Page 11

11

ALISSA

I’m glad Maddox grabbed my hand. I set it on the table on purpose and hoped he’d take the bait. Electricity pulsed through me when our fingers touched.

If this is what it feels like just to hold his hand, I can’t even begin to imagine what it will feel like when he kisses me. On my cheek, on my lips, on the most intimate parts of my body.

And then, when we finally go to bed together.

Maddox’s pants are tight-fitting and leave very little to the imagination. I can tell that he’s well-endowed, and that’s when he’s at rest. I can’t even begin to imagine what he’ll look like at full mast.

Of course, it’s only our first date. He’s already proved himself to be a gentleman, which normally I’d appreciate.

At the moment, though, I kind of wish he’d get on with it.

I’ve had two drinks. I usually stop at one. But something in me wanted to lower my inhibitions tonight. Maybe it’s this club. The colorful lights, the oddly dressed servers, the jazzy tunes lofting over from the Hearts section.

Or maybe it’s Maddox.

Most likely a bit of both.

I lean toward Maddox and squeeze his hand gently. “What kind of music do you like, Maddox?”

He chuckles. “I have something of an eclectic taste. I play a lot of Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin on that old phonograph in the shop, but that’s more to match the vibe of the haberdashery. I listen to a lot of stuff. Alternative rock sometimes, occasionally I get the country bug. But my go-to choices are the music of the sixties and the seventies.”

I wrinkle my nose. “Like disco?”

He laughs. “I enjoy a good disco song here and there. One of my favorite bands is Earth, Wind and Fire. ‘Boogie Wonderland’ is a masterpiece and I’m not afraid to say it.”

I giggle. “I would not have pegged you for a disco guy.”

“Because I’m not covered in gold chains and big hair?” He finishes off his gin and tonic, grinning slightly. “I can’t deny the feeling those grooves put into my body. Something about them just scratches my brain the right way. But it’s not just disco. I also love The Beatles. Especially the stuff they wrote during their acid phase.”

I cock my head. “Oh, you mean their weird stuff. ‘Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds.’ ‘I Am the Walrus.’”

“And The Carpenters, too.” He absentmindedly stirs the ice in his now-empty drink. “Something about their music just lulls me into a sense of comfort, of safety.”

“I’ll have to put them on my playlist the next time I go running,” I say.

I don’t run. God knows I don’t have the time for that. But I do want to listen to some of the music Maddox is talking about. These are all bona fide classics, after all. And I’ve found the best way to get to know a man is to listen to the music he likes. Maybe it’s the flute performance major in me, but a man who doesn’t have good taste in music usually doesn’t last long with me.

“Do you ever go to the symphony?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “I haven’t. I’ve always wanted to. Chicago has a world-class symphony orchestra.”

“I’ll have to take you sometime. I have a few friends who work in the box office, colleagues of mine from school. They can get us discounted tickets. I catch a performance now and then, when my schedule allows. I usually drag Dinah along. But it would be much nicer to have a handsome man on my arm.”

He leans in. “I’d love to accompany you to a concert of theirs sometime. Who’s your favorite composer?”

Oh, God. Here we go. He’s expecting me to say Mozart or Beethoven. A household name.

I chuckle nervously. “Shostakovich.”

He widens his eyes. “Never heard of him.”

“He’s a Russian composer. Soviet, technically. He composed some fantastic music, mostly while living under the rule of Stalin.”

He narrows his eyes. “A communist composer?”

I raise a hand. “He was actually against the regime, but of course he couldn’t say anything directly about it. Stalin would have had him executed. But music scholars have decrypted his music ever since the Soviet Union fell, and they’ve found lots of musical codes and clues depicting his true feelings.”

“Really? That’s fascinating.”

I’ve heard men say those exact words before. That’s fascinating. Usually I can tell that they’re humoring me, just staying interested enough to keep my attention until they can get me into bed.

But Maddox seems genuinely absorbed in what I have to say.

“Do you have a favorite work of his?”

I smile. “I’m partial to his fifth symphony. Not only because there is a magnificent flute solo in the first movement, but also because of the way he composed the ending of the piece. It’s this big, booming, patriotic march, which Stalin of course interpreted as his love of the motherland.”

“But there’s a code in it?” he asks.

I nod. “In a way. He chose a very specific tempo. Just slow enough to imply that he’s being forced to put on a happy face. To rejoice the glorious rule. He threads the needle perfectly, just enough for the party leaders to be pleased, but to also get a message of defiance out to people who were listening carefully enough.”

