Lisa always warned me not to push them too far — she was afraid I might be tattled on. All it would take would be for my dad to announce my secrets to the media and I’d be done for. The secrets? My past? Front page news. The life I’d built? Changed forever.
I swallowed the fear and continued walking toward the building. Two months until school ended, and then I could start my own life, away from my family, away from the painful memories, and away from the man I used to be.
I felt better once I stepped into the old building. Homework was something I could focus on… I might look like I was part of some punk rock band, but I had straight A’s for a reason. I needed to be successful in order to get the hell out from underneath my family’s grasp. I could almost feel their hands wrapping around my neck, choking the life out of me just like before.
I jumped when my phone buzzed in my pocket. I quickly answered it and leaned against the wall, closing my eyes as my heart clattered against my chest.
I needed to get it together — fast.
“Hey!” Lisa said from the other line. “What’cha doin?”
“Going to class like a good boy. Why? Are you in trouble?”
Lisa rarely called me during the day unless she needed a ride… or food… or… Okay fine, so she called me all the time. It just felt lame that she was one of my only friends.
“Nah.” She cleared her throat. “I, um, I just thought you should hear it from me.”
“Hear it?” I repeated. “Hear what?”
“My mom called.” She paused.
“Lisa, what the hell? Just spit it out,” I growled, trying to sound annoyed, when really I was terrified of the news Lisa was going to tell me. I hated fear. It made me feel weak. And weakness was a close second on the list of things I never wanted to feel again.
“Your father… he’s…” She took a deep breath then finished in a rush. “He’s gotten into some financial trouble… nothing huge. I mean, he can’t touch your trust found, but well, my mom talked to your mom, and she’s worried he’s going to sell your story to the media for money.”
My heartbeat roared in my ears, adrenaline surged through my body as I looked wildly around me — for him, for cameras, for reporters. Shit, I was going to be sick. My hand started trembling so bad that the phone clamored against my ear. My entire body went cold. Shaking, I scanned the area again and stepped into the shadow of the building. “Sorry, Lisa. Thanks for letting me know, but I gotta go, I gotta—” I hung up and started running. I wasn’t even sure in what direction I was going. I could have hit a tree for all I cared. My legs pumped harder and harder as the cold air hit my face. I could still feel them chasing me. I could taste the blood in my mouth from biting my tongue.
“Was it an accident?” the reporter asked. “You’re over eighteen. Do you think you’ll be held responsible?” She lifted the microphone in my face and waited.
I looked around for help.
No one.
Who was I kidding? Nobody was going to help me. She was gone.
“Um, no, no comment,” I stuttered.
“Is that your answer for everything?” a male reporter fired out.
I stared into his cold black eyes and nodded. “For now it is.”
“Shit! Shit! Shit!” I ran my hands through my hair and slowed down as I made my way back toward the dorms. What the hell could I give him to keep him from going to press? I had money but couldn’t access all of it until I was twenty-two, which wasn’t for another four months. I got a monthly stipend of five grand a month. I could take my money out of all my investments but would that solve anything? Would he ever stop? I could give him everything I had, which was roughly ten mill, and he’d probably still find a way to spend it all and come after me. It wasn’t the money. I wasn’t stupid. I was his cash cow. He was still pissed I’d walked away.
Funny. Dad hadn’t been upset that my squeaky clean image had been wrecked by drug usage, drinking, and the horror that followed. He was pissed that I’d run, that I’d given up what was, in his estimation, a gold mine.
I jogged past my dorm.
And jumped onto my old Harley. I needed out — an escape. Drugs were out of the question — which left only one thing.
I rode as hard as I could toward the music building. My bike almost fell over as I parked it and ran up the stairs to one of the private rooms. Once inside I locked the door behind me, pulled the blinds down, and sat at the piano.
My heart pounded in my chest as the ivory keys stared back at me — called to me.
My addiction.
Four years.
I’d stayed away from the piano for four damn years.
Not anymore.
The bomb went off, the timer dinged, my hands caressed the piano. I groaned aloud and slumped onto the wooden bench, my body taking its natural position over the instrument.
I wasn’t even sure I knew how to play anymore — how to sing — how to communicate what was eating up my soul — slowly poisoning me.
But I had to try.
The minute I pressed the keys, need poured out until my shaking hands were hovering over the piano, and before I could stop myself, I started playing. I played the songs of my teen years, and then finally — as if my hands couldn’t keep themselves from playing the melody — I played her song.
A strange sort of madness washed over me as I pounded harder and harder. Maybe if I played hard enough she’d come back, maybe I’d get a re-do and the last four years would be nothing more than a horrible nightmare.