Player(54)

This time, I didn’t chuckle. I laughed, a deep sound that bounded through my chest. “You are something else, you know that?”

“Look who’s talking.”

“Want to shower?” I asked with a smirk, thumbing her cheek.

She glanced down at the mess between us. “Oh. I probably should.”

I kissed her nose and rolled off of her. “Come on. I’ll show you where everything is.”

I padded through my room and into the bathroom, swiping a washcloth off a stack on the shelf to run under the sink faucet. Val came in a second later, and when I looked up, my lips sank in a frown.

Her confidence had been hushed, taking her courage with it. Her arms cradled her breasts, arranged as if she was trying to hide. Everything about her posture screamed discomfort, from her sloped shoulders to her turned-in toes.

But the worst was that she wouldn’t meet my eyes.

I shut off the faucet and ate the space between us with two paces. Her face was in my hands, angling it so she would look at me. She didn’t fight it.

Her eyes were impossibly sad.

“Tell me,” I commanded gently.

“Nothing.” She tried to smile.

“Don’t do that. Don’t lie. Please, Val.”

“It’s stupid, and I already know what you’ll say,” she said, the admission coming faster with every word. “You’ll say you’ve already seen me from every angle, that I’m beautiful and whatever. It’s one thing to be in your bed, but…I don’t know. Walking around in front of you naked is different. I…I hate my body. I hate it, and I don’t want you to see it like this.”

I didn’t say anything for a second, processing her words, thinking about how to respond, holding her small face in my hands like she were a fawn set to bolt.

“You didn’t seem to mind a minute ago,” I said gently. “I know I didn’t mind then, and I don’t mind now. I’d take you into that shower and show you just how much I don’t mind, but that’s not what tonight was meant for.” I searched her eyes, wishing I could undo what lay behind them. “I hate—hate—that this is how you see yourself. That you think everyone sees you the same way, that I see you this way. All I can do is tell you that you’re wrong and hope someday you trust me enough to believe me.”

She shook her head and tried to look away as her eyes filled with tears. “You’re just saying that, Sam. This is your job, isn’t it? You’re not just here to teach me. You’re here to make me feel beautiful. To give me confidence. It’s not real.”

Anger blew through me like a hot desert wind, dry and rough with sand. “Is that really what you think? That I’m patronizing you? That I was what, faking it?” I shook my head, holding her face still so she’d have to look into my eyes when I said what I had to say. “In that case, I deserve a fucking Academy Award. I’m not an optician or a magician—I can’t make you see something you don’t want to believe.”

I let her face go and turned for the door.

“Towels are on the shelf. Use my bathrobe, if you want. It’s on the back of the door,” I said just before I hooked the doorknob and closed it behind me.

Frustration scratched at ribs as I blew into the kitchen to clean myself up. I didn’t understand how she could be so clueless, that she couldn’t grasp how this worked. Men weren’t robots. We couldn’t fake attraction, fake interest, not at that level. Or at least I couldn’t. It was there, or it wasn’t.

Maybe it’s that I feel misunderstood, I considered as I stormed back into my room, throwing on sleep pants and nothing more.

I righted my blankets and found Val’s clothes, folded them, and stacked them on the foot of the bed, thumbing the silky fabric of her panties before laying them on top.

She thought I was faking it. That I was a liar. That I was lying to her.

But it wasn’t me she disbelieved, I realized. It was the world.

My anger dissipated, leaving me with nothing but sorrow. Because Val didn’t know any better. She’d never had anyone want her this way, treat her with care, touch her with desire. She didn’t know how badly I wanted her and didn’t understand how I possibly could.

Those fucking jerkoff, lowbrow, plebeian motherfuckers. They didn’t deserve to touch her. They don’t deserve to touch anyone. I should find them and cut off all their fingers.

I raked a hand through my hair as I padded back out of my room, stopping to pour a drink on my way to my music room. I flipped on the lamp next to the piano, taking a sip of my whiskey.

When I sat, I heard the melody, the one that had been haunting me, but with a new stanza, a continuation I hadn’t considered before. The notes rang in my head, sang in my bones, left through my fingers, filled the room.

And in my mind was Val.

The shadows of her body, the sound of her sigh. The feel of her against me, the heat of her skin. The smell of her, rich and lush, clinging to me.

My pulse picked up in anticipation of every brush of my fingers against the ivory keys. The tune felt familiar, as if I’d heard it before, though I knew I hadn’t—at least, not with my ears. I’d heard it with my heart instead.

I paused, picking up my pencil to jot on the sheet music. Then again, I played the stanza, made more notes.

An immeasurable amount of time went by—I was lost inside a slipstream—before the bench under me creaked, and I felt her next to me.