Gun Games - Faye Kellerman [62]
She obliged, the two of them delighting in tasting one another. Kissing for several minutes as she squirmed on his lap until he felt as if he was going to explode. Without warning, Yasmine burst into tears.
Gabe pulled away, shocked. “What’s wrong? Did I hurt you?”
She shook her head and sobbed.
“What’d I do?” Gabe said.
“Nothing,” she wept.
“Then why are you crying?”
“Because . . . I’ll never . . . ever . . . like another boy as much as I like you.” Again, she erupted with a fresh set of tears. “I can see it like . . . fifteen years from now,” she sniffed out. “You’ll be like this rich and famous pianist. And I’ll be like this Persian housewife . . . dressed in Juicy sweats . . . driving my two kids to soccer practice . . . in my black . . . Mercedes!”
She broke out in newfound wails. He hugged her as she cried on his shoulder. “First of all, there’s nothing wrong with being a good mom—”
“You’re right! I love my mom! I’m such a terrible daughter!”
She started sobbing anew.
Gabe patted her back. “Um . . . is it like . . . you know . . . that time of the month?”
“Probably,” she cried out.
At least she’d gone through puberty, he thought. That was a relief.
“I don’t wanna sing for you!” she wailed.
“No, no, no.” He pulled her off his chest. “You’re not getting away with that.”
“You’re gonna think I sound like a turkey fart.”
He held back a smile. “You will not sound like a turkey fart. And even if you did sound like a turkey fart, I wouldn’t tell you.” He stood up, her legs still wrapped around his waist. He set her down so she was standing upright. He started looking through her music. “Okay. Here we are. Der Hölle Rache.” He clucked his tongue. “This is a very challenging aria. You must have been taking lessons for a while.”
She nodded.
“You ready to warm up?”
“No.”
“C’mon.”
“I don’t want to warm up.”
“You just want to sing this cold?”
“Yes.”
“You want to sing F6—that’s F above high C—without warming up?”
“Yes.”
“Now you really are being a cuckoo bird.” She just pouted. Gabe spread out the accompaniment on the piano stand. “Okay.” He gave her the D-minor chord and nodded for her to start.
Nothing happened.
He stared at her. “How about you start when you’re ready and I’ll catch up to you?”
“I don’t wanna sing.”
“Stop it.” He struck the chord in tremolo and waited. She got the first few notes out and then the tears came back.
“You’re gonna laugh at me.”
“No, I will not laugh at you.” He sighed and blew out air. “Can I let you in on a little secret?” When she didn’t answer he said, “When a boy likes a girl the way I like you, we’re like . . . brainless. All you have to do is like show up and we’re happy. So stop worrying. Anything you do is going to be okay. Just sing your little heart out.”
“In my small chest.”
“You’re never going to let me live that down.” He glared at her. “I’m sorry, okay?”
“It’s okay,” Yasmine told him. “It is small. But it won’t always be small.”
“I know. I’ve seen your sisters. I just hope I’m still around to see the transformation.”
She hit him again.
“I’m going to have bruises.”
“Serves you right.”
He gave her a D-minor chord again. “Just go, for Chrissakes!”
She finally started. Definitely shaky at first, but by the time she got to the coloratura, she had found her vocal chords. When she finished, he wasn’t just amazed, he was astonished.
“Holy moly.” He let out a small laugh. “You really have a voice.”
Instant smile on her face. “You’re just saying that to be nice.”
“I’m not really nice when it comes to music. I’m very critical. You were . . . good.”
She was all light and happiness. “Really?”
“Really.” He shook his head. “Man, you’re gonna be killer in a few years when your vocal chords lengthen and chest cavity gets bigger and no comment please about your small chest. I mean that in a