Dangerous Melodies - Chapter 16: Chapter 16
You are reading Dangerous Melodies, Chapter 16: Chapter 16. Read more chapters of Dangerous Melodies.
MARISOL
Boredom pressed tight against my chest as I paced the guesthouse. Everything was too quiet. Too polished. Every step landed too loudly in the silence.
My stomach gave a low growl, stubborn and hollow.
"Mr. Buttons, I’m starving," I muttered.
He wagged his tail once, tongue flopped out in that ridiculous way that always managed to crack me. Even just a little.
I headed for the kitchen, dragging my hand along the doorway on the way in.
The place looked untouched. Not a crumb on the counters. Every appliance was polished to a stupid level of shine, like even the toaster had something to prove.
Even the fridge had that smug, untouched look.
I tugged it open and let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding.
Real food. Thank God.
Ham. Cheese. Bread. Good enough.
I slapped a sandwich together while Mr. Buttons tracked every move, eyes locked on the meat like he was seconds from launching an ambush.
"Don’t worry. I’ll save you a bite," I said, tearing off a piece of ham and tossing it to him.
He gave it a sniff, then inhaled it like he hadn’t eaten in a week.
I couldn’t help it. The corner of my mouth tugged up. That little flash of normal hit harder than I expected.
I grabbed a glass, filled it with orange juice, then leaned against the counter and sank my teeth into the sandwich. Chewed. Swallowed.
The food helped. A little.
But the quiet crept back in, thick around the edges. Too still. Too much space to think.
I scanned the room. Needed something to do. Anything.
I started opening drawers. One was empty. Another, too.
Third time’s the charm. My fingers closed around something wedged in the back. A book.
I pulled it out. The cover caught the light, the title stamped in gold.
The Art of Mixology.
A grin pulled at the corner of my mouth.
“Mr. Buttons, are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
He tilted his head like I’d asked him the secret to the universe. Not a care in the world.
Figures.
Okay, probably not.
My gaze flicked to the bar, slick and untouched, practically begging for trouble.
Other than champagne, I’d never touched alcohol. But curiosity stirred in my chest. Wild and sharp. Scratching at the walls.
Maybe a little heat in my veins would melt the edges of everything, just for a bit.
I grabbed ice, then reached for a bottle of Patrón.
“How about we try... tequila and...” My voice trailed off as I threw random bottles into a glass.
Bright colors. Sharp smells. Sweet, burning chaos.
Some of it tasted like candy. Some of it was like cleaning fluid. But the rush of not caring? That part went down smoothly.
I lined up the bottles like I had a plan. I didn’t.
Vodka. Something citrusy. A bottle with a gold label and an orange smell, I didn’t hate. Some weird fruit liqueur I couldn’t pronounce. I poured with no clue what I was doing—just going off instinct and vibes.
“This is how bad decisions start,” I muttered, unscrewing a bottle. “Too much quiet. Not enough reasons to stay sane.”
Mr. Buttons gave a soft woof, tail thumping once.
“Exactly,” I nodded. “We’re not drinking. We’re... exploring the science of vibes.”
The first drink burned. The second was better. The third...
I grinned at my reflection in the microwave. “I look amazing.”
Not true. My hair was a mess. Eyes still swollen from crying. But right now? I didn’t care. That was the magic.
I made something with coconut rum and lemon juice that I immediately regretted.
“Nope.” I pushed the glass away. “You stay over there and think about what you’ve done.”
By drink four, I was dancing in place. Mr. Buttons barked along, possibly in protest.
Everything sparkled. The counter. The air. My skin.
I leaned against the counter, glass clutched in both hands.
If I can laugh right now, does that mean I’m okay? Or is this just another kind of breaking?
I closed my eyes. The buzz softened the sharp corners inside me, but it didn’t make them disappear.
I still remembered the way Dante looked the night he caught me. That fury, barely contained. That edge under his voice.
He said I was safe. He said he wanted to change.
But I wasn’t naïve enough to think love ever really fixed anything.
Not when it came wrapped in power. Not when it kept you locked in a house with security cameras and pretty furniture.
I looked around again. Everything was beautiful. Immaculate.
But it wasn’t mine.
I took another drink. The sweetness hit too late. The burn came first.
Some drinks were too harsh. Others syrupy. But the rush of experimenting? Electric.
Sip after sip, the flavors blurred. Warmth spread through me, lazy and liquid. That constant fear, always coiled tight beneath my ribs, slipped quiet.
Not gone. But not biting.
