AllFreeNovel
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“I wrote a song.” I said shyly as we approached the abandoned church.
“Like a song with words and shit?”
“No, silly. I wrote a song on the piano. Look.” I pulled the sheet music out of my backpack and handed it to him. His large hands envelop the paper softly as if he doesn’t want to hurt it.
“What’s it about?”
I fight my blush. At fifteen I know he probably sees me as a child with him being seventeen. “You,” I whisper.
His steps slow and he looks down at me. “Play it for me,” It wasn’t a request.
“I don’t have a piano at home,” I frown.
He grabs my hand and butterflies explode inside my stomach. My eyes widen and a tiny gasp puffs from my lips. He pulls me around the old church, helping me climb into a broken window. I hop down, my mouth falling open at the beautiful abandoned white piano. He hops down behind me, walkingaround me and smiling. He hops on top of the piano. “Come on, play for me.”
Swallowing, I sit my bag down and take a seat. He lays the papers out, and I begin. I’m a little shaky at first from all the nerves, but then I fall victim to the song. I don’t even realize it’s over until I open my eyes, staring into the deepest green. He swallows hard, leaning over the keys, he kisses my cheek. “Thank you.”
We stopped every day after school, and I played him his song. I memorized it to my heart and soul.
Present
I slam my hands on the keys, turning and freezing.
“Sorry, miss. The master asked me to bring these to you.” Francis holds out a vase of white and black roses.
I snatch them, stomping out of the library and finding Atticus outside with a cigar in hand. I throw the vase at him, the glass smashing against his chest, water and roses covering his lap. He raises one arrogant eyebrow at me, and I scream. Scream out of frustration for the memories, for this fucked up arrangement. For what he did to me days ago. I completely lose it.
I turn, fleeing. Going for the rose garden of hell. The thorns tear at my dress, leaving bloody scratches along my arms. Rain begins to pour down, soaking the white dress and making the stupid thing see through. I take every right turn in the garden maze, falling to my knees in the center. Looking up, I see a statue of two people in a passionate position. The statues here don’t make sense with the man I know who owns the place. He's agrumpy, broody, most non-loving person ever. So why the roses, the pianos, and statues?
“You’ve always been dramatic.”
I whip my head in Atticus' direction. “What does that even mean? I’ve always been dramatic. How would you know?”
He bends, pulling me to my feet. “You’ll eventually remember, or you won’t.” He leans in closer, “It doesn’t change anything.”
“Do not touch me.” I push at his chest to no relief.
He fists my wet hair, wrapping it around his hand before pulling me closer until our soaked chests press against each other. I can count his heartbeats, the different shades of green in his eyes, how many eyelashes he has. The raindrops that trace over his lips. Each jagged edge of his scar.
“Some people are inevitable. Constantly crossing paths, overlapping until one day those lines merge to one.” He pushes his face closer to mine. “That’s us, Constance. Always dancing around each other. Like the moon and Earth. Waiting on gravity to shift so we can collide into one another.”
“I just met you.” I whisper harshly.
“Have you?” He whispers before smashing his lips to mine.
I freeze, wanting to give into the sick pull I have towards him, but I don’t. He bites into my lip so hard blood dribbles down my chin. I gasp, slamming my hands against his chest.
He captures them, backing us into the statue. My back slamming against the wet marble, hands above my head as he uses his free hand to unbuckle his belt. My entire body freezes. “I don’t want this.”
He laughs, freeing himself. “Trust me, I’ve taken from those who don’t want it, you won't be getting a mark on my body. Now spread your legs for me, Little Bird.”
“You’d seriously rape me?”
He pauses, eyes narrowing as he pauses himself at my entrance. “Is that what you're telling yourself in that naive head of yours? That I’m raping you. Is that how you rationalize the slickness between your thighs? Why your heart is racing, eyes glazed over in lust? Is that how you deal with being so fucking obsessed with a man like me?”
“Shut up,” I whisper.
He smirks, pushing himself into me. Not allowing me to expand around him before he’s rutting into me against the statue. “Say it,” He commands. His hand releasing mine, one going to lift my thigh around his hip, the other pulling down my dress to free my aching breast. “Say you don’t want this. Say that I’m raping you. Go ahead, say it,” he hisses.