“Let me look up the CSO’s calendar.” He pulls out his phone and scrolls for a minute. “Looks like they’re playing Shostakovich’s eleventh symphony next week. Maybe we can get tickets.”

I widen my eyes. “I’d love to. The eleventh is another favorite. It’s very dark, and another deliberate critique of the regime.”

God, I sound like a nerd. Maddox seems to be into it, but I’d better curb this for now. I could talk about Shostakovich all night, but that’s not what this date is about.

Maddox isn’t the first man who’s suggested the symphony as a date after I jabber on about my musical tastes. I’ve had at least three or four men do exactly what he’s doing—pull out their phone and suggest a concert we could attend. None of them ever followed up.

But there’s something different about Maddox. My gut tells me that he would actually buy the tickets, get all dressed up—he’s got the bloody clothes for it—and escort me to Symphony Center on Michigan Avenue.

I guess we’ll see.

“You really don’t have to go if you don’t want to, Maddox.”

He shakes his head. “Nonsense. Seems very romantic. A date to see a symphony by your favorite composer. I like to listen to music someone else likes. No better way to get to know a person.”

I almost spit out my sip of gin and tonic. I was thinking the exact same thing just a few minutes ago.

This man is inside my mind.

And I kind of like it.

“That’s very sweet of you, Maddox.” I give his hand another gentle squeeze. “Obviously I don’t play as much anymore, but I still enjoy listening to classical music. I hope we’re still seeing each other by the time the concert rolls around.”

He smiles at me, his eyes narrowed. “Alissa, I think that is very much in the cards.”

I go to take another sip of my gin and tonic, and I realize that I’ve finished it. My second drink, already. And Maddox has barely finished his first.

“Another drink?” Maddox asks.

I purse my lips. “I really shouldn’t. Have to get home tonight.”

“I’m happy to give you a lift home,” he says. “In fact, even if you didn’t have a drop of liquor tonight, I’d insist on it. I won’t have a woman taking the train home this late at night. Not when my car is parked in a garage just a block away.”

I eye my empty glass. “Are you sure it’s not too much trouble?”

He chuckles. “Alissa, you live five minutes away from me. It’s not any trouble at all.”

I bite my lip, but my gut is telling me that it’s okay. I nod to Maddox, smiling. “All right. One more drink. But that’s it.”

He raises his hand to flag down a waitress.

Immediately a young woman comes to us carrying a serving tray. She’s beautiful, with long black hair and warm olive skin. She’s wearing the same uniform as the rest of the female waitstaff, a lacey black bikini with white polka dots, which upon closer examination are actually small spade symbols. She has a tattoo on either shoulder—another spade on her left, and the number seven on her right.

She doesn’t speak, of course, merely bowing her head toward Maddox.

He gestures to her. “When they bow their head, it means they’re asking what we would like. They’re not allowed to speak, as I told you.” He turns to the young girl. “Thank you, Seven. I’ll have another gin and tonic, and my lady friend here will have…” He turns to me, his gaze questioning.

I swallow. “I’ll have a dirty vodka martini, please.”

The waitress nods and her eyes meet mine for a moment.

They’re a beautiful deep brown. But there’s a trace of something in them, something that makes me shift in my seat.

But before I can get a good look, Seven—I guess that’s what she’s called here—whisks away to the bar.

“She’ll be back soon,” Maddox says. “They’re very quick here.”

“She didn’t write our order down,” I reply.

“They don’t do that here. They memorize the orders and take them straight to the bar, where they write them down for DeeDee and Dudley to fill.” He looks at my empty glass, still on the table. “But they normally bus our dirty glasses. She must have forgotten it this time. Maybe she’s new. Sorry about that.”

I blink. “It’s no trouble. I’m sure she’ll grab it when she brings the drinks.”

I hold up my gin and tonic, studying the glass. The same four playing-card symbols as the club doors, laser-engraved with intricate precision. A faint reflection stares back at me, blurred and distorted. I check my makeup, an old habit.

Then I’m in my mother’s kitchen. A broken shard in my hand. Dishes shattered across the tile, jagged edges catching the light. My reflection stares up at me from the wreckage, eyes wide, unblinking.

I saw it again. In Seven’s eyes.

Recognition slams into me. That look. The same one I had as I peered into the broken glass on my mother’s kitchen floor.

Fear.