Moriarty's Musician

The Stand, Part 6

He turned to address the crowd. "Go home—all of you! The pub's closed!" he shouted with a wave of his arm.

Annabelle watched as the crowd left the pub. And to her amazement, not a single word of argument was raised from being so unceremoniously kicked out. Rather, everyone smiled and laughed as they left the pub, patting each other's shoulders as they talked about the woman who ignited the Glenny Pub stage.

Only two men remained at the back when the last of the crowd had left: Darcy lowered his head, and Father O'Rourke's eyes darted between Moriarty and Annabelle.

"Well, now I can breathe," Moriarty said triumphantly, making a sweeping gesture with his arms as he turned to Annabelle. With a grin, he held out a hand to help her off the stage, and she smacked it away.

"How could you?" she snapped. "They were happy!"

"Happy?" Moriarty's nostrils flared. "He was touching you. Owen's lucky I didn't cut off his hands—I still might!"

Annabelle opened her mouth to respond, then closed it, shaking as she drew in long, slow breaths. When he continued to regard her with an icy stare, she turned on her heel and stomped away from him to put the Stradivarius back in its case.

"I thought you had changed," she said, shaking as she spoke. "Why did I even come?"

"Yes, why did you come, Annabelle?" he demanded.

Annabelle paused and raised her eyes to his. In the quietness of the pub, alone on stage with him, she could hear the sound of her heart banging in her ears. Or was it his heart?

"I don't know why," she murmured.

His voice trembled with an almost savage intensity. "That... isn't... good enough!"

Annabelle moved to leave the stage, but he caught her wrist and firmly pulled her back to stand in front of him. He didn't let go.

"Tell me why, Annabelle," he repeated, his hand tightening on her wrist. "You know what kind of man I am, better than anyone. You know my demons. Why did you come back?"

"You're hurting me." She tried wrenching her hand out of his grip.

He dropped her hand and fisted his own at his sides, his gaze unblinking.

Under the dim lighting of the pub, Annabelle paused to stare up at him. She could see the raging war in his eyes as if he were trying to hold his temper in check. But there was something more. Was it... pain? Uncertainty?

She blinked up at him. She knew what he really asked. It was written in every strained line on his face. Why did she come, and... would she stay?

She glanced down at the violin case. How could she be mad at him? Sure he had destroyed everyone's evening, including hers. Sure he was just as controlling and belligerent as he ever was. Sure he was a rogue, a scoundrel, a killer, and yet, she still wanted him in her life—desperately.

Annabelle lifted her head and saw the flash of misery in his expression before he dropped his eyes to the ground. Pushing her hair off her shoulder, she went back to the stool, laid down the case, and withdrew the violin. She set it on her shoulder, fingers on the strings, bow in position, and played for him—only him.

The beautiful notes rose not only from the violin but from Annabelle's heart. She pulled the bow back and forth across the strings, the soothing serenade she had practiced so many times, filling the air around them.

She glanced at him as she played and saw how rigidly he stood, saw his eyes float from the ground to her, then to the ground again. And as the strings vibrated under her fingertips, a new sensation fluttered in her chest. She wanted him to like what she played. His opinion never mattered before, but it did now.