Blackmail (Skeleton Key Book 1)

by Anna James Watson

  Then he asks, “Meet me at the Harkness Auditorium at ten p.m. on Wednesday?”

  Even though this is a weird time and a weird place my insides have all turned to bubble-fizz. I don’t think twice before I say, “Okay.”

  —

  My weekend is good and productive. I get caught up on all the class work and all the Daily work that I should have been doing instead of hanging out with Julian. Best of all, I get to sleep in.

  On Saturday, Leanne confesses that she wishes Tap Day would get here already so she could stop being nervous, but says she and Theo talked for a while—again—after the last Y.U.P.S. meeting—which I skipped—so she figures she’s definitely being interviewed. I tell her that I’m sure she will be tapped by someone, and that if she’s not it’s really their loss. She gives me a disbelieving but grateful smile and asks, with a whisper, if I think I’ll be tapped. I honestly reply that I don’t think so, and then I make a smoochy face and start singing “Leanne and Theo sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S—”

  Leanne throws a pillow at my face and tells me I’m five years old. I tell her I’m seven and we both crack up laughing, even though it really isn’t that funny. I think we’re both just happy. It’s been a while since I’ve seen non-ambitious, non-serious Leanne come out, and maybe it’s been a while since non-serious, non-ambitious Mia has come out in front of her. So we stay up until three a.m. talking like we’re at a sleepover, and when I finally drift off, I just feel really, really happy.

  By Monday, based on the complete lack of interaction that happens when we both end up at the vending machines, Tristan and I seem to have come to an unspoken agreement to pretend the other does not exist. This suits me just fine. I’m not exactly angry at him anymore, the sting of insult is gone and replaced by stupid girly happy feelings for Julian, but I know nothing good will come of talking to him.

  The truth is, whether I like it or not, I am clearly physically attracted to Tristan. But my emotional reaction to overhearing his dumb comments to Theo indicates that sex and feelings are not separate for me. So silence it is.

  On Tuesday, Julian and I share a secret smile, but he’s got a meeting with his thesis advisor, and I’ve got a meeting with Joe, which I need to keep if I want to remain a candidate to inherit the seat of editor in chief. I try to focus in class, but my eyes constantly drift to the back of Julian’s head, and my mind to the sensation of his lips on my knuckle.

  I see him at Atticus that evening, but Tristan is with him. They don’t look happy. So I walk away and try to squash the involuntary reminder between my legs of how good they both feel at the same time.

  Wednesday evening, I decide not to go to the Y.U.P.S. meeting again because I don’t want to get invited to any post-meeting hang-outs. Leanne tries to talk me into coming at first, but when I tell her I just really feel the need to clean our suite, the fervor in her argument disappears. I make sure to be gone by the time she gets back so she doesn’t ask why, for the first time in the three years we’ve known each other, I’ve put on mascara.

  The Harkness Auditorium is relatively small and not often used. Trying to get to it when you’ve never been there is a bit like trying to navigate a multi-level three-dimensional corn maze, but I manage it.

  A text from Julian tells me to go to the side door on the northeast side of the building and punch 8239 into the keypad. I step from the dark alley into an almost entirely dark room. I think twice about walking inside, but then I hear piano keys strung together into a melody that pulls me toward it.

  As I slowly make my way through the dim room toward the light I collide with heavy curtains made of velvet and dust. I’m backstage, I realize. I follow the sound and the light until I stand at the edge of the curtains, looking out onto the stage, where Julian’s fingers masterfully reproduce Mozart at a concert piano.

  His eyes are closed. His mouth hangs open, his lips moving wordlessly. He seems completely lost in the piece. I don’t think he knows I’m here. Maybe I’m supposed to say something, but I really don’t want to interrupt either the music or the vision of him.

  I don’t know the name of the piece he is playing, but I can feel its magic moving in him. His head is bent, his back is straight but somehow liquid. His arms move like waves, always in motion but anchored to his shoulder blades, which poke out from under his white button-down shirt. His sleeves are rolled up and his tie is draped over the bench. This is the closest I’ve ever seen Julian to disheveled, and it is much more beautiful than well-put-together Julian.

