DISCLAIMER: I own nothing.
(Challenge response - see end for details.)
Be Careful What You Wish For
by Joodiff
Kieran Reece's attic bedroom is everything a typical rebellious teenager's lair should be – a gloomy, cluttered space featuring mismatched odds and ends of furniture, forbidding dark colours, and far too many pictures and posters crowding the walls and the sloped part of the ceiling. The boy himself, a pale and skinny figure hunched cross-legged on his bed, is just as predictable in appearance. Multiple piercings, inflamed acne, longish lank hair, and the expected clothes and attitude to match. It's the second time Grace has met him, and he still hasn't said more than half a dozen words to her. It's infuriating, but somehow Boyd is succeeding where she failed, and if the meagre scraps of information he's prising out of Kieran are imparted in the most grudging and sullen way imaginable, well, that doesn't matter – they've still learnt more about Owen Reece in the last ten minutes than she managed to glean in over an hour the previous day. Probably, it's Boyd's idiosyncratic interviewing style, a paradoxical mix of abrasive toughness and gruff, almost fatherly compassion, that's winning the day for them. Irritated though she is, Grace accepts that he has a certain way with youngsters, an unexpected ability to win them round and get them to open up to him.
Deciding it's time she re-joined the conversation, she catches Kieran's eye and gestures at the large, amateurish, and cheaply printed poster that adorns the back of his bedroom door. "Spider was your brother's choice for the name of the band?" It's a redundant question – they already know that much, and a lot more, about Owen's life, if not his death. It's a deliberate tactic, just like her colleague's rapid switches between sharp, no-nonsense questioning and quiet, apparently random observations.
Kieran doesn't look up, refuses to meet her gaze. "Yeah."
Boyd is on his feet again, not really able to pace in the small, untidy room but just about managing to circle instead, his gaze travelling ahead of him, not missing a thing. Tall, silver-haired, and dressed in an expensive lightweight summer suit, he looks absurdly out of place amongst the garish posters and the untidy teenage detritus. He says, "The night he died they were due to play a gig in Hoxton, but they cancelled it. Do you know why?"
The boy shrugs, a lethargic movement of narrow shoulders. "I was only a kid – he didn't talk to me about that kind of stuff."
"What about his girlfriend – Natalie?" Grace prompts. "Did you ever meet her?"
"No."
She glances towards Boyd, ready to communicate her thoughts with the merest raise of an eyebrow, but his attention is on the guitar propped against the side of the untidy desk. She's not surprised when he picks it up, nor when he says, "Gibson, eh?"
"It was Owen's."
"You should play it more."
"Who says I don't?" Kieran challenges.
"Your fingers." Boyd's attention doesn't move away from the instrument he is inspecting. "No calluses."
His reward is a sneer and a sarcastic, "'Cos you're an expert, right?"
Grace knows what's going to happen next. Of course she does. She's known Peter Boyd for a long, long time, after all, and for at least the last six months she's spent much of her limited free time at his house in Greenwich. No, it doesn't startle her at all when he stoops to flick the power switch on the amplifier half-buried under a tumbling pile of clothes, nor when he perches himself on the edge of the desk and starts to play. She feels something, though, and is perplexed when she realises it's very like… jealousy. So many years they've been friends and colleagues, and this is the first time, the very first time…
She's almost instantly entranced. Not by the melody, which begins as little more than a quick series of scales, but by the speed and agility of his fingers as they move deftly over the strings and frets. Kieran seems to be just as enthralled, she realises, and she's not certain he hears Boyd say, "Gibson, Fender, or cheap Chinese knock-off, it doesn't matter as long as you play, and keep playing."
The bedroom door flies open, startling them all, and the grim, pinched expression on Emma Reece's face is more than enough to make her displeasure felt. "What have I told you about – " She stops mid-bark, clearly perplexed as she identifies the musical culprit. "Oh. Mr Boyd. I'm sorry, I thought…"
-oOo-
They don't return to the matter until many hours later, when they are relaxing in the quiet, comfortable haven of Boyd's living room. It's a stray thought that occurs in the middle of a quiet conversation about something else altogether that makes Grace venture, "The step-mother's reaction was interesting, don't you think?"
Boyd, sprawled at ease in his favourite armchair with his shirtsleeves rolled up, his shoes off, and his feet propped on the coffee table, favours her with a look that is both quizzical and contemplative. "Teenagers are a bloody nightmare to live with, Grace. Tell me I'm wrong."
"They can be, of course – but even so, she seemed very antagonistic towards him."
His answering snort is derisive. "Kid dresses like an extra from a horror movie, and his favourite hobby seems to be poking sharp things through bits of his anatomy. No wonder she's at the end of her tether."
"'Bring back National Service', eh?" she says with a grimace. "'Decent spell in the army would sort 'em all out'. Honestly, you're so reactionary, Boyd."
