Valse nocturne - Jean Bell
Payton, Now
"I forgot the turkey!"
I tuck my phone between my ear and shoulder, freeing my hands. With a grin, I ask, "Who is this?"
"A dead man," Aidan replies. There's a loud clang on his end of the line, followed by the buzz from an industrial saw, so I assume he's at work. "I promised Kendall a turkey for Christmas, but I forgot to pick it up. Between the twins, and last-minute gifts, and rubbing Liv's swollen feet, and—"
"Relax," I interrupt, setting two croissants on a plate. "I'll grab one from the store. We should be heading back to New Hope soon. Mallory called Grace to let her know security is stationed at the house."
"I didn't order it from a grocery store." He scoffs, as if the idea is asinine. "I bought one from a farm thirty minutes north of Lancaster."
Because Aidan Reeves consumes meat fresh from the paddock, not the freezer section at the local market.
"Ah, bougie turkey," I state, filling a mug with coffee. "Understood. Just text me the address."
"Thanks, man. I owe you one."
Last night, I spanked your sister, then punched a hole in her cervix—and that's not the first time I've done it. So, we're even.
"No big deal," I say instead, ending the call.
Grace was soaking her sore backside in the clawfoot tub when I left our cabin twenty minutes ago. The main residence has a breakfast spread, but the collection of pastries doesn't meet the nutritional requirements for a professional athlete. I'll settle for a protein bar and a large lunch on the road.
Balancing a tray in my arms, I exit the dining hall. Mrs. Lapp is behind the concierge desk. She gives me a brief smile. Somehow, she knows we moved the bundling board. Her suspicion is evident in her narrowed eyes, and the tightness at the corners of her mouth. Heat rises in my cheek, and I tuck my lips between my teeth, fighting laughter.
On my way to the door, I pass the sitting room—more specifically, the piano. It caught Grace's attention upon our arrival, and I noticed the dismay on her face. I form a plan on my walk back to the cabin.
Grace needs to confront the piano, and whatever it is about the instrument that scares her. Music is her oxygen, her lifeblood. She's been holding her breath all this time, pretending she doesn't need it. She won't feel alive until she sits in front of the keys. If I can just get Grace in the room with the piano...
She could very well destroy it, but I can always write Mrs. Lapp a check.
When I enter the cabin, Grace is pulling a sheer black shirt down over her head. She tucks it into a pair of baggie, acid-washed jeans, then combs her fingers through her damp hair. I set the tray on the bed, popping a raspberry into my mouth.
Thank you, she signs, tugging her sleeves to cover her wrists.
It's too late—I saw the bruises before she woke this morning. She slept naked with her arms above her head, so I had full access to her body. I perused her flesh, grinding my molars at the visible evidence of her depression. She's had self-destructive habits since we were kids—biting her nailbeds, scratching her wrists, pinching her thighs—but it's never been this bad. She hides it well, but she can't conceal it from the man who has spent a majority of his life obsessed with her.
Grace sits on the end of the bed, tearing off a piece of the croissant. She soaks the pastry in coffee, then places it on her tongue. When she swallows, the tendons in her throat flex, and her collarbones protrude, but she doesn't grimace.
She isn't starving herself by choice. Yesterday, I watched her struggle with the bacon. Due to her injuries from the crash, swallowing is painful, and she can barely taste. The heat level from her curry last night nearly burned my eyebrows off, but that's how I requested the chef make it. Grace can still enjoy things, she just needs accommodation.
She takes one more bite, chugs the coffee, then signs, I'm ready if you are.
"Your twin requested a farm-fresh turkey, so we have to make a detour," I inform her.
She rolls her eyes. Of course he did.
We grab our bags, turn off the oil lamps, and trek back to the main residence. Snow catches in her hair, the white puffs stark against her dark tresses. She shivers in her excuse for a shirt, so I make a suggestion with two goals in mind.
"Why don't you wait inside where it's warm?" I ask, gesturing to the A-frame. "I'll turn the truck on and get the engine running."
