Dr. Marceaux stands, his voice clipped. “What are you doing in here?”
Emeric doesn’t break eye contact with me. There are so many emotions seeping from him, I don’t know how to sort them. Anger is the easiest to recognize, locking his jaw and engorging the veins in his tense forearms. But there’s an undercurrent of something more vulnerable. His fingers twitch at his sides, and tendons stand out in his neck. Is he scared? Afraid I’ll leave? Or is that my wishful thinking?
Dr. Marceaux moves toward the door, his voice low and harsh. “Emeric, there are five nurses here today, watching your every move. I won’t be able to contain the gossip.”
Emeric holds my eyes as he speaks to his dad. “After the scene Joanne just made, they’ll think I came in here to talk to you.”
“Is she still here?” I relax my hands in my lap and try to look brave and mature. “What did you talk about?”
“You can discuss it at home.” Dr. Marceaux pulls a gown from the drawer and sets it beside me. “Dr. Hill will be in any second to do the pelvic exam.”
“I’m staying.” Emeric leans against the counter, hands in his pockets, settling in.
“No, you’re not.” I grab the gown, turning it every which way to make sense of it. “This is awkward enough. Besides, I’m pissed at you.”
He snatches the smock from my hands and holds it open. “It goes on like this.”
Dr. Marceaux grips the doorknob. “Let’s go, son.”
In a flash, Emeric closes the distance between us, grips the hair at my scalp, and puts his mouth at my ear. “We’re not finished.”
Then he follows his dad out of the room, leaving me breathless and even more confused than I was before.
In a daze, I pee in a cup in the bathroom and change into the weird gown in the exam room. The elderly Dr. Hill arrives with news that I’m not pregnant. Then he hands me a package of birth control pills, does a breast exam, and sticks his hand and other invasive things in my vagina.
By the time I climb into the Porsche, my head is pounding with a barrage of questions. Where do I go? What should I do?
I grip the steering wheel and search my gut for the right decision. Going to his house doesn’t mean I’m desperate or needy. I can always go back home and return to the way things were before.
But I’ve never been the girl who runs from an argument. I need answers, and there’s only one place to find them.
A few minutes later, I punch in my code at the security gate, a code Emeric let me come up with on my own. Then I park beside the GTO and enter the house through the unlocked back door.
Schubert greets me in the mud room with a purring leg rub. As I scoop him up, I’m distracted by the muffled melody of a piano. He’s playing?
I give the kitty a nuzzle, set him down, and follow the notes through the winding corridors.
I’ve peeked into his music room several times, admired his Fazioli from afar, but I’ve never gone in. I had this idea that he would lead me there when his hands were healed. Then he would sit behind the keyboard and play something crazy amazing, like Ravel’s Gaspard de la Nuit.
As I draw closer, I don’t hear Ravel or Brhams or Liszt. He’s playing Metallica.
I freeze in the doorway, held in paralyzing captivation as the familiar tune of “Nothing Else Matters” wraps around me. Twenty feet away, he rocks on the bench, eyes closed, profile relaxed, and forearms flexing as he hammers the keys.
He’s conservatory trained but plays metal on the piano? Without a music sheet. Only virtuosos can so smoothly replicate pieces they’ve heard. I’m completely and totally awe-struck.
When I remember to breathe, my lungs expand, inhaling the sight of him, the poignant arrangement of notes, and the energy in the air.
Head down, black hair hanging over his brow, he sways his jaw side-to-side in a slow tempo with the music. The melody is a desperate plea infused with longing, and he opens it up with expert strokes, tapping his bare foot softly, his posture a powerhouse of contracting muscle beneath the white t-shirt.
The face of his watch glints in the light as he leaps between octaves. With each snap of his wrist, I imagine that hand whipping across my skin. The spread and flex of his fingers makes me wish they were curled around my throat with the same passion and intensity. His hips roll, and I tremble to straddle his lap and ride the wave of his body as he plays.
In the right hands, the piano can steal the soul. Clearly, his hands are made for the keys, because I don’t just feel the notes inside me. They devour me like a dark, voracious flame.
He’s so sexy and talented I don’t know what to do with the dangerous feelings he stirs in me. I’m supposed to be mad at him and demanding answers. I should feel lost, uncertain.
Instead, I feel claimed, as if he’s caressing each key with me on his mind. We’re not finished. He wants me here, even though he hasn’t acknowledged my presence.