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Sasha
Violin music filteredthrough the night, soft and sad. The breeze shifted, rolling through the open car windows and blowing my cigarette smoke out into the atmosphere.
Closing my eyes, I tipped my head back against the headrest and allowed myself a moment to relax. Whenever Roan was playing, I didn’t need to watch him like a hawk. I could keep tabs on him, and his mood, through the music alone.
If he was playing the piano, he was downstairs, working, writing new music. It was a constant starting and stopping, minute modifications, and lots of pacing around, humming to himself.
If he was playing the guitar, he was still downstairs working, but usually it was lyrics, so there was more writing and less moving.
And if he was playing the violin, like tonight, he was stressed — or sad — and he was only playing for himself. Given the low tones of the song, I was betting on sad tonight. Further confirming my suspicion was the fact he was on the balcony off of his bedroom, as opposed to inside, playing for no one but the stars.
It was a stark contrast to how he’d been earlier in the day.
He and his female companion spent most of the day out and about. Breakfast, followed by shopping (her, not him, though he carried all of the bags and didn’t appear to complain), and a trip back to the townhouse he lived in. The female had been staying with him for the past week, though I had yet to develop a solid understanding of their relationship.
According to the dossier we’d been compiling, her name was Francesca Starling. A childhood friend, it appeared they had an on-again/off-again romantic relationship, at least if the pictures were to be believed. While she’d been staying here, she slept in his room, but there wasn’t any indication of anything transpiring between the two. Guess they were off-again.
After they dropped off her shopping bags, Francesca stayed home while Roan went to the park and played football with a group of guys.
At least this part of the job wasn’t boring. It was almost as good as watching TV and a hell of a lot better than staring at his house or the building where his classrooms were. At the park, I felt secure enough to leave him for a while to grab something to eat and come back for the rest of the game.
Cheeks flushed and glistening with sweat, Roan sprinted easily from one area of the field to the next. His team had apparently been chosen for “skins,” since he ditched the gray t-shirt from earlier and was only wearing a backward baseball hat and black shorts.
From his position and the plays he made, it looked like he was one of the attacking midfielders. Given his height and lean build, it made sense, though he could have easily been a forward. Unless he didn’t want the attention. Midfielders tended to be the brains of the game, but forwards got all the glory.
It didn’t seem to matter who won. The guys all high-fived and fist-bumped, laughing and talking over one another. One of his teammates, their giant of a goalkeeper, grabbed Roan from behind and lifted him off his feet. Roan was smiling when he yelled something over his shoulder. It must have taken the goalkeeper by surprise, because he dropped his hold and took off running. Roan loped after him with a water bottle, easily closing the distance.
As soon as he was close enough, Roan threw most of the water on the guy and bolted in the opposite direction, keeping out of his opponent’s hands with a laugh and a smile that lit up his whole face. He radiated warmth no matter what he was doing. And like the sun, he seemed to pull everyone around him into his orbit. It was strange — the complete opposite of the world I lived in. You couldn’t afford to be warm and kind. Those traits would get you killed in a heartbeat like the fool you were.
If anything, the football game gave me more insight into the kid’s physicality. Whatever method we used to subdue him, it would have to be near-instantaneous. If he managed to slip away, there’s no way I’d be able to run him down. I was tall — taller than him by at least seven centimeters — but my muscles werenotbuild for speed or agility. I was solid and bulky, meant for crushing, not chasing.
Roan finished his game and went home for a much-needed shower, which I was privy to thanks to a conveniently placed camera in the neighbor’s tree. When the door was open, it covered part of the bathroom and most of the bedroom.
He peeled the sweaty shirt off and tossed it into a laundry basket before turning the shower on. After screwing around with his phone for a bit, his head bobbing to whatever song he’d clearly selected, he slipped out of his shorts. No surprise, his ass was as perfect as the rest of him — round, defined, and just asking to be grabbed.
Jesus, Sasha. You’ve been awake for too long — you’re on the verge of hallucinating or some shit.
As soon as Roan turned toward the camera, I dropped my gaze, shaking a cigarette out of the pack. Lighting it quickly, I took a drag and exhaled slowly. By the time I looked up again, he’d disappeared from view and the bathroom door was mostly shut.
When he reappeared, he was clothed in a t-shirt and a pair of gray sweats. Raking a hand through his wet hair and messing it around, he headed for the stairs. Francesca made food and they settled in on the couch to watch TV. It looked like she’d chosen a sweet romantic movie.Again. I didn’t know if he was sick of watching impossible love stories with simpering women and weak-willed men, but I sure as shit was. At least when Roan controlled the remote I knew we’d be watching something entertaining.
Hours later, she was still on the couch and he was on the balcony with the violin. I, in the meantime, had gone through a pack of cigarettes and started on another, sipping tepid tea out of a thermos.
“Are you sleeping?” a voice asked through the open window, ruining my moment of peace.
I opened my eyes to see Eduard’s smirking face. “What do you think?”
He laughed and leaned against the car door. “How’s the golden boy?”
“Sad,” I replied automatically, taking another drag off the cigarette.
Eduard lifted his dark brows at me. “Sad?”
“Listen.” I held up a finger. The morose melody, accompanied by the rustling trees, demonstrated my point.
“What does this fucking kid have to be sad about?” He shook his head, eyes rolling.
I shrugged. Sadness — or any feeling, really — didn’t register with me. The only acceptable feeling in my world was anger. Even if I did manage to feel something else, what purpose did it serve? I had no use for anything besides anger and indifference. So, I couldn’t begin to fathom what a rich American had to worry about. His father had everything. The house, the job, the car, the wife, the all-star child. By extension, Roan had those things too — minus the wife and child. Yet, every time he hung up the phone, he picked up the violin and played, sometimes for hours.
