Page 116 of Devious Obsession
What the fuck?
“What does it say?”
He looks up at me, frowning. Still on his knees before me. “It says you’re mine.”
35
ASPEN
Property of Steele O’Brien.
That’s what the fucking tattoo says.
I pull my underwear up with an exhale, trying to keep calm.
After he let me up, I went home. It was four in the morning, but I just couldn’t be around him anymore. Simple as that. I was lucky to find my phone on the way out, deader than a doornail. No one was on the streets on my walk back, and even Uncle wasn’t waiting for me in my apartment.
I fell asleep promptly, only waking when the sun streamed in through my window. I showered, somewhat disgruntled at the extra care I had to pay to thetattoowhile washing.
Now my phone is alive, and the first thing I see after dressing is an email from the music theory professor I had met weeks ago. William Wilcox. I snatch it up and unlock my phone, scanning the email.
Ms. Monroe,
Thank you for your patience while I worked out the finer details on my end. If you are still willing, we would like to have you come in and audition for the open pianist position in the Crown Point Orchestra next week. As you may know, I hold a position on the orchestra’s founding board. Our members are looking forward to meeting you.
Sincerely,
Professor William Wilcox
Holy.
Shit.
It’s happening. There’s an audition piece attached to the email for me to learn.
I leap up and spin in a circle, suddenly realizing that I haven’t played the piano in four days. How the hell did I just—forget? Did Steele blindside me so much that I forgot my one true love in life?
I need my sheet music. I need to get back to practiceimmediately. Plus learning this new piece, which I have to perfect in a limited amount of time.
“Oh my god.” I can’t find it.
My whole binder of music is gone.
I drop to my knees and look under my bed, my stomach in my throat.
Not here.
Where’s the last place I saw my music?
When’s the last time I had it?
I scramble around my room, yanking open my closet doors. The bag of money stares at me, reminding me that I still have to figure out next semester’s financial situation, and also somehow return this blood money to my dad, without actually giving it tohim.
I’d like to keep up my no-contact record, thank you very much.
Besides the eyesore bag of cash, there isn’t much else in my closet. Just clothes and some storage bins. None of which hold my binder of sheet music.
“Fuck,” I mutter.