  The music grows in pace, the keys switch from light and airy to dark and intense. His brow creases as the notes he plays build to a crescendo, but his fingers remain loose even as they increase in speed. They are graceful and effortless, like dancers in a ballet. I am so very embarrassed that he walked in on my piano doodling before—just playing random keys and chords, hardly knowing what I was doing.

  Given what he told me about growing up with a professional pianist for a mother, I really shouldn’t be surprised by his skill, but I am. Maybe because I can tell it’s not just skill, not just practice that has led to perfection, it’s soul. I can feel his soul connect to every note, so every note becomes an expression of his soul, just as it was an expression of Mozart’s hundreds of years ago.

  Slowly, the piece winds back down. When his hands pull away from the keys, I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. A smile invades my face, spreading all the way to my ears. I move my hands apart. My wrists arch back, ready to come together in a resounding clap…but another clap hits the air first.

  I step out of the curtains and look around for who else is here, but even before I hear the familiar, irrationally infuriating, drawl, I already know who it has to be.

  “Over here, Winters,” Tristan announces as he steps out of the curtains across the stage. He sounds completely annoyed.

  I feel…I think I feel furious. Or hurt. Or tricked. Or something. Or like I should have known better. Like I did know better. No, I just feel stupid. And hurt. And I don’t want to feel those things, so best to let them transform into anger.

  Julian stands up from the piano. “What are you doing here?” he asks Tristan, and he genuinely sounds surprised to see him. The anger transmutation halts, waiting to hear what happens next.

  Tristan swipes his hand into his hair and flips it to the side as he rolls his eyes and snidely retorts, “I’m always here. Why is she?”

  My feet slowly carry me forward, like I’m one of those people on the sidewalk who sees a terrible accident happen and can’t help but stop what I’m doing to go look at the damage.

  “You weren’t here last week,” Julian replies, his tone even. “I invited Mia because I know she likes music.”

  “I knew it had to be you taking up all his time,” Tristan sneers at me.

  Julian rolls his eyes. “Mia isn’t taking up all of my time. You’re the one who’s been busy with tennis and trying to impress all the Key boys.”

  “Yes, and I missed you,” Tristan retorts, somehow sounding both bored and wronged, “so I thought I’d come listen to you play and fuck you on top of the piano after telling you everything you did wrong. By the way, you hit G-sharp twice during the second movement, and you were off time coming into the third.”

  “I was not,” Julian instantly replies.

  “Fine,” Tristan concedes, “but you did hit the G-sharps.”

  “Mia.” Julian turns to me, empathetic and kind, with sweat on his brow from the stage lights. “I really didn’t know that Tristan was going to be here. But since he is, can we all just talk?”

  “No, we cannot just talk,” Tristan angrily replies, taking the words right out of my mouth. “I told you I don’t want her around. She’s a judgmental bitch who thinks she knows everything—”

  “Judgmental bitch?” I cut him off, instantly enraged by this ridiculous accusation. “You said that I was just some non-wife-material plaything you were already planning to ditch. It’s not that my feelings are hur
t or that I want to be wife material. It’s that I’m disgusted with you for being someone who fucks people for sport, and with myself for thinking you might have anything that vaguely resembles a good quality.

  “And that is not me being a ‘judgmental bitch’! That is me calling you on your shit, which clearly, no one has ever done in your life, because you obviously can’t handle being rejected, even though anyone in their right mind would have done the same thing as me. Maybe that is judgment, but it is sound judgment, not angry judgment, not hurt judgment, just pure logic. You are completely self-centered. You don’t care about anyone but yourself, and you brag about using people. No rational person wants to be mixed up in that. Julian—”

  I pause for breath and turn to Julian, who looks completely stunned by the vitriol that has just poured out of me. His wide, unreadable eyes poke a hole into whatever has swelled inside of me. “Julian…look, I like you. I really, really like you. But you are already in a relationship, no matter how unconventional or not exactly committed or whatever it may be.

