Erased by Elle Christensen, K Webster Read Free Book Online Page A

cabinet covered with a tablecloth in the corner of the bar. I’d already turned the place upside down, so that was my only real option left. When I had bent over and lifted the corner, I died. Not really of course, but the moment I saw the brass-colored foot pedals, I nearly cried.
    With a purpose on this dreary day, I don’t bother getting up and ready this morning. Instead, I snag the warm blanket I’m not ready to part with just yet and wrap it around me. The bar should be empty this early. And I know that Slade is probably still tangled up in the sheets with Niki. I shudder with a twinge of uncalled-for jealousy.
    Before I head downstairs, I slip into the restroom to brush my teeth and pee before my bladder explodes. As I quietly exit the bathroom, I pad barefoot over to Slade’s door. Then I listen intently with my ear against the wood for any signs of life inside. Nothing. With a drop of my heart, I try desperately not to imagine him fucking the bartender. What a pig.
    Deciding that I’m alone, I make my way down the stairs and over to the piano. Since I opted to go in nothing but a warm blanket, the entire act of uncovering it one-handed is an ordeal. Finally, though, I manage to free what I’m pretty sure is an unrestored Bluthner Upright. The dark, mahogany-colored wood is aged but still absolutely gorgeous. If Slade weren’t such an asswipe, I’d suggest that he get it restored to really enhance its beauty.
    I pull out the rickety bench seat and slide down onto it. They have this thing pushed into the corner facing the wall on the far side of the bar. If this were my piano, I’d display it proudly for all to see. With a contented sigh, I softly begin playing the song I always warm up with. It’s the very first song I ever learned, so I honor that memory by always, without fail, playing it first.
    My fingers gently begin the G . . . C C . . . C D . . . E pattern of “The Itsy Bitsy Spider.” Even though the piano is old and slightly out of tune, it still produces magically beautiful notes. I’m in love. I continue lightly tapping through the song and ignore the twinge of pain every time my ring finger hits a note. It’s still bruised from a few nights ago. Ignoring the discomfort, I quickly launch into Chopin’s Sonata No. 2 in B-flat minor, Op. 35 in an effort to forget that night. This insanely tough piece is what got me into Julliard.
    The memory of the agonizing stress rushes into me and I lose myself to it while my fingers play the notes by heart.
    “This is an extremely difficult piece, Miss Parker,” Gloria Stone says coolly.
    She’s my least favorite of the three judges. The other two men seem to actually enjoy their job—getting to hear some of the most talented individuals in the country. Mrs. Stone seems bored. Her lips press into a firm, unimpressed, wrinkly line.
    “Yes, ma’am. I hope I do it justice,” I stammer out, my voice quivering wildly. I only hope I can still the fluttering in my heart and the shaking of my fingers.
    “Well, I know this piece well and teach parts of it to my students in my secondary piano class. Seeing that you’re only a high school student, I can’t understand how you would have learned such a piece at this age. Please be advised that, once you begin, you can’t change your mind. Are you absolutely certain you want to do this piece?”
    She’s giving me an out. I can see it written all over her face that she doesn’t believe I can do this. But what she doesn’t know is that I’m my mother’s child. I may not have learned from her, but I watched home videos my father had taken of her at many of her concerts, which I obsessed over to the point that the tapes became worn. Dad had to spend an insane amount of money to have them restored and put on DVDs, forever letting her music live on. My father spent more money on expensive lessons than he did anything else. I may not have had a Christmas tree, but he made sure I had this.
    “I had many private