Heart Strings

He rolled, tucking me close after discarding the condom.

Lifting my chin, he gazed into my eyes, the look on his face the tender expression I was used to seeing from him.

“You were amazing,” he crooned, brushing the hair back from my face.

“We were amazing.”

“Can I stay?”

“Yes.”

“Tomorrow, I want to take you to my place.”

“Why?”

He chuckled. “I want you in my bed. I want my sheets to smell like you. Like sex. Like us.” He inhaled. “Just like this.”

“Okay,” I breathed out.

“Sleep now, Lottie. I’ve got you.” He pressed a kiss to my head. “And when you wake up, we can start again.”

His next words sent a thrill through my body.

“Because I’m not done with you. Not by a long shot.”Chapter 8LoganLottie slept beside me, tight to my side. She had her arms wrapped around my waist, her head in my neck, her breaths soft puffs of warmth on my skin. If I shifted, she followed. I had the feeling she liked being held.

I liked holding her.

On occasion, simply for fun, I liked to play in the subway. I enjoyed watching people’s reactions to hearing music. It changed the atmosphere, often lifting it and making the aura lighter in the station. I didn’t play for money, but whatever cash was tossed in my case went right to the homeless shelter or the food bank. There had been a time when I’d needed that money and those places to survive, so I liked to give back.

Our meeting happened by chance. I was on my way home, a song stuck in my head, and I decided to stop and play it out. I only intended to play for a few moments, long enough to stop the swirl of notes in my head, but then it happened.

She appeared, and I looked at her, focusing all my attention in her direction. It wasn’t the first time I had noticed her. The pretty girl with the rich chestnut hair who caught my eye. She always looked solemn and lost in her own world, and I was used to the almost blank expression on her face as she walked past me, never noticing anything around her, it seemed. She always intrigued me, and the urge to speak to her grew each time I would catch a glimpse of her.

But that night, she had looked as if the weight of the world were on her shoulders and the burden was too much for her to handle. She collapsed onto the bench, her legs seemingly unable to hold her upright for even one more step. Concerned, I turned in her direction, focusing my voice toward her. For a few moments, there was no reaction, then she lifted her gaze. I was close enough to see the unusual ice-blue of her irises, and the pain, sadness, and turmoil I saw in her eyes hit me like a punch in the gut.

I had never seen a gaze contain that much emotion. Pain I desperately wanted to ease. I watched as she listened, her body relaxing, her shoulders losing the tension that held them tight. The station faded as I sang to her—for her. I directed every word her way, strummed every note, and fed each line with my voice. She sat straighter, no longer broken, but slowly coming back to life.

I didn’t stop. I sang and played for as long as she was there. When she stood and came closer, I was unable to take my eyes off her. She was beautiful. Small, delicate, and fragile. Yet stronger than an oak tree, standing tall and proud. The expression I thought was blank was nothing more than a mask. I saw the real woman tonight. She paused in front of me, meeting my eyes, her emotions hidden unless she allowed you to see.

And she showed me.

She tossed some money in the case, but it was her voice that made me falter.

“Thank you,” she murmured and walked away.

I followed her with my eyes until she disappeared.

After that, because I had no choice, I returned every night to serenade her. Sometimes I waited, playing only when I saw her, but I was there. I couldn’t explain the draw to this tiny woman. I couldn’t possibly articulate to anyone the possessive need I had to surround her with my music. Somehow, I knew she needed it. Needed me. But I had no idea how to approach her, other than to offer her the gift of my music.

And she inspired me. I wrote daily, my once intermittent habit of jotting down phrases and notes now a seemingly endless stream since she had appeared in my life. I sang all the words and notes that would explode onto the pages to her.

Because they were all for her.

When she fell asleep on the subway bench, so exhausted and worn-down, I sat as close as I dared, watching over her. Desperate to touch and hold her, I held back and remained a silent sentinel for her. When she woke in a panic, I knew I could no longer simply be the voice and song in the background.