself as he’d play a few strings then stop and jot down something on a piece of paper. Writing music?

Who was he?

Who was I?

Two years ago, I’d been a girl surrounded by fairy dust. I still vividly remembered walking into our Upper East Side apartment, not a clue that my parents had planned a surprise trip to Ireland for my birthday and we’d be leaving for the airport within the hour. They’d made such a big deal of it, trying to get me to guess what my present was. This had included my dad doing his crazy version of the river dance while my mom pulled out a stuffed leprechaun and danced along. They’d been so silly. Fun. Everyone had loved my parents, even the crabby old lady in 4A who hated everyone.

But thinking of my past perfect life was a knife in my heart, so I pushed it away. Instead, I studied Blond Guy’s chiseled face and my imagination went wild as I imagined me showing up at his house, wearing nothing but my robe and carrying my violin. He’d open the door without a word and let me inside. I’d play for him while his hands touched my skin.

Bringing me back to life.

At that, I shivered as warmth infused my skin, pooling in my lower body. I got back in bed and relaxed—effortlessly—for the first time in months and drifted off to sleep. Yet, instead of my usual nightmares about the crash, I dreamed of him. I dreamed he sat by my bed and watched me sleep, that he reached out his hand and pushed hair from my face. His touch made me tingle all over, and even in my dream, my consciousness recognized that I wanted to play again for the boy next door.

THE NEXT MORNING, I walked into Java and Me, the local coffee joint and independent bookstore where I came each morning after my run. Decorated in black and white, it was heavy on modern style and Hollywood celebrities. It was also close to my neighborhood and the local market where I did my shopping.

Coming here was my routine. Next, I’d do a slow drive-by at the orphanage on Campbell Street, the one with the lake out front with the ducks. I’d never been inside, but maybe today I’d pull into the parking lot and go inside and meet Mrs. Smythe, the director. She’d called me several times this past month to help plan a benefit gala, and I knew I couldn’t put off meeting her forever. That orphanage was mine. Part of the reason I moved here.

I got my latte and found a seat next to the window.

Blair Storm and her usual entourage took the large table next to me. With big boobs and puffy lips, she was a thirty-something starlet who’d been plucked, highlighted, and mani-pedied to perfection. Pamela Anderson from Baywatch came to mind. She tended to spend most of her time primping and checking the waddle under her neck.

I sighed. I sounded jealous. I guess she
was
extremely pretty if you liked white-blond hair and flashy clothes. I paled in comparison. Literally. I needed to work on my tan. I resolved to get a bathing suit and lay out by the pool. Maybe Blond Guy would want to come over and join me? No. That was crazy. I didn’t need to get involved with anyone.

A delicate hand tapped on my shoulder, interrupting my thoughts, and I turned to meet a pair of the thickest, longest set of fake eyelashes I’d ever seen. A spider could live there and no one would ever know.

“Excuse me, I’d like a refill,” Blair said sweetly, thrusting her recycled paper cup with the Java and Me logo in my face.

I blinked.
Really?
She’d seen me here a dozen times as a customer.

“Sorry. I don’t work here.” I indicated my e-reader and latte. “If you want more coffee, the employees wear black and white—you know, the people with aprons and name badges.” I smiled. I’d grown up with girls like her, Park Avenue Princess types who thought everyone owed them.

“Your shirt
is
black and white.” She nudged one of her girlfriends, and they both burst out in a fit of laughter.

I looked down at my black Ramones shirt and grimaced. Band shirts and flip-flops hadn’t always been my everyday attire. At one time, slinky and soft had been my go-to fabric. Couture even. I put my back to Blair, hoping she’d forget about me and move on. Although it was unlikely, the thought of her realizing
who
I was gave me hives. Literally. An itch had taken up on my back, between my shoulder blades.

She jabbed me on the arm again, this time more insistent.

I tensed and pulled as far from her as I could.

“Honey,” she said, the syllables drawn out and sugary enough to make me gag. “Don’t you know who I am? I’m Blair Storm. I just wrapped up a James Cameron movie and a Maroon 5 music video with Adam Levine.” She preened as one of the girls in her group clapped excitedly. I halfway expected her to take a bow. “I’m one of the biggest stars in Hollywood, and if you don’t know that, then you must live under a rock. Now, be a sweetie and get me a refill.”

In my head, I tapped out “Rip Her to Shreds” by Blondie on my violin.

I scowled. “I’m fully aware of your awesome magnificence. And I’m not your
sweetie
.”

“What did you say?” she said, straightening up in her seat, glossy lips now in a straight line. The occupants around us froze, eyes bouncing from me to her. Even the manager speared me with a glare saying,
Don’t bother the talent!

Anger bubbled up, and I opened my mouth to let her have it like I would have before the crash, but I froze, blood rushing to my face. My free hand—the one that wasn’t clutching the table—twitched to tap.