Grace nods, and we part ways. She enters the house while I throw our bags into the truck bed. I take my time starting the engine and turning up the heat, keeping an eye on the sitting room's windows. I can't see clearly, but I can make out shapes beyond the glass. A distinct, petite shadow passes into the room, delicate in its hesitance.
"Come on, baby," I murmur, chewing on the inside of my cheek. "You can do it."
I'm nervous for her, my intestines twisting into a solid knot. I give her another minute, then leave the vehicle, stomping through the snow. I enter the house, and lose my footing over the rug when I hear it—music.
Her reluctance is obvious in the way she pulls back from the keys, as if the instrument is zapping her fingers. She's uncomfortable, but at least her ass is on the bench. I keep my tread light as I step into the sitting area, not wanting my presence to be a distraction or deterrence.
Floral-printed armchairs and dusty rugs are littered around the room. Doilies hang from end tables and a misshapen bookcase teeters from the weight on its shelves. An elderly couple are conversing on a loveseat in the corner, but stop speaking when they hear the piano.
Grace is seated on the wooden bench, her spine ramrod straight. Her shoulders are relaxed, and her wrists are poised elegantly above the keys. She opens with a slow, deep note, drawing it out with the pedals at her feet. She closes her eyes, leaning toward the instrument as if it's tied to her heart with a wire. She releases a breath, launching into a haunting melody.
The hair at the nape of my neck stands on end. My heart pounds a brutal rhythm against my sternum. My nose burns with an influx of emotion, and a single tear escapes my lashes. Grace might as well have flayed me open, and strummed my veins to create the sound.
The elderly couple are now fully engrossed, craning their necks to watch the performance. Mrs. Lapp has ventured in from her desk, and a girl that looks to be her daughter enters from a kitchen area. She wipes her hands on her apron, leaving traces of flour, then leans against the doorframe to listen. These people have no idea how lucky they are. Gracie's fans would sell their organs to witness this.
Grace splays her fingers on the keys, jumping one hand over the other to hit a treble, then returning it to resume the dark notes. She moves with the song, pouring her body, brain, and soul into it. She doesn't need to read music. She doesn't even bother opening her eyes. Grace knows where her hands need to be, which keys are vital to her creativity. It's bone-chilling, heartbreaking, and horrifyingly beautiful.
She captivates me in every way, stealing my senses. My head spins, and my knees threaten to buckle. I sink into one of the armchairs, struggling to fill my lungs with a breath. Every time I see Grace perform, she takes it away.
The older woman leans toward me, whispering so as not to interrupt. "Your wife is very talented."
I swallow, refusing to take my eyes off Grace. "Yeah, she is."
***
Grace, Now
Payton digs the toe of his sneaker into the frozen dirt, narrowing his eyes. "What am I looking at here?"
"This is Glenn the Gobbler!" the farmer announces, gesturing to the giant fowl. "He's paid for and ready to go. Just thought you'd like to get a look at him before we put him in the cage."
This isn't a turkey—it's a monster. The thing is half my size, with plumage that reaches my chest. It has beady black eyes, a red neck, and three toes. The middle talon is longer than my forefinger. The beast stalks on the brittle grass, undulating its wrinkled throat.
"Uhh," Payton stammers, glancing at me. His confusion mirrors mine. "Sorry. I was under the impression we were here for a dead turkey. You know, to eat?"
The farmer scratches his belly, canting his head in thought. "Well, I could kill it, but Mr. Reeves was adamant that he wanted the bird alive."
What in God's name does my brother plan to do with a forty-pound turkey?
Call him, I sign to Payton.
He nods, retrieving his phone from his jeans. He dials my brother, putting it on speaker. I cross my arms against the cold, refusing to look at the bird, although I can feel the creepy thing staring me down.
Instead, I study my surroundings. We're in the middle of Pennsylvania, in a town I've never heard of because it isn't listed on any maps. The farm is small—maybe a hundred acres—and peaceful, apart from the incessant gobbling. The noise is coming from behind the closed barn doors. Only this turkey has been allowed free roam, with the idea that Payton and I have come to claim it.
