"Fine," Lincoln said. "We'll let you make arrangements for a meeting between us."

Beau nodded as he rose from his seat and walked over to the liquor cabinet.

"Great," Beau said. "Well looks like business is done for the day. Anyone want a drink?"

I shook my head. "I think I tanked enough at the bar."

"Aww Lucy, let loose a little and have some fun," Beau said.

"I'm good, thanks," I replied. "If you don't mind, I'll just hang out on your balcony and borrow one of your books to read. I need to unwind a little."

Beau nodded. "Help yourself to whatever you want." He turned to Lincoln. "You, however, aren't getting off so easily. I think we'll need to have a heart-to-heart discussion about my dearly departed dad, over a stiff drink of course."

"You just keep pouring, and I'll sing whatever song you want to hear," Lincoln agreed.

As the whiskey started filling up the bar gla.s.ses, I rose from the table and strolled over to his nightstand.

I grabbed 'Heart of Darkness' and headed out onto the balcony, where I sat in the lone iron chair resting outside. I flipped the switch that turned on the patio lights, casting an aurora of evanescent white light over me.

Inside, I heard the m.u.f.fled discussion regarding Donald. I focused on my book, doing my best to tune out the conversation they were having.

I didn't want to think about Donald. When I did, all I saw was Sinister-Calisto-unloading bullets into his chest, tiny explosions of red bulbous liquid bursting from his body like bubbling meat sauce on the stove.

I was reaching my breaking point, and I feared that hearing tales about Donald- the good man that he was-alongside the memory of his tragic death would be enough to push me over the edge.

I needed some escape, and for now, Joseph Conrad was going to be it.

I hadn't gotten fifteen pages in before my eyelids grew heavy and I began drifting.

It was Beau who woke me up.

"The book not to your liking?" There was a slur in his speech and from where I sat I could smell the heavy scent of whiskey emanating from him.

How long was I out for, and how much did he drink during that period?

I shook my head as I stretched-the book lying face-down, open on my lap.

"The book is fine," I replied. "I'm just a little tired, that's all." I glanced back at the table and noticed that Lincoln wasn't there anymore.

"Where is he?" I asked, worried.

"Getting some air," Beau replied. He cast his eyes over me. "Don't worry, darling. I'm not going to hurt you."

"I wasn't even entertaining the thought," I lied.

"The eyes never lie, do they," Beau said. I noticed in his hands, he was holding the violin.

"Are you going to play for me?" I asked.

"Only if you start trusting me," Beau replied.

I shrugged. "Play and we'll find out if that happens."

He grinned, as he rested his chin the on violin. He picked up the bow, and brushed the strings of the instrument with one confident stroke. Despite the run-down shape the violin was in, it still sounded beautiful.

It sounded like music.

The melodies Beau played were absolutely stunning. I closed my eyes and listened, relishing in his playing, taking in the long, sustained notes in the minor key, followed by the trills which had European flavors to them. Whatever he was playing, it was brilliant and enchanting. I heard the dark emotions, buried deep within him seep out from his skin, flowing all the way into his hands which drew the violin's bow back and forth, back and forth.

Was it Donald's death that inspired him to produce such a heartfelt sound? Every lingering note gripped me like a fist, squeezing out every last ounce of sorrow from my heart, until my eyes couldn't help but fill with tears.

I thought of my dad, and how perfect and simple life had been before he had died. There was nothing I longed for more than to be a child again, sitting in his lap while he read to me or while we listened to his records together.

When he was finished, his hands dropped to his sides, the violin and bow dangling loosely in both. I was surprised to see that he was smiling, seeing as how he had just performed such a gut wrenching song.

"Tadaa," he whispered.

"That was beautiful Beau," I said, amazed. "I never heard it before."

"Just composed it on the spot," he replied.

"You know the composition of music very well," I said. "You used a lot of one, four, and five chords mixed in with the right blend of dissonance fifths and sevenths, and the trills you used for embellishments all came at the perfect time."

Beau looked at me as if I were speaking Swahili.

"I just play," he said. "That's all I do."

"Sorry," I said. "I was a bit of a musician myself."

"I can see that," Beau replied. "You gotta play the piano for me."

I shook my head.

"No, not now," I replied. Perhaps not ever.

Beau shrugged. "Suit yourself, but just let me say that it's an absolute tragedy to waste talent."

"Thanks for the lesson," I sighed. "Were you thinking of someone in particular when you played that song? There was just so much raw emotion in it."

Beau shrugged. "Sure," he said. "Music don't mean anything unless there's a person you want to play it for."

"Donald?" I asked.

He laughed. "No, not my dad," he said. "To tell you the truth, I only met the man four times. It was enough to gain a lot of respect for him, but not enough to love him."

My eyes gravitated towards his violin. It wasn't the prettiest of instruments. The color of the wood was faded to a dull brown and parts of the outer sh.e.l.l were cracked. It still produced a beautiful sound though, but for someone with Beau's talents, I'd have thought he'd want to play on a more polished violin.

"What's so special about this violin?" I asked.

Beau lifted the instrument to our eye levels and looked at it with complete adoration. "It belonged to one of the greats," he said.

"Oh? Eddie South? Stephane Grappelli?"

He shook his head. "It belonged to a pretty little lady who used to warm my bed," he said with a longing smile.

