*Updates most Mondays*
Book Two in the Darien Grace Chronicles
"I couldn't hear the music. I knew that it was pulsing all around me, I could feel it vibrate through the air, but I couldn't hear it. I hadn't been able to hear it for a while now. I ju...
A/N: Massive thank you to MilieBoo for the gorgeous French translations! She's totally stepped up and saved me (and Dari's character as a whole). Thank you thank you THANK YOU for your amazing work love! This one's for you.
--xE
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Darien Grace
"Fuck." Sweat slicked my heated skin, his name still lingering on the tip of my tongue. I could still feel his the ghost of his touch feather light against my skin, the sharp scent of his cologne filling my senses. Music filtered up to my ears from where my beats now rested against my neck. My sonata from the Gala came to a close, and my new composition filled the silence. They were on a loop. I closed the lid to my Mac with a sharp smack and tossed it to the other side of the bed. Pushing my damp hair off my forehead, I collapsed back down against the mound of pillows.
What the fuck was that? I raged, channeling the majority of my frustration toward the cunt between my thighs. She'd been more or less dormant for months and, at the moment, I was content to keep her that way. My little wake-up call was the only evidence I needed to know that having Stella awake would only complicate things.
I needed a distraction.
Before I could talk myself out of it, I found the contact card in my phone and pressed call. The other line picked up after the second ring.
"Thank you for calling Daniel's, this is Teresa speaking. Would you like to make a reservation?" I didn't recognize the young, female voice on the other end of the line. For some reason the unfamiliar host gave me courage.
"I was actually hoping to speak to Monsieur Bouland," I said, clenching and unclenching my fist, knotting it in my duvet in an attempt to keep my anxiety out of my voice.
"I'm sorry, Monsieur Bouland is unavailable at the moment. May I ask who's calling?"
"Ren Grace."
"And what is this about?" Teresa asked.
"I am—I was one of the pianists, but I had to take... an extended leave of absence. If I could just speak to Monsieur Bouland—"
"One moment please," she said, clicking the line over to hold. The soft strains of Brahms Rhapsody drifted over the line and my fingers knotted further into the duvet.
I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding when the line clicked once more, "This is Sebastien."
Shit.
"Hum, salut Seb," (Uhm, hey Seb,) I said, my voice wavering. This was not going the way I had hoped. "Je souhaiterais parler à Monsieur Bouland." (I was hoping to speak to Monsieur Bouland.)
