“Why’d you drop out?”
He scratches his jaw while he thinks. “For one, I knew what I wanted to do. I wanted to play guitar in an awesome metal band. College would not get me there. But I didn’t enjoy it. It was more about kissing professors’ asses than it was about learning.” He pauses for a moment, thoughtful. “I guess I wanted to start living, and I didn’t feel I was in those cramped dorm rooms.”
I smile at him and look at the surrounding luxury. “Guess it worked out okay for you.”
He smirks. “It did. And it will work for you too. You’ll see.”
I shake my head, a little sad. “Don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“You had a passion—something you were pursuing. I’ve never felt that way about anything. The best I can hope for is a quiet life in Acapulco, running my business, owning my home.”
“Bull,” Karl says.
“What?”
“Bullshit. You have a passion.”
“Oh, yeah?” I ask, amused.
His eyes widen in anisn’t it obvious?look. “Music. You’re passionate about music.”
I laugh. “I love music, but I don’t want to make it.”
His eyes narrow. “Don’t you? When you were in the ax room, I saw the look.”
“The look?” I ask with a laugh.
“Yeah. There was a spark there. I think you should think about playing guitar.”
I mull that over for a minute. I’ve always loved listening to music and reading about it. But I’ve never contemplated making it. “Maybe,” I say. “It could be fun just as a hobby.”
Karl shakes his head. “Trust me, that look was not a hobby look.”
“What was it then?” I ask.
Karl doesn’t hesitate even a second before answering. “That, Iggy, was a look of passion and desire.” He smirks. “You covet my ax.”
My mouth falls open. Is there a double meaning in his words? I shake the thought away. No. He’s trying to distract me, that’s all, to take my thoughts away from Ethan.
He’s being incredibly sweet, and letting me curl up with Pixel is one of the nicest things he’s done for me. Another tear falls, and he must sense his failure at distracting me because he proposes watching a movie instead.
When he asks what I’d like to watch, I smile wide. “American Psycho.” I’m in the mood for violence.
“You like horror?”
I shake my head. “Not really, but Christian Bale’s naked ass sure goes a long way to cheer me up.”
“You’re a pervert, Lola.” He shakes his head but finds the movie and presses play.
But I don’t watch the movie. My eyes drift to the door next to the television—the one leading to the room I know houses all of his world-famous guitars. Is Karl right? Am I passionate about guitar? The one note I played when he caught me holding his guitar is the only time I’ve held a musical instrument in my hands. I need to get hold of another guitar to test this theory out.
Suddenly, I find myself concerned more about the future—about what I want to do—and less and less about my shattered heart and the jerk who broke it.
I don’t even notice as I fall sleep, but wrapped around a warm puppy, I drift off into an untroubled sleep as Patrick Bateman continues on his rampage in the distance.
I’m barely aware of someone shifting me, but I feel the comfort of being laid down on fresh linens and getting tucked in. I smile at the memory of Mom when I was little. She always tucked me in. Then I drift again into a deep, content sleep.