I poured Patrón and a splash of Blue Curaçao over ice. The drink glowed like liquid turquoise.
“Oh my god, it’s blue, like magic! Mr. Buttons, I’m a genius!” I raised it in triumph.
He sneezed. Totally unimpressed.
I cackled and spun toward the TV, flipping it to the pop music channel. The beat hit like a pulse.
I twirled across the marble floor, belting out lyrics like I had the whole stage to myself.
The room spun with me, lines and edges smearing into motion.
Laughter spilled out, sudden and full. Rising from somewhere I hadn’t touched in a long time.
Real and reckless.
This. This was freedom.
The music wrapped around me, my limbs loose and fearless.
Then it hit me: an idea. A bath. Perfect.
I staggered toward the bathroom but skidded to a halt.
The security camera stared down from the corner of the ceiling.
“You’re such a pervert, Dante Kincade,” I slurred, glaring at the lens. “Bet you’d love to watch, wouldn’t you? Creep. Mr. Buttons, we can’t let him see us naked. Quick, to the kitchen!”
I thrust my glass in the air like a sword. “Operation Towel Shield is a go!”
Mr. Buttons barked. Agreement? Confusion? Didn’t matter.
I grabbed a kitchen towel and scanned the room.
Chair? No. Barstool? No. Both.
“Yes. Perfect.”
I stacked the chair on top of the barstool, still gripping my drink with one hand. The chair scraped across the floor as I dragged the whole wobbly mess toward the bathroom.
It swayed. Threatened to tip. I clenched my teeth.
Climbing up, I balanced one foot. Then the other.
“Take this, Dante!” I slapped the towel over the lens. It fluttered to the floor.
I blinked at it. Shrugged.
Whatever.
Still dressed, blue drink in hand, I clambered into the tub. Warm water curled around me, bubbles fizzing at my wrists.
Absurd. Completely unhinged.
And I laughed. Hard.
I took another sip and let my head fall back.
At least I’m clean.
The acoustics bounced off the tile, bold and bright.
I sang a few notes, testing the echo. Liking the sound, I belted out the chorus, voice soaring.
Let them hear me.
Mr. Buttons circled twice, then flopped onto the rug with a dramatic huff.
I sang louder. The notes bounced back like they belonged to someone else.
Just for tonight, the world could wait.
Boredom pressed tight against my chest as I paced the guesthouse. Everything was too quiet. Too polished. Every step landed too loudly in the silence.
My stomach gave a low growl, stubborn and hollow.
"Mr. Buttons, I’m starving," I muttered.
He wagged his tail once, tongue flopped out in that ridiculous way that always managed to crack me. Even just a little.
I headed for the kitchen, dragging my hand along the doorway on the way in.
The place looked untouched. Not a crumb on the counters. Every appliance was polished to a stupid level of shine, like even the toaster had something to prove.
Even the fridge had that smug, untouched look.
I tugged it open and let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding.
Real food. Thank God.
Ham. Cheese. Bread. Good enough.
I slapped a sandwich together while Mr. Buttons tracked every move, eyes locked on the meat like he was seconds from launching an ambush.
"Don’t worry. I’ll save you a bite," I said, tearing off a piece of ham and tossing it to him.
He gave it a sniff, then inhaled it like he hadn’t eaten in a week.
I couldn’t help it. The corner of my mouth tugged up. That little flash of normal hit harder than I expected.
I grabbed a glass, filled it with orange juice, then leaned against the counter and sank my teeth into the sandwich. Chewed. Swallowed.
The food helped. A little.
But the quiet crept back in, thick around the edges. Too still. Too much space to think.
I scanned the room. Needed something to do. Anything.
I started opening drawers. One was empty. Another, too.
Third time’s the charm. My fingers closed around something wedged in the back. A book.
I pulled it out. The cover caught the light, the title stamped in gold.
The Art of Mixology.
A grin pulled at the corner of my mouth.
“Mr. Buttons, are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
He tilted his head like I’d asked him the secret to the universe. Not a care in the world.
Figures.
Okay, probably not.
My gaze flicked to the bar, slick and untouched, practically begging for trouble.
Other than champagne, I’d never touched alcohol. But curiosity stirred in my chest. Wild and sharp. Scratching at the walls.
Maybe a little heat in my veins would melt the edges of everything, just for a bit.
I grabbed ice, then reached for a bottle of Patrón.
“How about we try... tequila and...” My voice trailed off as I threw random bottles into a glass.
Bright colors. Sharp smells. Sweet, burning chaos.