She must have been Beau's muse.

"Where is she now?" I asked.

Though his eyes were looking straight at me, I could tell that his thoughts were buried in the past.

There was a moment of lingering silence, except for the sounds of New Orleans-music off in the far distance, and the merriment of a few people who had a few too much to drink.

Finally Beau spoke. "She was swept away in the flood," he said as he closed his eyes. "The water cradled her to sleep."

I suddenly felt bad for asking. I had to learn to stop being so nosy.

"I'm sorry," I said.

"Why are you sorry? Were you the one that called down the storm?"

I shook my head. "I wish I had the super powers of Mother Nature, but I don't," I replied, "And I'd never hurt anyone with it, even if I did."

I had killed a person once, with the simple press of a b.u.t.ton. It was one of the worst moments of my life. In order for me to kill again, it had to be a life and death situation, or one involving Calisto.

"Well, since you're not the one that drowned out my girl's lungs, no need for apologies." Beau stretched his arms and yawned. "Well look at me. The drink must have finally gotten to me. This is where I'll say good night to you, darling. I still have a phone call to make, and then precious sleep to catch up on. You and your boyfriend there can use the pull-out couch, in front of my mirror. It doesn't look like much, but it's still pretty comfortable."

I nodded. "Thanks. Goodnight Beau."

I watched as he walked away from me with confidence in his strut. I still didn't know what to make of him.

I was always terrible at reading people and situations, and partially because of that, my life had been ripped apart.

There was a chill forming in the night air and I shivered. I picked up the book, still resting in my lap, and returned inside, just in time to see Lincoln return.

"How was the book?" Lincoln asked.

I shrugged. "I didn't get very far," I replied. "I dozed off fairly quickly."

"I can never read late at night," Lincoln said. "I usually end up drifting. I swear there are times I hallucinate extra words on a page. It's a terrible predicament really, seeing as how it's the only time I have available to read."

I wanted to reply to him but when I opened my mouth, I yawned instead-one of those ugly mouth-contorting yawns that made me look like a cave woman. I managed to cover my mouth at the tail end of it.

Lincoln sighed. "I'm losing my charm with the ladies. There was a time when the opposite s.e.x swooned at my words." He grinned. "Now, it looks like the sound of my voice induces sleep."

"It's not you Linc-Jesse," I was quick to correct myself, just incase Beau was within earshot of us. "I'm just exhausted, that's all. My sleep has been restless lately."

"I noticed," Lincoln said.

"You watch me sleep?"

"No," Lincoln said, "I'm usually watching the road while you're sleeping. But it's hard not to notice your moans, and not the pleasant sounding ones usually reserved for naughty dreams."

"I don't have dreams anymore," I said. "Everything is one giant nightmare. Both when I'm awake and when I'm asleep."

Lincoln pursed his lips. "I'm sorry."

I shook my head. "Everything that has happened was my own stupid fault. The second I saw Calisto at China White-that plague infested harpy woman-I should have fled. But f.u.c.k me; I was so desperate for cash. I needed that gig at Shadow's party so badly."

"You couldn't have known."

"She told me that violating the sanct.i.ty of her organization meant death," I quoted the b.i.t.c.h. "If there ever was a time for common sense to prevail, it was then. Apparently all the bells and whistles that should have been ringing in my head were not in service that day."

Lincoln walked over to the pull-out couch and took the cushions off it. I watched as his steely arms, inked in colorful designs, gripped at the base of the seat and pulled out the bed portion of the couch effortlessly.

He pointed to it. "Go to sleep Aria."

"What about you?" I asked.

Lincoln shrugged his shoulders. "I can sleep on the floor."

"Won't Beau be suspicious if he saw me sleeping in the bed, and you sprawled out on the floor next to me?"

"We're having a lover's squabble? You don't like the scent of whiskey on my breath? I have a back condition that can only be rectified by floorboards? You'd be surprised by the number of adequate responses I could provide as to why a 'loving' couple is sleeping apart from one another."

"Just take half the bed," I said. "We're both adults. I trust you."

"Your first mistake there," Lincoln replied. "I'm the last person you want to trust in the bedroom."

I stood there and gave him an incredulous look. "Grow up?" I asked him, almost politely.

Lincoln sighed. "I used to be so good with the ladies," he reiterated. "What's happened to me?"

"You got screwed by a vile wench," I replied as I made my way to the washroom to get ready for bed, "Just like I did. Just like Shadow did."

When I was done, and reentered into the room, I noticed that all the lights were off and there was only the full moonlight seeping through the window, penetrating through the darkness. I saw the outline of Beau, already in his queen-sized bed on the opposite side of the room, his heavy breaths indicating that he was fast asleep.

Lincoln was lying on his half of the sofa bed, his right arm resting behind his head, eyes closed. He was wearing white tight tank top that fit snuggly against his body.

I had to admit, he looked gorgeous, bathed in the brilliant blue light from outside. I took in the outlines of his face which was soft and generous, with a childlike innocence that seemed so calming. His eyes suddenly opened and he turned his head in my direction.

"Is everything alright?" Lincoln whispered in a low, earthy tone.

d.a.m.n, he caught me staring at him.

"Yeah," I replied. "Everything's fine."

"Are you sure you don't want me to take the floor?"