  “We never talked about it, and I didn’t want to,” I confess, “because I wanted to pretend that we could just be friends hanging out who happened to be attracted to each other. I wanted to pretend I didn’t feel things for you. I wanted to pretend that whatever we were doing wasn’t a lot like dating because then I’d have to think about all the complicated parts, and no matter how much I like you, I don’t like Tristan. And I don’t know what there is between you two, but I know that I can’t trust him, which means I can’t be a part of it. So I need to do what I’ve been utterly failing to do for a month, which is walk away from all of this. So, please, both of you, just leave me alone.”

  My heart is pounding, my legs are twisting, I’m pivoting on my heel, and I’m pointed toward the curtains. I dive into them, letting them cloak me, protect me from anything that might pull me back. I hear Julian call my name, but the door slams behind me and I’m headed…well I don’t know and I don’t care, as long as it’s away from Julian and Tristan.

  Part Four

  Tuesday

  Time Until Tap Night:

  3 Days

  — Mia —

  I have just fallen asleep when Leanne urgently shakes my shoulder, half whispering, half hissing, “Mia! Mia!”

  “What?” I ask, bolting up, expecting something like an earthquake or fire.

  “Tristan Masters,” she breathes, her voice dripping with the juice of anticipated drama, “is at the door.”

  “What?” I ask again, this time confused.

  “He’s asking for you,” she practically giggles.

  “Oh God,” I moan, feeling a wave of nausea wash through me as my body begs me to return to the sleep I’d been stolen from. “Is he drunk?”

  “I don’t know,” Leanne whispers, “but he said he wouldn’t go away until I got you.”

  “That fucking asshat,” I mutter.

  This time Leanne does giggle. “I’m telling you he has a thing for you.”

  “Yes,” I sarcastically reply as I push my covers off and feel around in the dark for my pajama pants and sweatshirt. “Almost three years of antagonistic contempt is usually indicative of having a thing for someone.”

  I pull my sweatshirt over my head, then realize it’s backward, but since I’m hoping it will be back on my floor in less than five minutes I decide I don’t care. Leanne follows me out, but stops behind the corner of the wall to eavesdrop. When I get into the common room of our suite, I can see Tristan’s silhouette propped against my door frame, his shoulder holding the door open, his angelic hair hiding his face.

  “What do you want?” I ask, trying to sound as gruff as I can.

  “Mia,” he whispers so quietly that I almost can’t hear him.

  “Are you drunk?” I ask, assuming the answer has to be yes.

  He shakes his head and says something, but he is so quiet I can’t hear him. Realizing I’d rather not ask him to speak up and have Leanne hear whatever he’s going to say, I reluctantly make my way to within a foot of him.

  “Are you drunk?” I repeat, craning my head, trying to see his face.

  He weakly shakes his head. “I’m sick,” he mutters, and, now that I’m this close, I can hear the awful wheezy rumble in his chest as he says it. I automatically pull the edge of my sweatshirt over my mouth so I don’t breathe in his germs.

  “Why are you here?” I hiss.

  “I need you to—” His hand comes up to cover his face and a terrible cough wracks its way up his torso and out of his throat. It sounds painful. So painful that my lungs clench empathetically. I glance back over my shoulder at Leanne, who is now looking at us with alarm. Fuck, I think. How am I going to explain this?

  I touch his shoulder and nudge him backward, out the door. With the hand that isn’t covering his face he grabs onto my wrist. His grip is weak and needy, like that of a scared toddler.

  Fuck, I internally groan, pretty sure it’s going to be more than five minutes before I get to go back to sleep.

  I very slowly and quietly pull the door closed behind us, so we are out in the hall now. His coughing fit seems to have ceased and now he’s wheezing, quick and shallow, catching his breath. “You need me to take you to Health?” I guess.

  Again he shakes his head, his sweat-drenched hair swaying from side to side. “Julian,” he mutters and then with a great, terrible boom from his chest another coughing fit begins.

