King of Hearts
Page 83

I suddenly became aware of my sore feet, and I just knew I had a bunch of blisters from the long walk. Why the hell hadn’t I suggested getting a taxi? Or even catching a tube? I’d been so anxious, so worried about how the concert had affected him, that my brain didn’t seem to be working like usual.
Seeing that the door to the bathroom was slightly ajar, I left King to his own devices as I stepped inside and slipped off my shoes. Just as I thought, my feet were red and raw from the walk, the edge of the flats having dug into the backs of my ankles and the sides of my toes.
The place was spic and span, courtesy of Elaine’s upkeep. In fact, there wasn’t a hint of dust or mildew in sight. Perhaps she’d always known her son would come back here one day. I made my way over to the large corner tub and filled it with a couple inches of water, just enough to soak my feet in. I ran the tap for a while, waiting for the water to heat up, and heard King press down on a couple of keys, testing. The piano must not have been in tune, because I heard him fiddling around with it for a while.
With the tub filled, I sank my feet into the warm water and practically groaned in relief. King started to play something, a melody I didn’t recognise, and I closed my eyes, savouring the sound.
He was playing.
I couldn’t believe he was playing. The song was sweet, and somehow reminded me of springtime. I wanted to go inside and watch him, drink in the skilled movements of his body as he created something close to true perfection. But I didn’t move, just listened, afraid if I went inside, I’d break the spell.
The music stopped, and I heard him muttering something absently to himself. Then it started up again, stopped, started once more. I got the sense that he was either trying to remember something old or compose something new. Whichever it was, I had no intentions of interrupting. I laid my head back against the tiles, enjoying the relief of the water at my feet and the sound of the music in my ears.
I wasn’t sure how much time had passed when the door to the bathroom creaked and King stepped in. I opened my eyes, glanced up, and saw him studying me. His eyebrow quirked upward.
“What are you….”
“My feet were sore,” I explained quickly.
“Oh,” he said. “I forgot you might not be used to walking.”
“And you are?”
Self-consciously, he scratched his head. “Sometimes, when the circus is on a break, I wander.”
His answer intrigued me. “You wander? Where?”
“Anywhere. I never really care where I’m going, so long as it’s somewhere different than before. Somehow, though, I always manage to find my way back.”
Something painful hit me right in the chest, as I comprehended what he was saying. “And when you wander,” I whispered, “where do you sleep?”
“On the streets.”
“Oliver,” I said, my voice wavering.
“You’re upset,” he stated.
“Of course I’m upset. You’ve been sleeping on the streets, and yet you’ve had this place here all along.”
“I told you, I stopped thinking of it as mine.”
“Well, you need to start again. Because this is your home.”
His face grew strained. “Alexis, I haven’t had a proper home, my own bed, in a really long time.” He paused, looked around, and gestured with his hands. “All of this is going to take a lot of getting used to.”
On one level, what he said irritated me. This place was his, for crying out loud. But on another level, I completely understood where he was coming from. The apartment was practically palatial, and everything in it was expensive and luxury. My own house was positively quaint compared to this penthouse.
My voice was quiet as I offered, “You can come and stay with me, if you like. My house is seriously tiny. It could be a way of phasing you in.” I shot him a smile, for a moment forgetting that he couldn’t come and stay with me until I told him about Oliver. I had to tell him about Oliver; I was just waiting for the right moment, which never seemed to arrive.
“I couldn’t impose on you,” he said, and walked to the rack to pull off a towel. He neared me, towel in hand, then knelt in front of the tub. I watched with rapt attention as he reached in and lifted out one foot and then the other, drying both with care. His thumb rubbed down the arch of my foot, applying just the right amount of pressure. I had to bite my lip not to groan, because it felt so good.
“You don’t have to do that,” I said, while at the same time not wanting him to stop. His eyes came to mine, and the towel fell away as he looked back down and started to examine my feet. Sucking in a harsh breath, he said, “You need to bandage these cuts.”
“They’ll be fine.”
He shot me a look of reprimand, and I shut my mouth.
“I think I used to keep a first aid kit in here somewhere,” he said, and looked in the cupboard over the sink. Sure enough, there was a white box inside. He pulled it out and began looking for antiseptic cream and Band-Aids.
“The song you were playing inside, it was lovely,” I said as he worked.
“Yeah, I was watching the woman play tonight, and I realised something.” He frowned, hands stilling on my foot.
“What was that?”
His gaze met mine. “That I was jealous.”
I didn’t know what to say, but then he continued talking. “I wanted what she had so badly, it was almost a physical type of pain. I’ve been away from real music for so long that I didn’t realise how much I needed it. It used to be my favourite thing, something I did to decompress. But now it feels like I can’t breathe if I don’t get it back.”