“What are you doing, Em?” Michael asked. His first impulse was to continue holding her hand, but he let go when an uneasiness settled in the pit of his stomach.
Em smiled up at him. “I was spinning. Zoe’s gone to Mary Jane Land, and I’ve mostly been walking around with blue dinosaurs.”
His lips quirked into an amused smirk.
“What I mean is, I’ve been walking around drinking Blue Dinosaurs.”
Michael chuckled. “I see you’ve tried the punch. How much have you had?”
Em held out her hand. She raised her index finger, then slowly added her middle finger. Her eyes narrowed as if muscle control required a supernatural level of concentration.
Michael shook his head. “Em, you can’t even weigh a hundred pounds. I think you’ve had enough.”
“I’ve missed you, Michael,” she said, her gaze abandoning her fingers and meeting his.
He felt the urge to touch her. He wanted to brush his fingers over each tiny freckle that dusted her cheeks.
Knock that shit off, MacCarron. This isn’t one of your groupie cheerleaders vying for attention. This is Em.
“Let’s sit down on the rocks,” he said.
He stuffed his hands into his pockets and led her over to a cluster of large boulders. They settled on one, and Em leaned into him. The alcohol was loosening her inhibitions, and he liked it—he liked it more than he wanted to admit.
He couldn’t stop throwing glances her way. Had she always been this pretty? The last time he saw her was three years ago when she had returned to Langley Park to spend Christmas with her father. Em’s parents divorced when she was young, and she used to split her time between Langley Park with her father and Sydney, Australia, with her mother. But once she began traveling to study violin all over the world, he had seen her less and less.
Em smoothed out the pleats of her skirt, and he bit back a chuckle. While most of the girls at the party were wearing cut-off jean shorts and tank tops, leaving little to the imagination, Em had on a plaid skirt, a short-sleeved cardigan, and a string of pearls.
Fucking pearls.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” she asked, attempting to look incredulous.
“You wore pearls to a Sadie’s Hollow party,” he answered. He’d never thought pearls and plaid were sexy before tonight.
“I’ll have you know,” she raised her index finger, “that tonight I helped raise quite a bit of money for the Kansas City Symphony. Like big-time dollars.”
Jesus, she was an adorable drunk. “You did, did you?”
“I most certainly did,” Em replied, coming to her feet and pretending to play an air violin.
“What did you play?” he asked, unable to hold back a grin.
She closed her eyes and began to bow with her right hand. “Just Paganini. Nel cor più non mi sento.”
“Oh, yeah, just Niccolò Paganini’s most difficult composition, and arguably one of the most technically challenging pieces ever written?”
She opened her eyes and met his gaze. “Just that.”
Holy shit, she was stunning.
“Could you lose the air-violin for a minute and sit back down. I’d hate to see you fall on your ass again.”
“I almost fell on my bottom. Thankfully, Kyle Benson was there to catch me,” Em replied and settled herself on the rock.
“You can say ass, Em. Nobody will hear you.”
“I know.”
“Then say it. Your dad’s not here.”
She twisted her pearls.
“You can’t do it, can you? Once a good girl, always a good girl.”
“Hey,” Em said, grabbing his hand. Her touch sent a rush of electricity surging from the point of contact. “Do you remember when we played “Heart and Soul” on the piano back when we were in kindergarten?”
“How could I forget? Your dad let us stay up late and watch Big. You lost your mind watching Tom Hanks and that old dude jump around on the giant keyboard.”
“Do you remember your part?” she asked, her face hopeful and glowing creamy white in the moonlight.
Sweet Christ, she was beautiful. When the hell did that happen?
Michael tried to push any sexual thoughts from his mind. He had to remind his twitching cock that nothing could happen with Em.
He released a breath. “I could knock out my part if I had to.”
“Let’s do it,” she said, then turned toward the long, smooth boulder.
Em positioned her hands on the rock as if it were a piano. She gestured with her chin for him to do the same. “Ready, and…” she said, and began to play. She watched him with a furrowed brow as he pretend-played alongside her. “You’re doing it wrong. The notes are more staccato.”
