Thin Love (Thin Love, #1)(86)
A clap of thunder rattled the French door and Kona blinked, squinting, then frowned when he noticed Keira wasn’t in the bed with him. He came to his side, looked around her room, to the girly decorations littered around the room, the random collection of stuffed animal on the floor and he left the bed, pulling his damp jeans on.
“Keira?” he called into the en suite bath, but when he stepped inside, he only found a wet tub and two towels drying on the side of it. The whole room smelled like her, jasmine, sweet and just the scent made Kona hungry for her.
The house was ridiculous and he felt awkward and uncomfortable in the hallway, taking the stairs down, looking at the empty walls and the random décor that reminded Kona of a house that had never been lived in.
He was thinking of the difference between where he grew up and this place, shaking his head at the soulless opulence, at how pristine and orderly everything was, when the sound of a piano in the next room pulled his thoughts toward Keira.
He had been hoping he’d hear her sing. Up until now, Kona had only caught snatches of her voice, low hums and muffled songs through her dorm room wall, but he had always wanted her to sing for him. He wanted her eyes on him when she played, for her to voice the words only for him - but he wouldn’t push, knew he couldn’t push.
“Music,” she’d once told him during one of their long library sessions, “is personal. The stuff I write is for me because it’s part of who I am. I don’t show just anybody who I am, Kona.”
The song she played was slow, soft tickles of the keys that had Kona closing his eyes, had his throat buzzing. As he walked barefoot over the hardwood, he made sure his steps were light, that he didn’t disturb her as she played.
Kona leaned against the wall, tilted his head to watch her. The den was an obnoxious, wide room that veered into two spaces. One side was for drinks and TV watching, he assumed, the other for staring through a floor to ceiling wall of glass that looked out onto the lake. Plants in heavy, wooden tubs were situated in each corner and thick rugs were flung over the dark wood floors; a huge mahogany entertainment center was off to the right. To the left was a brown leather L-shaped couch, plush and pillowed, chenille throws on the arms and across the back. But it was what was in the center of the room that caught Kona’s attention. Separating the two seating areas was a baby grand piano, black, shined to a high gloss with gold wheels and pedals, and “Steinway & Sons” embossed on the face in gold leaf. Keira sat in front of it in nothing but a thin, white robe that fell further off her shoulder the longer she played.
Kona couldn’t remember seeing anything more beautiful.
He watched for several minutes, loved the long, planes of her neck, the defined arch of her shoulders, but would not approach, wouldn’t touch. The song was familiar, something he didn’t think she’d written, and as she continued, humming just above each note, Kona realized it was, “Dark End of the Street,” a song his mother often sang when he was a kid.
Another pass of thunder rolled and a streak of lightening broke through the dark morning skies. Keira turned to watch through the glass wall, fingers still dancing across the keys and that’s when he saw it; the long bruise across her cheek. He felt sick, instantly thinking that somehow he’d left it on her face, but he couldn’t remember touching her, not like that.
He let the flashes of memory from the night before sort and play in his head, remembering nothing but the feel of her skin, the smell of her, how tightly she clamped around him, how eagerly she let go, how being buried inside her felt like home, freed him, how it felt like a high. But none of those flashes explained that mark on her face.
Kona shot for calm, for patience, as he crossed the room, kneeling behind her. He wouldn’t bombard her with questions; he didn’t want to fracture the peace that swam in the house since the moment he told her he loved her. It had been spoken so easily, a second nature that felt instinctive, necessary. Honest.
Keira continued to play, the slow refrain of “Dark Side of the Street” eerily haunting, mesmerizing, but she arched her neck, let her head fall to his shoulder and Kona got a better look at the bruise. Two long, purple lines, faint, but clear. Finger marks. Thin, feminine finger marks.
Motherf*cker, he thought, trying to calm the fury building, the mounting speed of his heart.
Her eyes were closed, her smile easy, content, and Kona hated to pull her out of that emotion, hated that those moments of happiness Leann mentioned had been fleeting, were fleeting. Keira deserved happy. She deserved a hell of a lot more than the shit her mother gave her.
Cautiously, he leaned forward, barely touched his lips to the bruise. Even that careful gesture made Keira wince.
“Baby…”
“It’s not a big deal.” That sounded too practiced, thrown out too casually, like she’d spent years brushing off marks and scratches she’d received. But even as she uttered the platitude, Keira lowered over the keys, head resting against the top of the piano.
Kona couldn’t take her silence or the small shaking movement of her shoulders as she cried. “I’ll kill her.”
Keira laughed, but it was harsh, mixed between tears. “You can’t kill the devil, Kona. Trust me, I’ve thought about it.”
He slid next to her, pulled her onto his lap and Kona kissed her face, drying the moisture as quickly as it surfaced. “You can’t stay here.”