Kona leaned against the wall, tilted his head to watch her. The den was an obnoxious, wide room that veered into two spaces. One side was for drinks and TV watching, he assumed, the other for staring through a floor to ceiling wall of glass that looked out onto the lake. Plants in heavy, wooden tubs were situated in each corner and thick rugs were flung over the dark wood floors; a huge mahogany entertainment center was off to the right. To the left was a brown leather L-shaped couch, plush and pillowed, chenille throws on the arms and across the back. But it was what was in the center of the room that caught Kona’s attention. Separating the two seating areas was a baby grand piano, black, shined to a high gloss with gold wheels and pedals, and “Steinway & Sons” embossed on the face in gold leaf. Keira sat in front of it in nothing but a thin, white robe that fell further off her shoulder the longer she played.
Kona couldn’t remember seeing anything more beautiful.
He watched for several minutes, loved the long, planes of her neck, the defined arch of her shoulders, but would not approach, wouldn’t touch. The song was familiar, something he didn’t think she’d written, and as she continued, humming just above each note, Kona realized it was, “Dark End of the Street,” a song his mother often sang when he was a kid.
Another pass of thunder rolled and a streak of lightening broke through the dark morning skies. Keira turned to watch through the glass wall, fingers still dancing across the keys and that’s when he saw it; the long bruise across her cheek. He felt sick, instantly thinking that somehow he’d left it on her face, but he couldn’t remember touching her, not like that.
He let the flashes of memory from the night before sort and play in his head, remembering nothing but the feel of her skin, the smell of her, how tightly she clamped around him, how eagerly she let go, how being buried inside her felt like home, freed him, how it felt like a high. But none of those flashes explained that mark on her face.
Kona shot for calm, for patience, as he crossed the room, kneeling behind her. He wouldn’t bombard her with questions; he didn’t want to fracture the peace that swam in the house since the moment he told her he loved her. It had been spoken so easily, a second nature that felt instinctive, necessary. Honest.
Keira continued to play, the slow refrain of “Dark Side of the Street” eerily haunting, mesmerizing, but she arched her neck, let her head fall to his shoulder and Kona got a better look at the bruise. Two long, purple lines, faint, but clear. Finger marks. Thin, feminine finger marks.
Motherfucker, he thought, trying to calm the fury building, the mounting speed of his heart.
Her eyes were closed, her smile easy, content, and Kona hated to pull her out of that emotion, hated that those moments of happiness Leann mentioned had been fleeting, were fleeting. Keira deserved happy. She deserved a hell of a lot more than the shit her mother gave her.
Cautiously, he leaned forward, barely touched his lips to the bruise. Even that careful gesture made Keira wince.
“Baby…”
“It’s not a big deal.” That sounded too practiced, thrown out too casually, like she’d spent years brushing off marks and scratches she’d received. But even as she uttered the platitude, Keira lowered over the keys, head resting against the top of the piano.
Kona couldn’t take her silence or the small shaking movement of her shoulders as she cried. “I’ll kill her.”
Keira laughed, but it was harsh, mixed between tears. “You can’t kill the devil, Kona. Trust me, I’ve thought about it.”
He slid next to her, pulled her onto his lap and Kona kissed her face, drying the moisture as quickly as it surfaced. “You can’t stay here.”
Keira pulled away from her comfortable spot on his chest, her eyes glassy and an expression on her face that made him feel small, made him feel like she thought he was naive. “Where would I go?” She wiped her face dry. “Your house? Bet your mom would love that. The team house? My dorm? Everything is temporary, Kona.” He closed his eyes when Keira brushed her fingers against his cheek, thumb rubbing over the scar she’d put there. He hated her frown when she looked at it. He hated that she felt so guilty, still, even after his goading. “This scared me. I did this to you. I lost it. How many times have I slapped you? Just last night…” She tried taking her hands from him, tried pulling away and he meant to stop her, to cover her wrists so she’d keep her touch on him, but then Keira smiled, kept her fingers against his face as though she needed the contact. “Am I any better than her?” Her voice broke and the wobble of her chin, that pained, crumble of her smile gutted him, had his own eyes burning.