“Em, we’re playing on a fucking rock. How can you even tell?”
“I just know, Michael. It’s like the music talks to me, like it lives inside of me. It’s always been with me.”
Fuck, he could get lost in her eyes. Did she still wear those little cotton panties, the ones with tiny flowers, like she did when she was just a girl?
Enough, MacCarron!
He mentally punched himself in the mouth. Of course, she didn’t. She wasn’t eight. She was eighteen, a woman. The little girl he used to play piano duets and flashlight tag with had grown up.
Em nudged him with her shoulder. “Put your hand on top of mine. Then you’ll be able to feel how the notes were meant to be played.”
He draped his large hand over hers. For a second, he thought Em trembled, but then she began to play. As her fingers danced across the imaginary piano keys, Michael felt each note and could hear the music almost as if he was inside her, connected to her.
“See, if you played each note with a bit more—”
He silenced her with a kiss. Her body tensed. He pulled back a fraction, allowing his teeth to nip at her bottom lip. The contact made his head swim. Her lips parted, and he deepened the kiss. She sighed into his mouth, her breaths becoming shallow. If kissing Em was the last thing he would ever do, he would die a happy man. But he wanted more. He slipped his tongue into her mouth and caressed her in a hot, desperate rhythm, begging her to match his intensity.
Em was sweet. So fucking sweet. He tasted the raspberry punch on her tongue, but it had an edge to it. She must have been drinking something before the punch, something spicy like whiskey or rum. The two flavors assaulted his senses and teased his cock. He knew Em MacCaslin was innocent, everyone did. But the intensity of this kiss told him there was something deeper, something darker inside her even she didn’t know existed.
Then it hit him. He was kissing Mary Michelle MacCaslin.
Jesus, what was he doing?
His second-guessing ended when she whispered his name, her voice hungry with need.
“Oh, Michael.”
Em spoke not only to his cock, which was begging for release like a bull in a bucking chute, but to his soul. When she guided his hand across the pretend piano keys, an almost spiritual awakening burst inside him, like standing at the crossroads of a tornado and a tidal wave.
He lifted his hand from where it rested on top of hers and slid his fingertips up the length of her arm. He trailed them across her shoulder and found the string of pearls resting around her neck. Slowly, he wrapped the delicate necklace around his fingers and pulled her in closer. Each time he twisted another segment, Em gasped as if she was moving closer and closer toward something her body never knew it wanted and could no longer deny.
His breath grew ragged, and he nearly came in his pants when her hand moved to rest on his thigh. “Em, you taste like every color of the rainbow,” he whispered. He pulled on the necklace, forcing her to turn her head and allow him to kiss and lick the delicate skin of her neck and the sensitive area behind her ear.
“Michael,” she breathed again.
When she said his name, it sounded so new, an enduring melody locked in his heart.
He released the necklace and cupped her face in h
is hands. “What is it, Em?”
She smiled up at him. “That was my first kiss.”
The admission was so honest, so real, so raw. He could only answer it by pressing his lips against hers.
“Um, Michael?”
Dammit. That wasn’t Em’s voice. It was Tiffany Shelton’s.
Tiffany’s tone was like the screech of an emergency brake on a speeding train. He released his grip on Em’s pearls. “Hey, Tiff.”
Tiffany kept her gaze locked on him, her snub nose, which he once considered cute, now looked childish. “Gabe says all the equipment is ready to go. This party is fucking L, A, M, E, lame without decent tunes.”
Michael turned to Em. “I deejay most parties. I’m getting pretty good.”
“Pretty good?” Tiffany barked. “You are the fucking boss.”
Michael didn’t even acknowledge Tiffany’s praise. “Let me get the music going. Do you want me to get you another drink first?”
“Got that covered,” Tiffany said, holding out a red Solo cup of the blue punch.
Em took the cup. She smiled up at him, and her swollen lips made his cock strain against his shorts. “I’ll be fine. I’ll go find my tent. I want to change into more comfortable clothes.”