Some of it tasted like candy. Some of it was like cleaning fluid. But the rush of not caring? That part went down smoothly.
I lined up the bottles like I had a plan. I didn’t.
Vodka. Something citrusy. A bottle with a gold label and an orange smell, I didn’t hate. Some weird fruit liqueur I couldn’t pronounce. I poured with no clue what I was doing—just going off instinct and vibes.
“This is how bad decisions start,” I muttered, unscrewing a bottle. “Too much quiet. Not enough reasons to stay sane.”
Mr. Buttons gave a soft woof, tail thumping once.
“Exactly,” I nodded. “We’re not drinking. We’re... exploring the science of vibes.”
The first drink burned. The second was better. The third...
I grinned at my reflection in the microwave. “I look amazing.”
Not true. My hair was a mess. Eyes still swollen from crying. But right now? I didn’t care. That was the magic.
I made something with coconut rum and lemon juice that I immediately regretted.
“Nope.” I pushed the glass away. “You stay over there and think about what you’ve done.”
By drink four, I was dancing in place. Mr. Buttons barked along, possibly in protest.
Everything sparkled. The counter. The air. My skin.
I leaned against the counter, glass clutched in both hands.
If I can laugh right now, does that mean I’m okay? Or is this just another kind of breaking?
I closed my eyes. The buzz softened the sharp corners inside me, but it didn’t make them disappear.
I still remembered the way Dante looked the night he caught me. That fury, barely contained. That edge under his voice.
He said I was safe. He said he wanted to change.
But I wasn’t naïve enough to think love ever really fixed anything.
Not when it came wrapped in power. Not when it kept you locked in a house with security cameras and pretty furniture.
I looked around again. Everything was beautiful. Immaculate.
But it wasn’t mine.
I took another drink. The sweetness hit too late. The burn came first.
Some drinks were too harsh. Others syrupy. But the rush of experimenting? Electric.
Sip after sip, the flavors blurred. Warmth spread through me, lazy and liquid. That constant fear, always coiled tight beneath my ribs, slipped quiet.
Not gone. But not biting.
I poured Patrón and a splash of Blue Curaçao over ice. The drink glowed like liquid turquoise.
“Oh my god, it’s blue, like magic! Mr. Buttons, I’m a genius!” I raised it in triumph.
He sneezed. Totally unimpressed.
I cackled and spun toward the TV, flipping it to the pop music channel. The beat hit like a pulse.
I twirled across the marble floor, belting out lyrics like I had the whole stage to myself.
The room spun with me, lines and edges smearing into motion.
Laughter spilled out, sudden and full. Rising from somewhere I hadn’t touched in a long time.
Real and reckless.
This. This was freedom.
The music wrapped around me, my limbs loose and fearless.
Then it hit me: an idea. A bath. Perfect.
I staggered toward the bathroom but skidded to a halt.
The security camera stared down from the corner of the ceiling.
“You’re such a pervert, Dante Kincade,” I slurred, glaring at the lens. “Bet you’d love to watch, wouldn’t you? Creep. Mr. Buttons, we can’t let him see us naked. Quick, to the kitchen!”
I thrust my glass in the air like a sword. “Operation Towel Shield is a go!”
Mr. Buttons barked. Agreement? Confusion? Didn’t matter.
I grabbed a kitchen towel and scanned the room.
Chair? No. Barstool? No. Both.
“Yes. Perfect.”
I stacked the chair on top of the barstool, still gripping my drink with one hand. The chair scraped across the floor as I dragged the whole wobbly mess toward the bathroom.
It swayed. Threatened to tip. I clenched my teeth.
Climbing up, I balanced one foot. Then the other.
“Take this, Dante!” I slapped the towel over the lens. It fluttered to the floor.
I blinked at it. Shrugged.
Whatever.
Still dressed, blue drink in hand, I clambered into the tub. Warm water curled around me, bubbles fizzing at my wrists.
Absurd. Completely unhinged.
And I laughed. Hard.
I took another sip and let my head fall back.
At least I’m clean.
The acoustics bounced off the tile, bold and bright.
I sang a few notes, testing the echo. Liking the sound, I belted out the chorus, voice soaring.
Let them hear me.
Mr. Buttons circled twice, then flopped onto the rug with a dramatic huff.
I sang louder. The notes bounced back like they belonged to someone else.
Just for tonight, the world could wait.
End of Dangerous Melodies Chapter 16. Continue reading Chapter 17 or return to Dangerous Melodies book page.