"Sup, P," Aidan answers, his voice tinny through the speaker.
"It's alive," Payton informs him, clenching his jaw in irritation.
"Elaborate."
"The turkey is alive, and its name is Glenn."
"Oh, I know. Glenn the Gobbler." Aidan has the gall to laugh. "Kendall picked him out from the farm's website. She wants to pardon him from our dinner table."
"It's Christmas, not Thanksgiving," Payton reminds him, stealing the words from my mouth. "And is your daughter under the delusion that she's the President of the United States?"
"Kendall isn't delusional," he volleys. "She's just an animal lover."
"I watched her eat a bacon, ham, and sausage omelet yesterday!"
"Get me that fucking turkey, Payton," Aidan growls, then adds a quiet, "Please."
Twenty minutes later, we're in the car again, hauling a winged monstrosity through the country roads. The crate barely fits in the back of Payton's truck, but the farmer and his sons managed to cram it in. And that was it—no pamphlet indicating how to care for the bird. No instructions for common behavior, or what to feed it during the road trip.
"It's fine, Grace," Payton assures me.
I've been craning my neck, trying to get a good look at it. What if it freezes?
"Then, we'll eat it for Christmas dinner like every other family in America," Payton replies. When I cast him a scathing glare, he asks, "Do you really think Kendall plans on keeping that thing?"
After an armed robbery resulted in Kendall being severely injured, Aidan declared that whatever his daughter wants, she gets. Exotic pets are no exception. We should be grateful she didn't request a tiger.
Answering Payton, I sign, Once she goes back to school after winter break, she'll lose interest. Aidan will wind up caring for it, then sell poor Glenn to a local butcher. He'll tell Ken it ran away.
Payton has to split his focus between the road and my hands, but he understands. He must've dedicated himself to learning ASL, on top of his demanding job. Guilt makes a hollow home in my belly. I don't deserve his time, his attention, his affection. He's literal sunshine, and I'm made of shadow—cold, distant, dark.
"Are you hungry?" he asks, distracting me from my spiral. "There's a truck stop at the next exit."
I'm not interested in food, but Payton needs to eat. I nod, reaching into the backseat for shoddy disguises. Unfortunately, the snow has forced holiday commuters to seek shelter indoors. The truck stop's diner is packed. Payton and I have barely taken a bite of our meals before someone snaps a picture of us. A few tables over, another person climbs onto the booth, recording on their phone.
Payton wipes his mouth with a napkin, irritation evident in the set of his jaw. When he speaks, his voice is lowered, aware of our audience. "What do you want to do, killer?"
I glance at my untouched chicken noodle soup, then at Payton's half-eaten turkey club. I grab a napkins from the dispenser, wrap his sandwich in them, and slap a few bills on the table. Payton slides out of the booth. When we rise, he puts his body between me and the cameras. Within seconds, they've multiplied, and the customers are inching closer.
"Saint Arlington!" someone shouts. "Can I get an autograph?"
Payton grimaces, but looks to me. I acquiesce with a nod. These are just average fans, not paparazzi. Payton is iconic to American sport, and I... was someone. I don't know who I am now, or what I have to offer the world.
"You're from that band, Disgrace, right?" the young man asks as Payton signs his hat. "Is it true you can't sing anymore?"
Payton freezes, a blot of ink staining the nylon fabric. The tendons in his forearms flex while he scribbles the remainder of his signature.
"That plane crash was crazy," the stranger continues, incapable of reading the room. I'm scratching my wrist, and Payton is audibly grinding his molars. "It started a wildfire in the Amazon. How did you get out?"
Payton shoves the memorabilia into the man's chest, then grabs my hand. More patrons step forward, waving various items in our faces—receipts, phone cases, articles of clothing, and countless pens. Payton politely declines, but his patience wanes. He descends into agitated silence as we cut through the crowd. His grip is tight, and he looks back to make sure no one is touching me.
