Total pages in book: 39
Estimated words: 36768 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 184(@200wpm)___ 147(@250wpm)___ 123(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 36768 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 184(@200wpm)___ 147(@250wpm)___ 123(@300wpm)
“Ninety minutes, Jess,” Mike says firmly. “Starting right now.”
Right. I stretch my neck side to side, fully expecting Mike to come in and watch me. But he doesn’t. I can hear him moving through the house—now up the steps, now out into the garage. He is giving me my space, and for really the very first time in as long as I can remember, I feel relaxed as I begin to practice. Relaxed, and safe, and comfortable.
I go through both the Paganini and the Tchaikovsky, not once but three times. As I play, I feel the deep hush and comfort of the house, and also the liberty to make decisions to play how I want to, without my mom meddling, without her constant tuts and inhalations and the aura of anxiety that follows her everywhere through our house. When I am at home, so much seems to be riding on every note. But here, it’s just me, and my violin, and the music. And it makes me so very happy.
I come up on a tricky part of the Tchaikovsky—measure 26, frustrating as all get-out. But instead of my mom tip-toeing outside the room, I hear the soothing sounds of football recaps quietly playing from the kitchen, and the sound of Mike rinsing something in the sink. The click-click of the gas burner coming on.
And just like that, like magic, I make it through measure 26 without a hitch.
As the minutes pass, I let myself trust myself. I let myself enjoy the music. And let myself decide that I won’t know which piece I’ll play until I sit down for tryouts tomorrow. I won’t have to explain it to my mom over dinner; I won’t have to justify it. I can decide. Me. And only me.
The light grows lower, and the den lights come, without Mike coming into switch on the lamps. As I slide down a tumble of triplets, I find myself smiling, glancing at a smart outlet.
And then, as I’m nearing the beautiful decrescendo at the end of the Paganini, I smell a wonderful smell from the kitchen. The smell of…could it be?
Oh yes. Oh it is.
Moroccan lemon chicken. My very, very favorite thing in the world.
CHAPTER 5
Mike
I’m just finishing piping the last frosting petal on the last rose on her birthday cake when she comes into the kitchen.
“Oh my goodness,” she chirps, pressing her hand to her chest. “You…bake?”
Awww yeah, I do. My fondant is the fucking bomb. But I fucking love the surprise in her voice, the flush in her cheeks. Truth is, I’ve been prepping for her 18th for a year, minimum. But when I bought my first set of frosting pipettes, I had no fucking clue how bad I’d want her now.
“I’ve got all kinds of secret talents.”
Her eyes flash. She presses her lips together. Her cute pink-painted toes wiggle on the tile floor. “But doing frosting roses. Mike. Seriously?”
I slide my eyes up and down her body. She’s wearing comfortable clothes now, sun-kissed from being out in the pool this afternoon. Her hoodie is zipped up just to the best part of her cleavage. That little zipper is just begging to be undone. With my teeth.
“You sounded great. You’re going to knock it out of the park.”
She smiles a little, picks up an apple from the fruit bowl but then glances at the time and puts it down.
“Eat the fucking apple if you’re hungry.”
She shakes her head and puts it back in the bowl. “You’ve made dinner, too, I think. I can smell it.”
I nod taking in every succulent inch of her as she stands in my kitchen all eighteen and ripe for picking.
“Your favorites. Sam said you didn’t have a party or anything and I fucking hated hearing that. It’s not every day a girl turns 18. Not every day a girl becomes a woman…”
She blinks quickly, watching me close. The words hang there in the space between us. Because age is one thing. But only I can really make her a woman. I’m going to make her a woman. Deep dick her until she knows just how long I’ve waited for her.
Fuck. The need to claim her is so strong, it almost knocks me back. I shouldn’t be thinking this way. I should not be thinking this way. But she’s there. And I’m here. And I want her so fucking much I’m going to explode.
She looks away, breaking the tension. Her eyes land on the table, set for two. “Did you know Sam would be gone for dinner tonight?”
Fucking right I did. His mom planned this conference months ago. But I don’t answer. Sometimes, silence is the best thing of all.
She takes a step closer. “I can tell the answer is yes. Isn’t it?”
Now I can smell her. And she smells like lilacs again. Goddamn it, this woman. She’s setting me on fire from the inside out. “You should go get changed for dinner.”