  “Tristan,” I mutter, more annoyed at this point that I feel bad for him than that he’s woken me up, “I don’t have a car. I can’t take you to Julian. Did you call him?”

  “Fucker isn’t answering his phone,” Tristan replies after several more seconds of coughing. “Please.”

  “Well, I can get an Uber for you.” I sigh turning back to my door. “I just need to get my pho—”

  “No,” Tristan says, reaching out for me, weak and desperate, “please, Mia. I need you to take me.”

  “I told you I don’t have a—”

  He holds out his phone, as if the call list is supposed to mean something to me. “I called,” he explains. “I can’t leave alone. People are watching.”

  “People are watching?” I repeat. “Who is watching? What are they watching? Why does it make a difference if I go with you?”

  “It just does, it’s just—”

  Whatever it just is, I don’t find out because another coughing fit hits him. This one is so hard that he actually braces himself against the wall with his hands. When it lets up a little bit, I swoop his hair back with one hand and place the other on the back of his neck. It is really, really hot, even drenched in sweat. I check his forehead too—just as warm.

  “Damn it,” I mutter. He really is sick. “You need to go to Health. You’re—”

  “No,” he pleads, placing shaky hands on my shoulders. “Please just come with me. I—I just need help. They’re watching.”

  His voice is so shaky and quiet, his eyes glassy but alert, he looks like he’s half ready to pass out and half ready to bolt. What is wrong with him? Whatever it is, I don’t want to catch it, so I dip and twist away from him.

  “Who is—” I am cut off by his ringing phone.

  He answers it and hisses, “Just wait,” then hangs up.

  He turns back to me and says, “Please,” again. He really does look like he’s going to pass out any minute.

  “Why do you need my help? What about all the people you usually hang out with?”

  “Because, you idiot,” he wheezes, curling into his side in pain, “I can trust you.”

  “God damn it.” I sigh, and then, because I’m a complete idiot, I shimmy my shoulder under his arm and help him down the hall.

  We make it to the elevator before another coughing fit hits. It doesn’t occur to me until we step out of Berkeley and into the pouring rain that I’m only wearing socks, but Tristan is practically doubled over coughing again so I can’t really turn back now. Besides, I haven’t had time to think of ho
w I’m going to explain this to Leanne.

  There is an expensive-looking black car at the edge of the sidewalk. Its door opens and a man in uniform steps out. He opens the largest umbrella I have ever seen and rushes toward us. I help Tristan over to the car, and the man opens the back door. Tristan sort of falls in and I climb in after him, trying to get him to sit up.

  The man closes the door behind me and gets in on the driver’s side. He shifts into drive and I instantly say, “He’s not buckled up.”

  Tristan actually starts to laugh in response to this, but the laugh quickly turns into a cringe as he curls even deeper into a ball. The driver keeps driving; I guess he knows where we’re going. “Tristan, why did you need me to go with you?” I whisper. “Who do you think is watching?”

  “Not yet,” he whispers back, his eyes conspiratorially shifting to the driver.

  “Are you on drugs?” I whisper. I really hope his answer is yes, because every illness I know of that makes a person feverish, delusional, and paranoid is potentially deadly.

  “Only some,” he mutters.

  What does that mean? I think, but decide it’s better not to ask. I’ll tell Julian and let him deal with it.

  I’m bent at an awkward angle with my arms half around Tristan, trying to get his seatbelt on him, but he isn’t really sitting up, and he won’t relinquish his grip across his stomach so my efforts are probably in vain. When we round a corner and I am thrust into the door behind me, I realize I’ve failed to put my own seatbelt on. Before I can catch myself, Tristan topples over too. His shaking torso is across my lap and he doesn’t make any move to readjust himself, even though he can’t possibly be comfortable. I push myself back up, but still he doesn’t move.

  I can hear his teeth chattering. He seems so little and weak. No matter how much I don’t like him, right now he really doesn’t seem like anything more than a sick child in a man’s body. I pull his hair back and feel his forehead again. It might be my imagination, but it seems even hotter than it was ten minutes ago.