This Cruel Love

“No, you did that with your little red wine show.”

“Well, it made me feel a damn sight better for doing it.”

“Good. At least one of us got the result they wanted tonight.”

“You think I wanted to look like a crazy, jealous freak?”

I couldn’t take much more. My head was pounding, and if I didn’t get away soon, I was liable to tell him where he could stick his rehab deal and walk.

“You are the most insufferable man it has ever been my displeasure to meet. I didn’t get the result I wanted tonight. In fact, none of this is what I wanted. If I had my way, I’d be in bed with my boyfriend right now, but no. I’m stuck here arguing with your sorry ass. And you know what? I’m done. I’m not discussing this with you anymore.”

His face went pale and he moved his body as if to stop me from walking towards the front door, but I was heading in the opposite direction to my bedroom.

“Goodnight, Jackson. Hopefully you’ll wake up on the right side of your cage tomorrow and be in a better mood.”

And with that, I turned on my heels and left him to his sulking.

I was coaxed awake gently by the sounds of Bach’s The Well-Tempered Clavier, Book 1: Prelude No 1 in C Major, drifting through the apartment. Bathing every corner with its soothing tones and creating a sense of wellness that felt strangely peaceful here in the devil’s lair. A piece of heaven floating over the air, in stark contrast to the aura that the occupant of this home so often created.

The piece caused a painful tug in my heart, as it was as familiar to me as an old friend. My father used to play this every time he felt stressed out, or needed to ground himself after a particularly taxing day at work. I used to sit at his feet and listen as his nimble fingers glided over the keys. More than once he sent me to sleep with the ambient, tranquil state he forged, as the music resonated around the room and into my very soul. It was my favourite classical piece of music because it reminded me of my childhood. It also reminded me of how much I missed my family, my parents, and in particular, my dad.

For years he’d tried to get me to follow in his musical footsteps, and paid for me to have private tuition on the family piano. But I preferred to listen to the music as opposed to playing it myself. I’d always refused to even attempt Bach, because those notes, they belonged to my dad. It was his.

A stray tear rolled down my cheek, but I let it fall. I liked the emotions the music was evoking inside me, and I didn’t want to suppress any of it. Not for one second.

I pushed the bed covers off and, as if mirroring the music around me, I glided over to the door. It was as if I was sleep-walking, but I was one hundred percent awake. The music was sending me into the sweetest trance. I crept out of my room, expecting to see the lights from a music system, or the television. I wasn’t expecting to see Jackson sitting at the piano playing the music himself.

Careful not to alert him to my presence, I leant against the wall, then slid down it to sit and listen undetected. Something told me he wouldn’t appreciate me watching him play. There was no music in front of him to follow; he was playing the piece from memory, just like my dad used to. I was mesmerised watching him. How could someone who exacted such violence and terror in his day-to-day life play with such beauty and grace?

The expression on his face as he played was one of pure passion and concentration. His eyes were closed, and he bowed his head as his fingers skated over the keys, caressing them as he played with expert precision. His body was relaxed and his shoulders were moving in time with the glide of his hands. Was this his way of de-stressing after a day of bloodshed and brutality? This all felt surreal to me. I was having trouble equating everything I already knew about Jackson Caine to this stunning maestro sitting before me. I could’ve listened to him play all day.

It struck me then how it didn’t bother me that he was playing my father’s song. In fact, he played it with as much, if not more vigour and perfection than he did, if that was possible. How ironic that the man to cause me so much misery and heartache was now soothing me with his talents. Was he trying to make amends with his melody? Whatever he was doing, it was working. I was the most relaxed I’d been in days. The music came to an end, and he opened his eyes to peer down at the keys he’d just played, as if in wonder of how they’d created such a blissful tune. I didn’t want to taint the harmonious ambience he’d crafted, so I lifted myself from the floor and floated back to my room in a daze of contentment and confusion. I also swore that the minute my parents were back in the country, I’d reach out to them.

It was no surprise that when I woke up in the morning, Jackson had already left for work. It must’ve been Sylvie’s day off, because the apartment was deadly silent and the coffee in the machine was stone cold. I helped myself to some toast and made a fresh pot of coffee, then tried to occupy myself with a new box set on Netflix, but I was restless. I wanted to get out there and start working, be a useful member of society. My grandma had always told me that everyone had to have a purpose for their day. I was no pampered princess. I liked to keep busy.

I looked around at the pristine apartment and decided cleaning was pointless. Sylvie kept this place looking immaculate. So what to do with my day? I took to the shower to freshen up and decide what the day had in store for me.

I figured I must be a glutton for punishment, because after exhausting all ideas, all I could think about was going to Jackson’s club and seeing if I could make myself useful there. The lure of finding out his deepest, darkest secrets was too great a pull for me. After being woken by his piano playing last night, I couldn’t deny I felt intrigued by him. Plus, the idea of spending a bit more time getting under his skin and annoying the crap out of him had its merits.

I took a cab into the city and had the driver drop me off at the back of the club. The doors were wide open as a delivery had just arrived, and men were busy moving boxes into the store room at the back of the building. I smiled and strode forwards with purpose as if I was meant to be there and made my way into the main area of the club undetected to find staff stocking shelves and cleaning.

“Need any help?” I asked a guy carrying a crate of beer bottles up from the cellars.

“Yeah, always. You the new girl?” He eyed me suspiciously, as if he doubted my ability to pick up anything heavy or do any kind of manual work.

“That depends on who’s asking. What do you need me to do?”

He stacked the crate on top of another by the fridges behind the bar and pointed at them.

“Fridges need restocking. Only you need to take the ones from the back and put them at the front, you know, to keep the rotation fresh. Think you can manage that?”

“It’ll be tough, but I’ll give it a whirl.” What a douche. I think I was capable of putting some bottles onto shelves in a fridge.

“When you’ve done that, there’s a mountain of glasses that need putting through the washer out back. There’s an apron somewhere under the bar.”

He bent down to try to find an apron for me, but I ushered him away, letting him know I was fine and could manage to do those jobs without one.

“Friendly bunch he’s got working here,” I muttered under my breath, and a deep laugh alerted me to someone else’s presence behind me.