His reply is delivered with a smirk. "Tell that to Mrs Reece."
"Hm," she allows, sipping her drink. "I have to admit, she's probably seeing you in a whole new light after today's impromptu recital. Oh, and I could be quite offended about that if I tried, you know."
Boyd quirks a dark eyebrow at her. "Offended? Why?"
"Every single time I've suggested you might like to play that damn guitar of yours for me, you've either very quickly changed the subject or refused point blank."
"I have performance anxiety," he says, deadpan.
It's her turn to snort. "As if."
"It's true."
Not sure if she's amused or outraged, Grace says, "So you'll happily strip off in front of me – not to mention sleep with me – but you're far too shy to play the guitar for me?"
Boyd frowns, as if the contradiction hasn't occurred to him before. Then he shrugs. "Well, essentially… yes. If you like."
Amusement wins out, and Grace chuckles and rolls her eyes. "I really don't know if that's incredibly sweet, or ridiculously dysfunctional."
Boyd's answering glower doesn't look feigned. "Oh, please. And you're the damned psychologist – you tell me."
She doesn't take the bait. A wise move if the evening is to remain harmonious. Still, she can't quite resist a solemn, "Poor Boyd. Afraid to lay bare his delicate artistic soul."
"Go ahead and take the piss, I don't care."
"I think you do."
"God, you're in an annoying mood tonight," he grumbles, dropping his feet to the floor and levering himself out of the armchair. She can tell just how tired he is by the ungainly way he does it, long limbs jutting out in all directions as he straightens up.
"Where are you off to?" she inquires as he starts into motion.
The scathing look he gives her is matched by his irritable tone as he replies, "I'm going to get another bottle of beer from the fridge. That all right with you, is it?"
"Perfectly."
"Good."
Grace watches as he strides past her, and passes no comment on the square set of his shoulders. Needling him for her own entertainment is one thing, but pushing him too far and having to deal with the consequences is quite another. She enjoys playing with fire – would be the first to admit it – but not to the point of getting burnt; not without a damn good reason. And, as magnificent as he is when his fierce temper flares, watching the metaphorical fireworks just for the sheer hell of it is not a good reason. Not tonight. Not when she has other plans for him. Plans that also involve the fierier side of his nature, but are much more –
Her pleasant, speculative thoughts are interrupted by the bang of a door somewhere upstairs, followed by the heavy-footed sound of someone – Boyd – descending the stairs with real intent. Puzzled, she frowns. It's possible he went upstairs to use the bathroom, of course, but since the house possesses a small downstairs cloakroom with all the necessary facilities, it seems unlikely. Before she can ponder further, he reappears, returning to the room via the door to the hall, not the door to the kitchen. She's not sure if she's charmed or alarmed by the determined grip he has on the guitar he's carrying. Acoustic – thank all the powers – but that's as far as her knowledge of such things extends. Her response is a not particularly articulate, "Oh."
Boyd's answering smile as he settles rather reminds her of a mako shark. No sign of mercy, and lots of teeth. "Be careful what you wish for, Grace. That's what they say, isn't it?"
Once again, she's hypnotised within seconds. Mesmerised. Entranced as much by his skill as by the music itself. Against all reason and better judgement, a lump forms in her throat. Ridiculous sentimentality of which he will thoroughly disapprove. But… she's lost. Incapable of summoning any of the world-weary cynicism that's such a feature of their long and often contentious relationship. Incapable, too, of stopping all the runaway thoughts that chase through her head as she watches the matchless dexterity of his long fingers, watches the way he simultaneously forces and cajoles the unforgiving steel strings into giving him exactly what he wants. The weight and significance of the analogy is not lost on her. She knows exactly what it feels like to be expertly played by those strong, capable fingers.
"Washburn Dreadnought," he tells her, as the very last notes fall away into silence. "A real thoroughbred. Took me months to save up enough to buy it, the bloody pittance I was earning back in the 'seventies. Happy now?"
"Yes," she says, embarrassed when the word comes out as little more than a croak. She swallows hard. "Frog in my throat, sorry."
Boyd sets the guitar aside, the care with which he does it quite evident. "If I hear one word about this from anyone…"
"You won't," Grace assures him. She almost means it, too.
"Hm." He doesn't look convinced, but it seems he's not going to pursue the matter further, because he continues with, "You owe me, Grace. I hope you've got a suitable reward in mind."
Part of her mind is still obsessing over the remarkable agility of his fingers, and perhaps that's why her reply sounds far huskier than intended. "Oh, I have. Most definitely. But it involves going upstairs..."
He's never been slow on the uptake. Part of his charm, really. Dark eyes glitter at her, complementing his suddenly predatory expression. "Sofa's nearer."
He's right. But for once, Grace doesn't mind at all.
- the end -
Challenge requirements: spider, frog, bottled beer, and Boyd must play his guitar for Grace. 1500 words.