Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 103141 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 413(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103141 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 413(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
“My father was embarrassed. He scolded me about it—about crying. It was weak and childish. I was emotional just like my mother. Real men didn’t cry and certainly not over music.”
The coppery taste of blood fills my mouth as I bite down on my tongue…I want his father to die. I want to look in his eyes, hold my hand to his throat, and watch as the life leaves his body.
“I like your heart,” I say. “The world would be a better place if more people had one as big as yours.”
He scoffs.
“I’m being serious. I respect you for it. I could…never do that—I could never be that.”
“I think you probably could,” he says softly.
And because he gave me that, I feel like I owe him as well. “Moira played piano. She taught Cillian, too. When we first started dating, I took her to the symphony. I was young and trying to impress her, but the thing is, I fell in love. I was able to…feel there, feel in this way I wasn’t allowed to do in my life. People thought I went for her, and while she also enjoyed it, I went because of what it did in here.” I touch my chest.
“It makes me feel too.” Even at eight years old, it had made him feel. He watches me with a curiosity that should make me uncomfortable, stares like he’s trying to see something more than I want to show, but I don’t turn away. “I went to my first symphony at the same age that you killed your first man. That makes me so sad for that boy all over again.”
People don’t often feel sad for me. They fear me, hate me, envy me, but don’t feel sad for me. At least, no one other than my friends when I lost Moira.
“Is it weird, Rian? That we share this? Our love of classical music and symphonies?”
“No,” I lie, forcing myself to turn away, trying to snap this hold he has on me like a twig, but it doesn’t break. “It doesn’t mean anything.” Another lie. But then I ask, “What are some of your favorites?”
Abbott doesn’t hesitate as he launches into his list. We talk music and composers while preparing chicken and baked potatoes to go into the oven. Once it’s inside, Abbott makes us each a drink. After another, “No bourbon,” from him—something he has said to me more than once over the last few days—we take our lemonade outside to sit on the porch. Abbott talks about how much he loves string-led pieces and how the second movement of Gorecki’s “Number Three” is his favorite.
“It breaks your heart,” I tell him.
“Yes, it does,” Abbott replies after we fall into a few minutes of silence. “Am I supposed to still be here right now?”
He’s in a chair beside me, and I manage not to react to his question. As a whole, I’m very good at hiding my feelings, masking and not letting anyone know what I’m thinking, but I’ve found it’s hard with him.
“No,” I answer honestly.
“Will Conan kill me?”
“You shouldn’t know his name,” I say, even if it’s just a way to delay my response.
“You told me about Cillian and the others.”
“Because you won’t hurt my son,” I admit, not realizing how much I believed that until this moment. Abbott is a lot of things, but to him, he’ll think about Cillian being a child, raised in this violent world I’ve brought him into, and he won’t hurt him.
“No. I won’t.”
“And Conan won’t kill you. It’ll be me. I promise you that. And I’ll make it quick.”
I take a drink, waiting for him to tell me I don’t have to, that just like he won’t give them anything on Cillian, he won’t tell the authorities about me, or Conan. I wait for him to make promises and barter for his life, but Abbott doesn’t do that.
“Why don’t you ask me not to kill you?” I find myself saying when he doesn’t do what anyone else would do in his situation.
“Will it do any good?”
“No.”
“Then why waste my breath?”
He turns away, then drops his head back, closing his eyes against the bright sunlight filtering through the trees above.
“That’s not why.” I don’t know how I know it, but I do. It’s just another thing about Abbott, about my reaction to him—and hell, his reaction to me—that doesn’t make any sense.
“You can read my mind now?” Abbott cocks a brow.
“Maybe.”
“I don’t want to do this with you, Rian.” He closes his eyes, tilting his head back up to the sun again. Shafts of light splay across his face, his mouth slack and relaxed in a way it absolutely shouldn’t be.
His lips look so soft, plump. His jaw is so strong and cut, his lashes resting against his face in a way I’m surprised to notice.