Tiffany snorted. “I guess nobody told you it’s a strictly no plaid zone at Sadie’s Hollow.”
He threw an irritated glance at Tiffany, then took Em’s hand. “Let me get the music going. I’ll come find you in a little while.”
Em nodded, then took a sip of the punch.
He rose to his feet and followed Tiffany. They weren’t fifty feet away before she pulled him behind a tent. “Do you think Miss Grandma Pearls over there would know what to do with this.” She palmed his hard cock through his cargo shorts.
Michael couldn’t help his response. He was already worked up from that kiss with Em. Tiffany wasn’t his girlfriend, not even close. They had hooked up at every Sadie’s Hollow party, and she was hot, a cheerleader with killer legs. With Tiff, it was fucking, pure and simple.
What would it be with Em?
Nothing.
It wouldn’t be anything because he wasn’t going to fuck her—not at a high school Sadie’s Hollow party. That’s not what Em deserved. And she wasn’t just some girl. She was literally one of the foremost violinists on the planet.
The fucking planet.
Em was going to go on to a glowing career, playing all over the world. And what would he be doing? He wanted to study music. He wanted to mix and produce tracks. He wanted to feel the thump of the bass as he layered sounds one on top of the other, creating something that was powerful, emotive, and real. But what would he be doing instead? Following his father’s plan. The law school plan. The plan to carry on his father’s legacy.
“You know where I’ll be after you finish rocking the shit out of this party,” Tiffany purred. Still facing him, she took several steps back. She was trying to come off as alluring but only succeeded at looking cheap.
* * *
“Damn noisy birds,” Michael moaned, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.
He untangled himself from the long leg draped over his thigh. He was a fucking idiot. He’d let Tiff bring him beer after beer while he was playing his set. And just like every other damn night at the hollow, he ended up fucking her doggie-style in a drunken haze.
He climbed out of the tent and surveyed Sadie’s Hollow. Other teenagers were emerging from their tents, shielding their eyes from the morning sun like zombie-vampire hybrids. He saw Zoe walking around in a crumpled Portishead T-shirt.
She smiled at him, but her face fell when Tiffany crawled out of the tent.
“Michael!” Zoe called out, eyeing Tiffany Shelton. “Where’s Em?”
Michael scratched his head. “I figured she found you. I haven’t seen her since—”
“Since you had your tongue down her throat then dropped her ass for this twat waffle.”
“Oh, screw you, Zoe,” Tiffany tossed back, then tried to pull him in for a kiss.
“Give it a rest, Tiff,” he said, turning away and walking over to Zoe.
He crossed his arms. “What do you mean, you don’t know where she is? This isn’t her scene, Zoe. Somebody could have taken advantage of her. She was pretty drunk when I left her.”
“I know this isn’t her scene, but I saw her with you! I figured she’d be safe with you of all people. I didn’t think you’d ditch her for Tiffany “easy fuck” Shelton. Aren’t you over that shit yet?”
Michael shook his head and rolled his neck from side to side. “Let’s search the hollow. She couldn’t have gone far. She probably just passed out somewhere.”
A layer of sticky sweat coated his skin, but it wasn’t from the muggy Kansas humidity. “Do you see her?” he yelled out to Zoe who was searching the opposite side of the hollow.
She didn’t answer back, but her pace became frantic as she shook tents, waking the sleeping inhabitants, none of whom were Em.
“Let’s check the trees,” he called out. “You don’t think she would wander into the cemetery, do you?”
Zoe’s face drained of all its color. “How would I know? Jesus, Michael, where is she?”
“Shit!” His gaze was drawn to the ground, and he scooped up a broken string of pearls.
“Oh, shit,” Zoe said, taking the pearls out of his hand.
“The steps,” Michael called out and ran toward The Steps to Hell.
Long auburn hair fanned out over the limestone stairs. Em was still wearing the same plaid skirt and cardigan, but her clothes were crumpled and dirty with dustings of grayish powder like she had bumped into a blackboard covered with chalk. Her knees were scraped and bloodied.
