Page 39 of Closer

“What if we could change that?”

“Let me guess, if I fuck you, you will take me under your wing, introduce me to all the right people, and put me on the map. Did I miss any other clichés?”

I nod. “Yeah, the one where the tough female protagonist thinks every man is out to get her.”

“Well, unlike your fangirls, I do not care what you think of me. I’m just here to play and get paid.” She pulls the piano stool closer to the cello and picks up a case from the ground that I hadn’t noticed before. Angry French Girl pulls out a bow, not unlike the one she beat me with at Ryan’s wedding. It’s sleek, refined, burnt umber, with a head that curves into a wicked sharp point.

“And if you can shove my balls in a vice and get paid for it, then you’re winning, right?”

“Why is it that men are so threatened by strong women?” Brie removes a tiny tin from her case and opens it, pulling out a cloth with a rich red cake of what looks like soap and begins sliding it along the hairs of the bow. She gives it a small flick and rests the bow on her lap as she pulls the cello from the stand.

“I’m not threatened. I love strong women. I think they’re hot.”

She opens her legs. I cock my head to the side, but the long dress she wears means I can’t see a damn thing anyway. Brie shakes her head and sighs. “Tu est ridicule.”

“Merci beaucoup.”

“I thought you did not speak French?”

“I don’t.” I cross the room and pick up the whisky I left on top of the piano several nights ago. My head thrums like the strings on her cello as she tunes the instrument. I park my arse on the floor in front of her, twist the lid off the bottle, and gulp back several long pulls as my gut churns and my chest aches—with the afterburn of alcohol or something else, I don’t know. “I know maybe five words.”

One perfectly made-up brow arches. “And yet you now own a piece of France?”

“Yeah ...” I glance at the crumbling ceiling. “I guess I do.”

“Then perhaps you should learn to speak our language.”

“Perhaps you should teach me.”

“J'ai déja mon lot de connerie à gérer, tu ne penses pas?”

“I’m gonna go out on a limb and say that wasn’t you telling me you’d be happy to. Am I right?”

“Tout à fait.” Her smile is cunning, and so fucking hot.

“Ouch.” I rub at my chest, pretending to feel, but at the moment, I’m completely numb. “So mean. I should warn you, I like that in a woman.”

“Why am I not surprised by this?” She shakes her head, but there’s the barest hint of a smile on her lips. “You’re like a naughty toddler.”

“You’re right, and I could use a spanking.” I grin, but the smile disappears.

“I should get back to playing music, non?”

“And here I thought we were,” I whisper. She remains unimpressed and I drink my whisky as her fingers glide along the fingerboard and her bow saws across the strings, creating some of the most sorrowful sounds I’ve ever heard. I listen, and I drink, and all the while the anger, the sadness, the hollowness and bitter desperation I feel is slowly pulled from me by her hands. As if she were a siren, and the cello was her voice, and I was just another man at sea whose soul she longed to consume.

Maybe I’m still drunk, maybe I’m just fucked up, but when she’s finished playing, she stares at me. It’s as if she doesn’t know what to make of the utterly decimated man at her feet. A man she just ruined with her skilled hands, without ever laying a finger on him. A half smile tips up the corner of her mouth and she gets up and leaves the room, cold and lonelier, and yet somehow fuller than when she arrived.

***

Idon’t see Brie forthe rest of the day. She doesn’t eat with Margaux, Dog, and me that night. Instead, she takes her dinner to her room, as if she were being held captive, as if she were my prisoner. A million different fantasies run through my head, but as much as I’d love her on her knees submitting her body to me, a woman like this does not submit. And I am too broken to make her.

I head back to the music room and tinker with the keys of the piano. It has to be close to midnight before I see her again. She stands in the doorway, watching me in the dark.

I feel her there, though I don’t acknowledge her presence. When I bring the song to a close, she moves into the room and stops just a few feet shy of me.

“That is beautiful. What is it?”

“I don’t know yet. I’m thinking of calling it ‘Why Won’t You Fuck Me and Put Me Out of My Misery’. Has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

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