Page 40 of Cruel Delights
Maximillion Keys saunters down the sidewalk like it’s a stage. Despite the fact that the only people around this late at night are drunk college kids bar-hopping and junkies that are even bigger losers than Grady, Maximillion acts with an air of self-imagined celebrity.
Why is he heading to the Velvet Piano more than an hour after it’s closed?
He stops at the front door and lets himself in with his set of keys.
Bad news for Maximillion. My attention’s now on him.
Mere hours ago he’d been an absolute ass to Lyra. He called her Butterfingers. After hearing Lyratrulyplay, they’re nowhere near the same stratosphere in terms of talent. Lyra plays with a striking balance of grace and vulnerability juxtaposed against a hint of wild passion and freedom. I can’t help wondering how well she’d play if she tapped into her full potential.
In comparison, Keys is cheap, store-bought tofu. Manic energy he puts on for the crowd that’s hammy and artificial. He’s a caricature in how he presents himself. All gimmicks and flashy behavior. I bet he’s never properly mastered a Chopin or Stravinsky piece.
Lyra, however…
* * *
Maximillion forgot his wallet. He lets himself into the dim bar and uses his senses to chart a blind path past the tables and toward the back room. He pulls open his cubby and digs around inside.
In the loud silence of the empty bar, he hears a door snicking shut. He looks up with his manicured brows raised and then goes to peek his head around at the bar floor.
No one is there.
The chairs remain stacked on the tables, and the grand pianos resemble museum relics on the stage.
Realizing it was a figment of his imagination—or a drunken college idiot making noise outside—he returns to his cubby. His wallet goes in the back pocket of his jeans, and he grabs a pack of cigarettes he’s stashed away as well.
He’s heading onto the bar floor when it happens again.
Snick.
Quiet. Gentle. Almost hushed.
He freezes and surveys the bar area.
Nothing. Not a single thing out of place, or person around.
However, this time, he finds it impossible to shake his bad feeling. He sneaks a peek over his shoulder at the back room where the collection of cubbies is, and then turns his head forward.
He screams.
I’m standing in front of him. So close I can touch him.
My face is stoic. My expression an empty void. My eyes are on him in silent appraisal as he shrieks and stumbles several steps back.
“Who the… what the… where’d you come from?!”
I don’t move. I remain perfectly still except for my mouth as I answer. “I was here to watch the dueling.”
He’s unnerved.
Everything about me unsettles him. From my unending stare and flat, monotone voice to my looming presence over him.
He takes another step back and tugs on the hem of his shirt. “Oh. Well… the bar closed an hour ago. How’d you get in anyway?”
“I want to hear you play.”
His shock flickers out when my request sinks in. He grins. “That explains it. So you’re a fan. I shouldn’t be surprised. I get it a lot. I once had some girl throw her panties at me. Poor girl didn’t realize I bat for the other team. But don’t worry. I’ll sign a napkin square for you, okay?”
I take a step closer. “I said I want to hear you play.”