These Vicious Games (Seattle Undeground)

Chapter 17

“Depression, suffering and anger are all part of being human.” – Janet Fitch.

I position the sheet music of the song I’ve been playing as long as I can remember. The one with missing ending notes. I start with my warmup of five finger patterns, stretching my fingers out before I begin shadow playing. My left-hand protests but I keep going as I play off beat with it.

I’m not sure when I learned to play the piano. I don’t remember the first feel of the keys beneath my fingers. I think maybe I learned in music class at a young age.

All I know is that these keys are my salvation.

I begin the song, closing my eyes as I get lost with the notes. But when I get to a particular note my fingers slip.

Past

The boy would always wait for me after school. Walking home with me. Since our parents had gotten together, we had formed a friendship. I didn’t know exactly what he was protecting me from, mom always fought with her boyfriends, but this time seemed different.

“I wrote a song.” I said shyly as we approached the abandoned church.

“Like a song with words and shit?”

“No, silly. I wrote a song on the piano. Look.” I pulled the sheet music out of my backpack and handed it to him. His large hands envelop the paper softly as if he doesn’t want to hurt it.

“What’s it about?”

I fight my blush. At fifteen I know he probably sees me as a child with him being seventeen. “You,” I whisper.

His steps slow and he looks down at me. “Play it for me,” It wasn’t a request.

“I don’t have a piano at home,” I frown.

He grabs my hand and butterflies explode inside my stomach. My eyes widen and a tiny gasp puffs from my lips. He pulls me around the old church, helping me climb into a broken window. I hop down, my mouth falling open at the beautiful abandoned white piano. He hops down behind me, walking around me and smiling. He hops on top of the piano. “Come on, play for me.”

Swallowing, I sit my bag down and take a seat. He lays the papers out, and I begin. I’m a little shaky at first from all the nerves, but then I fall victim to the song. I don’t even realize it’s over until I open my eyes, staring into the deepest green. He swallows hard, leaning over the keys, he kisses my cheek. “Thank you.”

We stopped every day after school, and I played him his song. I memorized it to my heart and soul.

Present

I slam my hands on the keys, turning and freezing.

“Sorry, miss. The master asked me to bring these to you.” Francis holds out a vase of white and black roses.

I snatch them, stomping out of the library and finding Atticus outside with a cigar in hand. I throw the vase at him, the glass smashing against his chest, water and roses covering his lap. He raises one arrogant eyebrow at me, and I scream. Scream out of frustration for the memories, for this fucked up arrangement. For what he did to me days ago. I completely lose it.

I turn, fleeing. Going for the rose garden of hell. The thorns tear at my dress, leaving bloody scratches along my arms. Rain begins to pour down, soaking the white dress and making the stupid thing see through. I take every right turn in the garden maze, falling to my knees in the center. Looking up, I see a statue of two people in a passionate position. The statues here don’t make sense with the man I know who owns the place. He's a grumpy, broody, most non-loving person ever. So why the roses, the pianos, and statues?

“You’ve always been dramatic.”

I whip my head in Atticus' direction. “What does that even mean? I’ve always been dramatic. How would you know?”

He bends, pulling me to my feet. “You’ll eventually remember, or you won’t.” He leans in closer, “It doesn’t change anything.”

“Do not touch me.” I push at his chest to no relief.

He fists my wet hair, wrapping it around his hand before pulling me closer until our soaked chests press against each other. I can count his heartbeats, the different shades of green in his eyes, how many eyelashes he has. The raindrops that trace over his lips. Each jagged edge of his scar.

“Some people are inevitable. Constantly crossing paths, overlapping until one day those lines merge to one.” He pushes his face closer to mine. “That’s us, Constance. Always dancing around each other. Like the moon and Earth. Waiting on gravity to shift so we can collide into one another.”

“I just met you.” I whisper harshly.

“Have you?” He whispers before smashing his lips to mine.

I freeze, wanting to give into the sick pull I have towards him, but I don’t. He bites into my lip so hard blood dribbles down my chin. I gasp, slamming my hands against his chest.

He captures them, backing us into the statue. My back slamming against the wet marble, hands above my head as he uses his free hand to unbuckle his belt. My entire body freezes. “I don’t want this.”

He laughs, freeing himself. “Trust me, I’ve taken from those who don’t want it, you won't be getting a mark on my body. Now spread your legs for me, Little Bird.”

“You’d seriously rape me?”

He pauses, eyes narrowing as he pauses himself at my entrance. “Is that what you're telling yourself in that naive head of yours? That I’m raping you. Is that how you rationalize the slickness between your thighs? Why your heart is racing, eyes glazed over in lust? Is that how you deal with being so fucking obsessed with a man like me?”

“Shut up,” I whisper.

He smirks, pushing himself into me. Not allowing me to expand around him before he’s rutting into me against the statue. “Say it,” He commands. His hand releasing mine, one going to lift my thigh around his hip, the other pulling down my dress to free my aching breast. “Say you don’t want this. Say that I’m raping you. Go ahead, say it,” he hisses.

My hands tighten on his shoulder and tears run down my face. He’s right. I want this. I crave it. I’m obsessed with him.

He laughs, lightning flashing behind him in the gray sky. “You can't, can you?” He bites into my full breast, making me cry out. “I think you might want this more than I do,” he murmurs into the bruise slowly forming.

“I don’t want you,” I whimper, my nails leaving crescent moons onto his dress shirt.

I move my hands, slowly undoing his shirt before he growls, pushing my hands back above my head. “Did I say you could fucking touch me?”

“May I?” The words tremble out.

“No.”

Something inside me falls. Maybe it’s my heart or my pride but I don’t have much time to think it over because his other hand is at my clit, stroking while his cock impales me. Hitting the one spot Joseph could never find.

I feel as if I’ve gone mad. My breast for his taking, my hands restrained. My skin rubbing feverishly on the statue as Atticus takes from me. I want to touch him, feel his weight on me as our breaths mingle, lips brushing. But he keeps me pinned, not allowing a single touch from me.

“I want to touch you,” I beg.

He bites my neck, not bothering to soothe it. “You can’t touch me.”

“Then at least let me see you,” I whine.

I want to see his skin, the grooves and edges I know lie behind the clothes.

“No,” he growls. “Now shut up and take my dick like a good girl without all the theatrics.”

And like a good girl, I do. I let the beast free himself inside me. Breaking my heart with each thrust while simultaneously taking me higher and higher until he bites my nipples. Stars exploding, my eyesight gone as my body trembles with wave after wave of pleasure. Until I’m nothing more than a vessel for him to use, to find his release. His groans are overshadowed by the thunder. Lightning strikes and highlights the filthy position we’re in.

He licks rain drops off my breast, my collarbone, and neck. His thrust slows inside of me before he pulls out.

He lets me down, pushing his fingers inside of me and massaging his cum into my walls. The intense feeling has my knees buckling, my eyes watering.

“I wouldn’t mind seeing your belly swollen with my baby,” he murmurs so low; I almost can’t hear him.

“Birth control,” I breathe out.

He scowls, releasing me so I fall to my knees. And then, he walks away, leaving me swimming in mixed emotions.