It wouldn't be the first time I've been assaulted by a rabid fan. I've had my hair pulled while trying to get from the recording studio to my car. I've had underwear tossed at me during dinner. I've been charged at on stage, in the middle of a set.
Luckily, today is not such an occasion. The customers are perturbed by our departure, but don't act on it. Aside from a few more photos, we're left undisturbed as we exit the restaurant.
Payton drapes his arm over my shoulder in an effort to stave off the bitter windchill. He leads me to the truck, where Glenn is warbling in his crate. I peek into one of the holes, making sure he isn't dying from hypothermia.
"He has fifty layers of feathering, Grace," Payton states, holding the passenger door open for me. He points to the seat, his expression hard. "And you don't, so get in."
I bump my shoulder into his chest as I pass, but the aggression only makes him chuckle. He tries to buckle my belt, but I hiss, slapping his hand away. When he circles the hood of the vehicle, he releases a full-on belly laugh. I seethe, my glare burning holes into his jacket until he gets behind the wheel.
He fires up the engine, and we get on the interstate again. We have two more hours of driving ahead of us. After last night's strenuous activity and the early morning, I don't last long. My forehead falls against the window, and my eyelids grow heavy with fatigue. Payton places his hand on my thigh, and I drift off. It's not a deep sleep, but it's steady enough for my dreams to take hold, pulling me under...
I scream, but nothing comes out. Instead, smoke pours into my lungs, strangling me. I crawl over Devon's mutilated body. Tears mix with the sweat and ash on my face.
The plane has been split in half. Wires, springs, and jagged fiberglass are suspended between the aluminum hulls. I slide beneath the hazardous material, my belly scraping on something sharp. My memory fades in and out, playing like a roll of film.
I gain my footing, then lose it over a thick tree root, falling face first into the scalding mud. I crawl through the viscous terrain, clutching at moss and tufts of grass for purchase. Flames lick at my heels. I smell my hair burning, but it's nothing compared to the toxic jet fuel lingering in the air. I pull myself away from the searing heat, scrambling through the jungle on my hands and knees.
When I'm far enough from the roaring fire, I glance back, seeing the aircraft engulfed in flames. Phil was the one who unbuckled me, using the remainder of his strength to set me free. But I wasn't able to reach his belt. He asked me to abandon him, and I did. I hope he got out, but I don't have long to ponder his fate.
The fire is spreading, catching on the thick canopy of leaves.
Exotic birds release high-pitched screeches and monkeys cackle from the branches above my head. I stumble through the rainforest, bracing myself on mossy boulders and wet trunks. I'm breathing, but the air is molten iron slicking down my throat. My eyes water and my legs tremble from the pain, yet I fight. My body is a vehicle for survival, propelling itself onward in spite of the agony, the exhaustion, the friends I've left behind. Perhaps it's because of their deaths that I seek life.
My boots slosh into a stream. I stumble on the uneven rocks, splashing into the water. The liquid is ice against my scalding skin. I choke on it, trying to call for help, but I can't make a sound...
"Baby."
I open my eyes, my vision blurred, my brain foggy. I'm digging my nails into the back of Payton's hand. I release him, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. We're still driving, but the roads are familiar. We made it to New Hope.
"Did you have a dream about the crash?" Payton guesses, his tone soothing, exploratory.
I nod.
"Do you have them often?"
Another nod.
I had nightmares as a young girl—nothing unusual for a child—but Mom would always come running when I called out for her. I don't have that ability now, so I suffer the dark in silence.
"Shit," Payton curses, distracted by something on the road.
I look out the window, studying the street. We're at the base of the hill my parents live on. The street is normally quiet and ill-traveled, but today it's flooded with vehicles. The vacant cars are parked along the tree line, one after the other.
Payton slows as we near the entrance to the driveway. Paparazzi are gathered outside a wooden barricade, cameras at the ready. A slew of private security holds the photographers at bay, ensuring they stay off the property. One of the guards notices our arrival first, and jumps into action, clearing the way.
The paparazzi step aside, funneling around the truck. They press their lenses to the windows, trying to find a shot. The cab is flooded with white flashes.
