Page 68 of Trust

“Of course.” Ilya yawns widely. “But I think, it is time for us to sleep.”

“Okay.” I lay my head against his chest, so I’m directly above his heart.

I fall asleep to that gentle thud of his heartbeat, wishing it could beat for me forever.

TWELVE

MICAH

I don’t think I can do it.

I stare out over the restaurant, where people are chatting and enjoying their dinners in peace. All I can think about is the fact that I’m about to interrupt them with my playing that sounds like caterwauling. No matter how many times Ilya has tried to reassure me that my playing isgood, I don’t know that I believe him.

I know he’s here, but I don’t see him, and that both makes me more confident and less.

Trembling, I lower my head and take my bow to the cello, the opening notes to a piece I’ve been practicing diligently starting to sound in the restaurant.

I’m aware of it when people start to turn their heads to look at me, and I will myself not to mess up. I can’t disappoint Ilya.

I still need to get close to him, and letting him fuck me isn’t going to get him to tell me anything important. The only thing I know about hiscrimesis that he went to prison for beating up his father.

It’s something I have a hard time blaming him for.

If he was only trying to protect his mother…

But then, what if he was to beat up Adam, claiming it was to protect me?

That’s different.

Isn’t it?

As the bow glides across the strings, I dare to look up. People have stopped talking as much, but no one looks annoyed by the interruption to their meals. If anything, they seem to be interested in the background music, which is a relief.

I’m only supposed to play a few pieces to start, quiet and nondescript, but it’s something. It’s a start, and Ilya is paying well.

Too well.

Maybe I wouldn’t have noticed just how well if it hadn’t been for my awareness that he’s engaging insomethingillegal, but I’m not that naive. I know that as an amateur musician, I’m not worth the money I’m making — minimum wage six times over — but he’d insisted the diners would appreciate it.

He’d kept insisting that it might even be a draw once people learn he has live music.

I don’t know if I can believe that, but I’m so desperate for the money that I didn’t argue as much as I probably should have.

After the piece comes to a close, the diners applaud quietly, and self-doubt instantly seizes me again. What if they’re only being polite? What if they’re waiting to launch their complaints as soon as they’re finished with their meals?

I’d told Ilya I’d play one piece and see how it went, and I need a moment to gather myself.

I take a short break, not wanting to inundate them with my music in case they really aren’t interested in it, and wander to the back to get something to drink.

“Hey there,” a server in a neat white button-up shirt and a pair of black pants greets me. Her dark braids are pulled back,out of her face. “I’m Cat. You’re Micah, right? Mr. Zima said you’d be around today.”

I blush. “Yeah,” I say, swallowing back some of the anxiety I feel. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“You’re really good,” she says. “Are you going to keep playing?”

I nod to her. “As long as no one makes complaints or anything,” I say, unable to keep the self-deprecating words from escaping me.

Her brow furrows. “Why would anyone complain?”