“Em! Em! Are you okay?” He scanned her face, her torso, her legs, and then he saw her hand. Her left hand. The hand that was responsible for playing some of the most beautiful pieces of music ever composed.
Zoe fell to her knees. “Fuck! What happened to her hand, Michael?”
He ignored Zoe’s words and gathered Em into his arms. “Em! Wake up!”
She was breathing, the rise and fall of her chest gave him some hope until she opened her eyes and panic spread across her face. “You never came back, Michael. You never came back! And then there were the tall men! The tall men came after the bridge! And Paganini! He was there, too!”
Zoe fell to her knees and cupped Em’s cheek in her hand. “Michael, she’s burning up. And, dammit, look at her eyes. Somebody gave her something, maybe Ecstasy? Shit, I don’t know.”
Beads of sweat glistened on Em’s upper lip, and her dilated eyes flooded with fear. Michael clenched his jaw. Fuck, he was an idiot. “I think she’s on LSD or some shit like that. She’s not making any sense. She must be coming down from a bad trip.”
* * *
Michael gunned the engine of his old Range Rover and merged onto the highway. “What about your dad, Zoe? We can take her to your house, and your dad can fix her hand.”
Zoe sat in the backseat holding Em in her lap, a towel wrapped around her left hand. “Jesus, Michael! I think she’s got at least two broken fingers and that gash on her ring finger. I can see right down to the bone. What are we going to do? She’s supposed to leave for Juilliard in a few days.”
“Zoe, focus! Your dad is a surgeon. Can’t we just take her to your house?”
“My parents are in Phoenix this weekend meeting my brother’s fiancee’s mother. They don’t get back until late tonight. Should we just take her home?”
“Fuck, no, Z. We have to get her to a hospital. It’s her left hand that’s all mangled. Do you know what that could mean?”
Zoe stared down at Em. “Just get us to the hospital, Michael. It has to be my dad’s hospital. It has to be Midwest Medical in Langley Park. It’s the closest level one trauma center. They’ll be able to get a hand surgeon there faster than any place else.”
He pressed his foot on the gas pedal, pushing the car well over the speed limit. He glanced back at Zo
e in the rearview mirror and watched her face crumple as tears streamed down her cheeks.
3
“I need a doctor! I need some help!”
Michael burst through Midwest Medical Center’s Emergency Room doors carrying Em in his arms.
He bit back a curse when he saw the nurse rushing toward him. Anita Benson. Kyle Benson’s mother.
“Mrs. Benson,” he said. His cheeks burned with shame. “Em needs help. Something happened to her hand, and I think she’s—”
“She’s on drugs,” the nurse replied, hands on her hips, eyes begging Michael to deny it.
“Yes, I think it may be acid or LSD. But it’s something that’s making her hallucinate.”
Em reached out with her good hand and batted at something imaginary in the air.
Nurse Benson pursed her lips. “You think?”
Zoe ran through the ER doors, and the pink tips of her bob slashed side to side across her cheeks.
“And you, Zoe Stein? You’re involved in all this, too? I can’t imagine your father would be pleased to have you mixed up with drugs.”
“We don’t know what happened, Mrs. Benson,” Zoe said, echoing Michael. “We just found her like this about an hour ago. She needs help.”
Two other nurses rushed over, and Nurse Benson gestured for Michael to place Em on a gurney. “We’ll take it from here,” she said and vanished behind a set of double doors.
* * *
Em stared at the dish of hospital Jell-O, the color mimicking the dinosaur punch from Sadie’s Hollow.
Zoe sat on the edge of her hospital bed. “What are we supposed to tell the doctors, Em? They’re going to want to know what happened. Jesus, what are we going to tell your dad?”
Bile coated her throat, thick and bitter, and she pushed the Jell-O away.
What happened?
Her thoughts bounced around like a pinball machine. Memories would materialize only to disappear in the blink of an eye just as a new image burst into the tangled mess of her consciousness. But three things kept popping up in a loop of disjointed color, sensation, and sound: Paganini. A bridge. Tall men.
The Sound of Home Page 2