Dollars (Dollar #2)(84)

By the time night fell, I’d eaten a distracted dinner of lasagne and headed to my room to shower.

I had plans to go to Pim once I’d washed away the salt from the storm, but I wanted to re-centre myself first. I wanted to be sane, so the moment she opened the door I wouldn’t shove her against the wall and devour her.

She was playing havoc with my control.

Soon, I wouldn’t be able to be in the same room as her without needing to put an end to my frustration.

As fresh warm water cascaded over me, my mind tormented me with her mouth on my cock and the blowjob she’d tried to give. My hand gripped my length, begging to work for a release.

Even though it took every ounce of energy I had left, I pulled my palm away.

As much as I wanted to come, I didn’t want to waste the anticipation of whatever would happen when Pim finally did accept me, finally trusted me to do more than kiss her.

I groaned as the image of kissing led to touching led to slipping inside her.

My balls were rock f*cking hard.

She’s driving me insane.

I needed to focus on something else—something I was immensely good at—before I lost myself to the obsession that would spring into place the moment I tasted Pim.

I’d battled it for too long.

The second I f*cked her, I’d be forced to give in and then she’d see the real me. I snorted as I tilted my head to the spray. All this time, I’d been a gentleman. She thought she knew me. She couldn’t have it more f*cking wrong.

The closer I let myself get to Pim, the harder it was to fight the urge to reveal who I truly was.

Stepping from the shower, I dressed in dark grey sweat-pants that sat low on my hips; I didn’t bother with a shirt. My wraparound balcony opening onto the main deck glittered with stars thanks to the open doors, and the heat from the aftermath of the storm drenched the air with heavy mugginess.

Heading to the specially designed closet where foam and braces had been painstakingly crafted to embrace my cello, I undid the straps and pulled it free.

If I hadn’t installed such a safe place, I doubted the cello would’ve survived last night’s catastrophe.

The weight and bulk were no longer cumbersome, but I remembered a time when the instrument had been a foreign stranger. Then my tutor had played that first note, corralled my unskilled fingers to press on the right strings, and boom, the curse in my blood took over.

I played and played and played.

Every spare moment, I sat until my legs went to sleep, hunger made me tremble, and my fingers bled for more music. No one could reach me. No one could stop me. Nothing else mattered.

Nothing.

As the cello settled like a compliant lover between my legs, my mind slipped backward into the quicksand of memories.

All my young life, I’d lived with something inside me—something stronger than I was, something that had the power to destroy me as well as save me.

I thought it would decimate everyone I loved until my mother took it upon herself to nurture it. My father agreed, and they gave me free rein to evolve my talent in music. I became obsessed, possessed, and utterly overpowered with the need to be as brilliant as I could. I’d read music until my eyes fogged. I’d practice and practice until my ears rang from the same notes, every second, of every hour, of every day.

Eventually, my tutor spoke to my father. He was afraid of my passion, afraid because I stopped eating, drinking, living. I only existed to master the cello in every way possible.

However, my father understood who I was, and instead of scolding me, he encouraged me.

I became worse.

Origami started much the same. One night, I picked up a piece of my brother’s homework left on the kitchen table. His assignment was to make a simple crane for a class project.

It took me all night, but I mastered the entire exercise booklet, leaving my origami creations of cranes and boats and butterflies outside my brother’s bedroom, so he woke up in a sea of folded colour.

After that, if I wasn’t playing the cello, I was creasing paper into anything I could imagine. I no longer needed guidelines and instructions. I was the instructions.

But then, I f*cked up.

My childhood disappeared.

And my new life obsession was tracking down those who stole from me and steal from them in return. I’d hunt every person who’d ever put a roadblock in my path and kill them.

And I wouldn’t stop until I was the biggest, baddest, most untouchable one of them all.

The entire time my mind ran backward over good and evil, my fingers flew. Music poured. Violence was shared. Love was created. I didn’t play as audiences expected. I didn’t keep calm and close my eyes to visualize the notes better.

I let loose.

My body became quavers; my arms double clefts. I lost myself to the dark melody as I maimed and wounded it, changing and designing.

Sweat glistened over my naked chest; my fingers became damp as I struggled to race through a crescendo that made me rock f*cking hard and almost at the verge of burning tears.

And then a flutter of motion wrenched my head up.

Pimlico hovered just over the threshold of my room.

Her mouth hung wide, her hands balled. She wore the white robe I’d given her when I’d pushed her from my room the last time. White—the colour of where I’d stolen her from. White—the colour of her innocence that’d been ripped away. White—the colour of lies and half-truths and fear.