"Keep your head down," Payton growls, slamming his fist into the horn.
The trespasser from yesterday must've been angered by the arrest and my father's subpoena, so he leaked our address to his coworkers. Mom was right. She knew more would come, and she had prepared for battle.
I stare at the footwell, my hair a curtain around my face. Once we're through the barricade, Payton guns the engine, racing up the hill. More guards are stationed around the house, dressed in all black. A few of them carry holsters on their belts.
My parents' cars are parked in the open garage. Aidan's truck is along the side of the house, and there's a fourth luxury sedan I recognize. It belongs to June, who used to be my father's publicist, but now runs crisis PR for our family. Between Aidan's addiction and my stardom, June has had her work cut out for her. She only shows when shit is about to hit the fan, so her appearance is ominous.
Dread is a burden around my neck as I enter the house, Payton not far behind. He sets our bags on the entrance table. Hearing the beep of the alarm, my mom rounds the corner, tugging me into her embrace.
"Sweetheart," she breathes into my hair, her vanilla scent a balm to my nerves. "How was the inn?"
My ass is still tingling, my thighs are burning, and my core is bruised from Payton's monster cock. That's how the inn was.
I pull away, fighting a blush as I sign, Good. Why is June here?
Mom opens her mouth, but pauses, appearing to mull over her words. "Did you and P stop for lunch?"
"We did," Payton answers cautiously.
"There were..." she trails off, rubbing the heel of her palm into her forehead. "People posted pictures online, and the tabloids got to them. There's been speculation."
"About?" Payton prods.
"Your relationship," Mom admits, her smile grim. "It's the first time Grace has been seen in public since the flight home from Brazil. The media has been clamoring for information, photos, medical records... They're going to be camped outside for a while. At least, until we give a statement."
"And that's where I come in," a female voice precedes the woman herself. June steps into the hall, brushing lint from her pencil skirt. She raises a blonde brow at me, then flicks her gaze to Payton. "I need to speak with the two of you in private."
Mom furrows her brow, glancing between the three of us. We usually handle these things as a unit, so she's confused why June needs to discuss our media plan alone.
I've been lying to my mother—to the people closest to me. At first, it was thrilling to keep the secret. After a while, I realized it was too late to reveal it without hurting my family.
Payton and I follow June out of the foyer and into the living area, where Aidan and Dad are seated on the sofa. They're watching a game, but glance up when we enter the room. Payton scans the score, then tosses his keys at Aidan, who catches them against his chest.
"The bird is in the truck," Payton says. "Don't tell Kendall I fed it a turkey sandwich."
Aidan chuckles. "Thanks, man."
"Everything okay?" Dad asks, his concern directed at me.
I nod, keeping close to June as she strides into the corridor. We enter the home theater, and June shuts the door behind us. Payton takes a seat, crossing his ankles in a casual show. I remain upright, lacing my fingers together in anticipation.
June pulls her phone from her purse, reading aloud as she scrolls through the headlines. "'Gracie Spotted at a Diner in Pennsylvania,' 'Saint Arlington Snared by Rockstar Sensation,' 'International Intrigue: A Glance at Gracie's Long List of Celebrity Affairs.'"
"Compelling." Payton's tone is dark. He chews on the inside of his cheek, staring at the opposite wall. "Bombs are being dropped on children in the desert, but America is sensationalizing a singer and a man who throws a ball for a living."
"With attention like this, your secret is going to be unearthed. There's nothing I can do about it," June continues, ignoring him. She slips her phone into her bag, her expression stern. "The courts have sealed the records, but that doesn't mean much to gossip rags who will earn their yearly quota in one edition with this information."
Payton and I share a look, our features riddled with frustration, worry, and shame. Not for what we did, but for hiding it.
"I'm here as a warning. You need to tell your families before they see it on the news." June's voice softens when she adds, "You've been married for ten years. The truth is overdue."
(Author's Note: Want to hear the piece that inspired the piano scene? It's "Valse nocturne" by Jean Bell)