Page 68 of Riot Rules
Dash props himself up on one elbow, looking at me. I crack one eye open and look back at him. He doesn’t say anything, and neither do I, but I can tell he’s weighing. Measuring. Deciding. Drawing in a deep breath, he rolls off the bed and pulls his boxers on, groaning unhappily, but then he pads over to the piano. God, I am literally the luckiest bitch alive. The view as he walks away is…it’s just… I laugh silently under my breath, justnothandling it at all.
He sits at the piano. “Close your eyes,Stella.”
“What if I don’t want to?”
He plays a dramatic, sinister chord, looking back at me darkly over his shoulder.
I laugh. “Okay. Okay. Closing my eyes.”
He begins to play. The music starts off quiet and slow. One bright note. Another. The pace picks upsoslowly, gradually building, one striking note and then a chord—a melody shyly presenting itself as the shape of the piece emerges.
It’s beautiful.
I hold my breath, listening with every cell of my body. Listening with my soul.
The music quickens, properly introducing itself, and the odd minor note creeps in, but the discordant elements aren’t jarring. Oddly, they only complement the rising, uplifting, soaring aspect of the song. The music climbs and climbs, ascending to dizzying heights, until I’m drowning in a waterfall of sound and emotion. Faster and faster, more and more complex. I open my eyes at last, because what tone deaf fool could sit in amongst this kind of beauty and resist seeking its source?
Dash is bent forward, his head tilted to one side, and I can tell from the way he’s sitting thathiseyes are still closed. The muscles in his back shift as his hands move gracefully up and down the keys, his fingers hitting each note with perfect precision.
I’m gripped by such an overwhelming swell of emotion that my eyes burn, tears beginning to form…
Still, it rises. The music folds in on itself, repeating, repeating, yet subtly changing each time, growing more complex and wonderful, and my heart flies.
It’s maddening in its brilliance. It takes ahold of me and burns.
And just when I think the mounting swell of sound will rob me of my mind, it starts to slow. The complexity begins to unravel, breaking down into its simpler parts. One little piece at a time, Dash disassembles the towering masterpiece he’s created, until eventually the skipping chords become skipping stones again, single, bright hopeful notes…
Spaced out like breaths…
Little gasps…
Flourishes…
In the dark…
And then silence.
Dash eases back from the piano, sighing like a weight he’s been carrying around for a very long time has been inexplicably lifted.
“What…wasthat?”I whisper.
The bench underneath him creaks as he spins around and faces me. “What d’you think it was, silly girl,” he says. “It wasyou.”
26
DASH
Let me tell ya,I’m no prude, but it’s hard to feel comfortable around seven other guys, running around with their cocks out. This would never fucking happen in England. Even in locker rooms, British dudes wear towels synched around their waists to preserve their modesty. Americans are much freer with their bodies, but this kind of display goes beyond the pale. I recognize their faces, as the dudes barrel across the foyer, completely naked, but I couldn’t tell you their names. All I know is that they’re Wolf Hall students, they’re high as fuck, and they’ve probably been screwing girls (or each other) in the formal dining room.
Carina mutters, “Oh, Jeez,” and ducks her head as they fly past us. I ready myself for a full-on assault if any of them so much as look fucking sideways at her, but none of them do. They tear out of the open front door and into the night, screeching and yelling at the top of their lungs like animals. Why Wren thought this was a good idea, I will never know.
Speaking of Wren…
We find him sprawled out on the rug in front of the fireplace, a pink party hat strapped to his head, the elastic tucked under his chin, his dark curls forming a halo around his face. He’s cata-fucking-tonic.
“He missed the whole party,” Carina nudges him with her bare foot. I wince, waiting for his eyes to snap open and laser in on us, but he doesn’t even twitch. “God, he’s not dead is he?” she whispers, bending down to study him closer.
I crouch beside my friend, checking for a pulse, which I find right away—a little quick but otherwise steady. His chest rises and falls, confirming that he’s breathing too. I have to move him, but I’ll have to find Pax first. No way I can carry the fucker upstairs on my own.
