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Authors: M.S. Daniel
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herself upon the cushioned, adjustable piano bench. Placing her hands on the smooth, flawless ivory, she depressed just one key. But the moment she heard that first delicious note, she was swept into another world – a world in which her dreams hadn’t shattered and hope still flourished. She began playing as she hadn’t in a long time.
The music that ebbed and flowed from her soul permeated every cubic centimeter of the dome, like a heady vapor. Cascades of dark chocolate sound multiplied through the mid-sized atrium, until eventually, it seemed like a whole chorus of Steinways exuded their hauntingly-euphoric melody, blending together like ocean waves.
Several minutes passed before she came to a conclusion, and even after she ceased to depress the keys, the rich tones continued to linger for a full minute, seemingly reluctant to dispel completely.
Shelley allowed the fading sound to float her gently back down to earth. She took a deep sighing breath in total satisfaction. Though it was only for the moment, she felt whole for the first time in a long while.
Suddenly, she became aware that she was not alone. Slowly opening her eyes, she removed her hands from the ivory as a sliver of apprehension stole over her, raising the hairs on her arms.
She turned to her right, looking out across the floor, to face whoever would administer the verdict.
Two men in business attire stood by the foyer watching her, taking notes. One of them spoke with a gravelly voice, cold, unaffected by her passion. “What’s your name, miss?”
“Uh, Shelley,” she replied nervously.
He scribbled it down. Left-handed. A pause and then a glance at her, brows raised, waiting for a last name. He’d be waiting a long time. “Okay. And how do we contact you?”
She gave them her 917 digits. Verizon. The only way to hear a pin drop in the Big Apple.
“And if selected, when are you available to start?”
“Whenever.” She cringed slightly afterwards, hating the eagerness in her answer.
He wrote it down. “And are you by any chance Henri Mitchel’s daughter?”
She choked on her own saliva, and her answer came out in an embarrassing croak. “Yes.”
Surprisingly, they both laughed. “Alright then,” the man said, mirth lingering in his tone. “We’ll be in touch.”
12
Two weeks later…
Carrie Weston’s slim fingers vacillated over the slightly corroded brass knocker. But the debate was short-lived. Her beefy, unsociable demon of a relation wouldn’t have answered even if she was being held at gunpoint – which she’d already claimed once. Of course, he hadn’t believed her.
So she slipped her hand inside her DK purse and withdrew the key he’d given her for emergencies.
Now was close enough.
Opening the door quietly, the auburn vixen snuck inside the one-bedroom apartment, not surprised at how dark it was. Her sapphire eyes quickly adjusted and located the heavily-scarred brute. It wasn’t hard. She just followed the glow of rage he always effervesced like he’d been dunked in a vat of nuclear waste.
Hmm. Maybe he was . The thought caused her stomach to quiver in amusement which she forced herself to contain. But there he was, in the back corner of the dusky area he called a living room, beating his fists into a 100-lb punching bag. Shirtless. Sweat cascading down his face and his ridiculously cut upper body.
She tilted her head and watched, leaning against the doorjamb. Even from a first cousin’s perspective, he was good enough to eat, bullet-holes and all – if it wasn’t, you know, illegal and um, totally gross. Besides, she had her own platter of delicacies with nice, unmarred doctor’s hands and excellent bedside manners to whom she wasn’t remotely related. She glanced at her left hand, just admiring the platinum three-stone diamond ring which sparkled even in this dull atmosphere. Ugh! Light. This place needed light.
“Hey, Zach!” she greeted brightly, shocking him half to death as she strutted
The music that ebbed and flowed from her soul permeated every cubic centimeter of the dome, like a heady vapor. Cascades of dark chocolate sound multiplied through the mid-sized atrium, until eventually, it seemed like a whole chorus of Steinways exuded their hauntingly-euphoric melody, blending together like ocean waves.
Several minutes passed before she came to a conclusion, and even after she ceased to depress the keys, the rich tones continued to linger for a full minute, seemingly reluctant to dispel completely.
Shelley allowed the fading sound to float her gently back down to earth. She took a deep sighing breath in total satisfaction. Though it was only for the moment, she felt whole for the first time in a long while.
Suddenly, she became aware that she was not alone. Slowly opening her eyes, she removed her hands from the ivory as a sliver of apprehension stole over her, raising the hairs on her arms.
She turned to her right, looking out across the floor, to face whoever would administer the verdict.
Two men in business attire stood by the foyer watching her, taking notes. One of them spoke with a gravelly voice, cold, unaffected by her passion. “What’s your name, miss?”
“Uh, Shelley,” she replied nervously.
He scribbled it down. Left-handed. A pause and then a glance at her, brows raised, waiting for a last name. He’d be waiting a long time. “Okay. And how do we contact you?”
She gave them her 917 digits. Verizon. The only way to hear a pin drop in the Big Apple.
“And if selected, when are you available to start?”
“Whenever.” She cringed slightly afterwards, hating the eagerness in her answer.
He wrote it down. “And are you by any chance Henri Mitchel’s daughter?”
She choked on her own saliva, and her answer came out in an embarrassing croak. “Yes.”
Surprisingly, they both laughed. “Alright then,” the man said, mirth lingering in his tone. “We’ll be in touch.”
12
Two weeks later…
Carrie Weston’s slim fingers vacillated over the slightly corroded brass knocker. But the debate was short-lived. Her beefy, unsociable demon of a relation wouldn’t have answered even if she was being held at gunpoint – which she’d already claimed once. Of course, he hadn’t believed her.
So she slipped her hand inside her DK purse and withdrew the key he’d given her for emergencies.
Now was close enough.
Opening the door quietly, the auburn vixen snuck inside the one-bedroom apartment, not surprised at how dark it was. Her sapphire eyes quickly adjusted and located the heavily-scarred brute. It wasn’t hard. She just followed the glow of rage he always effervesced like he’d been dunked in a vat of nuclear waste.
Hmm. Maybe he was . The thought caused her stomach to quiver in amusement which she forced herself to contain. But there he was, in the back corner of the dusky area he called a living room, beating his fists into a 100-lb punching bag. Shirtless. Sweat cascading down his face and his ridiculously cut upper body.
She tilted her head and watched, leaning against the doorjamb. Even from a first cousin’s perspective, he was good enough to eat, bullet-holes and all – if it wasn’t, you know, illegal and um, totally gross. Besides, she had her own platter of delicacies with nice, unmarred doctor’s hands and excellent bedside manners to whom she wasn’t remotely related. She glanced at her left hand, just admiring the platinum three-stone diamond ring which sparkled even in this dull atmosphere. Ugh! Light. This place needed light.
“Hey, Zach!” she greeted brightly, shocking him half to death as she strutted
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