This was not the bedroom she shared with Dickie. That place-that awful place-had a dark four-poster bed, wider than even the biggest king and set on columns the size of redwoods. In the corner was a heavy dark armoire built to house three televisions and other pieces of electronic equipment. And as if the room needed topping off, Dickie had hung that trashy LeRoy Neiman painting of a bullfighter.
Tink closed her eyes.
Big ugly things for a big ugly man.
“Miss Tinkie?”
His voice came as tender as the hum of a fading violin. Was he early? Or was she late? No matter. He was here.
She started toward the bedroom door, then paused, hand poised over a wooden music box on the chest of drawers. It was a Nicole Frères, hand-made in 1814, an exquisite piece of lustrous black ebony with intricate ivory scrollwork.
Tink ran her finger across the lid. It had been sent to her from London on her tenth birthday, a gift from her beloved grandfather. It had been the last gift Poppy had sent her, and it was the only thing she had taken with her when she left her childhood home in Philadelphia.
Her hand went out to lift the lid, but she froze. She so wanted to play the music now as he entered, but she didn’t dare. He might think her rude for not waiting, and there was no excuse for being rude, not even in sin.
“Miss Tinkie?”
He was standing at the door.
Slender and tall, with the soft white shirt lying against the hard muscles of his chest. His face was smooth and boyish in the glow of the lamp, his eyes as dark as her music box. He bowed his head and looked up at her from under a hank of silken black hair.
Tink smiled. He was shy. Could he be more perfect?
She lifted the lid on the music box and held out a hand to him. The melody of “Un bel di” filled the silence. His eyes slipped to the music box before they settled back on her. He seemed bewildered.
“It’s from Madama Butterfly,” Tink whispered. “You recognize it, don’t you?”
He set the orchid on the dresser, next to the music box, and turned again to look around the room. It was as if he just couldn’t resist looking. Of course he couldn’t, she knew. None of them could. Wasn’t it every man’s dream to have a virgin?
She moved to him and touched his face to bring his gaze back to her. Her other hand rested on his chest, her fingers inside his collar.
“Are you nervous, Byrne?” she whispered.
He lowered his head. She thought he would lean in and kiss her, but instead, he took her hand and held it firmly against his body. She pressed her lips to his cheek, wanting to feel the heat of his skin and breathe in his smell-his wonderful soapy smell-but he was steeled against her touch.
Something was wrong.
She drew back. He was looking at the bed again, a small twitch rippling his cheek, his eyes filmed with a dullness she had seen before.
He was repulsed.
She was the freak.
And if she didn’t do something, he would leave.
“Please,” she whispered. “Just close your eyes and pretend. We’re sixteen. It’s midnight, and we’ve just left the cotillion, and for the first time in days, we are alone.”
He managed a small nod and closed his eyes, willing, she supposed, to put his mouth on her as long as he didn’t have to see her. His lips were dry, his kisses without passion. He wouldn’t carry her to the bed, as she asked, but walked her with no ear for the beautiful melody.
But she had asked him to be sixteen. Could she fault him for being so good at that?
He gently touched her breasts through the ruffled bodice of the dress.
“No,” she whispered. “Like a boy, like a boy.”
He hesitated. “I don’t understand what you want,” he said.
She wanted to cry in frustration. “I want you to be sixteen. Can you do that, please?”
“I don’t know-”
“Like the first time you did it,” she whispered. “Can you remember what that was like? That is what I want. Like we are sixteen, please!”
When he started again, it was different. This time, it was right. He pawed at her; he panted. He rubbed her, groped her, and finally, he hurt her.
And then, as she asked, he left her on her back, her lips raw from his hard kisses and her gown crumpled around her hips.
She lay there, listening to the rustle of his clothes as he dressed. When he was finished, she heard his footfalls as he crossed the room, then the soft click of the door as it closed behind him.
As the quiet returned, she realized that the melody in the music box was dying. Just pings that became slower and slower as the cylinder made its last turns.
She was drifting, almost asleep, when a voice boomed from the hall, rocketing her to a sitting position.
“Who the hell are you?”
Dickie. My God, Dickie’s home!
Tink jumped off the bed, ran to the door, and flung it open. Dickie stood on the landing, a giant blur of black-and-white tuxedo. He had Byrne crushed against the wall with a hand to his throat.
“Stop it!” Tink cried.
Dickie raised an arm to backhand her, but she ducked and retreated into her room. Tink watched in horror as he smacked Byrne with an open palm. Byrne tried to fight, but all he could hit were the thick slabs of Dickie’s arms.
“Who the fuck are you?” Dickie shouted, bouncing Byrne against the wall. “What the fuck were you doing here?”
“I was invited!” Byrne yelled.
“Invited!” Dickie spat. His eyes swung to Tink and then down to her disheveled white dress. “What the hell are you wearing?”
“It’s my gown!” Tink cried. “It’s my special gown!”
Dickie pushed her back inside her bedroom and yanked the door closed.
She stood, eyes squeezed shut, hands over her ears. But she could still hear them. No matter how hard she pressed her hands against her head, she could still hear them.
“Get up!” Dickie yelled. “Get up on your feet!”
Byrne was crying now, mumbling things she couldn’t understand. She couldn’t bear it; she had to see what was happening. She opened the door and peeked out.
Byrne was on his hands and knees, gasping, the cream-colored carpet under his head speckled with blood. He was groping blindly for something to pull himself up with, but when he touched Dickie’s pant leg, Dickie kicked his arm away.
“I oughtta make you crawl down those goddamn steps,” Dickie said, “but I’m going to save you some time.”
Dickie jerked Byrne to his knees and kicked him in the belly. Byrne screamed and started to crawl. Dickie kicked him again, catapulting him off the top step.
Tink put her fist at her mouth to keep from screaming, listening to the horrible thumping of Byrne’s body hitting the wall as it tumbled down two flights.
Help him. You can help him, you stupid girl. There’s a phone right here. Use it! Help him!
Hands shaking, she picked up the phone. But she couldn’t remember which speed-dial button it was. She had been told a hundred times, but now she couldn’t remember. Three. Yes, it was number three.
She punched the number and fell back against the wall. As the voice answered, her legs gave out, and she crumpled to the floor. She began to sob.
The woman on the other end of the line was telling her to calm down, to take a breath, that everything would be all right.
“No, it won’t,” Tink said. “He’s going to kill him.”
Chapter Twenty-nine
You all right, Andrew?”
Swann took a moment to look up. The sunglasses hid his eyes, but Louis knew they were bloodshot. When he had roused Swann from the sofa back at Reggie’s this morning, Swann’s eyes had looked like a road map.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re a little green under that tan.”
“I’m said I’m fine.”