Page 19 of Filthy Elites

Jason is unnaturally quiet on the way to his car. It’s not until we’re off to his mother’s house that it occurs to me I should have driven on my own. This is looking and feeling a lot like a date, and I’m not keen. More problematic is that being trapped in the small space with him makes it impossible to escape the heady scent of his cologne. The smell is doing all sorts of crazy things to my body: stomach twisted into knots, palms sweaty, and heartbeat erratic. I don’t like this cocktail of reactions.

“How come you picked the violin and not the piano?” I break the silence when I can no longer bear it.

“I sucked at the piano.”

Wow. That confession came fast and unexpectedly.“Do you want to hear a secret?”

He peels his gaze off the road for a second. “Are you so mesmerized by my dashing good looks that you decided to fess up to why you killed Isabelle Maldonaro?”

I snort. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’m not mesmerized by you.”

“For a pathological liar, you’re horrible at it.”

“Never mind.” I glance out the window, annoyed with myself for trying to have a civil conversation with him.

“Fine. Tell me a secret.”

I should ignore him now, but that will go against my plan. In order to understand Jason’s deranged mind, I must get closer to him.

“My favorite instrument is the piano, not the violin.”

He doesn’t reply right away, so I glance at him. He’s frowning.

After another second, he flicks his gaze to mine. “So what happened? Did you suck at it too?”

I laugh without humor. “No, my parents moved a lot, and a piano was too cumbersome. They convinced me to play a smaller instrument. I didn’t want to play the violin, but when I started receiving praise from instructors and winning competitions, it grew on me. Now I can’t think about playing any other instrument.”

Jesus, I ended up revealing way more than I intended. Jason remains silent for a while. Curious, I glance at him. His jaw is tense, and his mouth is set in a harsh line.Great. I pissed him off already. It seems he hates that I’m good at playing the violin. Is it possible that he’s jealous of my success?

“Basically, what you’re saying is that you’re an attention-seeking whore,” he replies finally.

The venom in his tone hurts more than his actual words.

“We’re artists. We’re all attention-seeking whores. Don’t you dare sit on your high horse and pretend you aren’t one.”

Surprisingly, he laughs. “Touché.”

I refrain from talking for the rest of the trip. What Jason said bothered me and made me doubt my motivation in life. Is it possible that I care more about the fame than the art? My parents wouldn’t have taken my violin from me if they didn’t know I’d be tempted to perform for an audience. If I cared only about the craft, I could just play for myself.

I’m in a sour mood when he finally parks the car in front of a beachfront mansion. There’s nothing unique about the building, it’s just your generic modern white house with a lot of windows, super common on the expensive Southern California coast.

He gets out and strides to the front door without waiting for me. He’s back to acting like a jerk, and that cements the notion this is not a date; it’s a business transaction. I come to dinner with him, he doesn’t pressure me about my secret for another day.

He’s already inside the house when I catch up with him. The foyer is huge with a high ceiling and a whole lot of nothing save for a grand staircase. The white walls hurt my eyes.

While I’m busy staring, Jason moves on to the outside area facing the beach.

“We’re here,” he announces.

I hurry to join him, feeling a little sick that I’m about to meet his mother. She’s standing at the railing, looking at the ocean. The salt in the air brings good memories of when I was younger and lived in Florida. That was before we moved to Spain. I’ve always loved the beach. When she turns, I see the cigarette between her fingers. Her features are striking. High cheekbones, beautiful blue eyes—the same shade as Jason’s—and dark hair.

“This is Nicola Devlin.” Jason points at me.

The woman gives me an elevator glance, and when she’s done with her inspection, I feel like I failed. There’s no warmth in her gaze.

“So, this is the girl who Mrs. Simpson thought was good enough to play with you.”

“The one and only.” Jason sticks his hands in his pockets, attempting to look casual, but I notice the tension in his shoulders. He’s hating being here.

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