“I—I … Are you asking me?” That was definitely not what I should have said.
I had meant it sincerely, but he obviously took it as snark. The slice of emotion I could see turned downright thunderous. Suddenly the stories of holes punched in walls and flying music stands were believable.
“Yes,” he growled.
This was a big decision. I needed more information. I needed to talk to Mom and Dad. So why couldn’t I just say that? I could not decide this right now. Not with him standing there, studying me like that. What did he think my reaction would be to him showing up in my house? I was wearing pink flannel PJ bottoms and a tank top, for crying out loud. I hadn’t even messed with a bra today. I hadn’t expected to leave my suite of the house.
I crossed my arms over my chest, trying to appear casual, despite feeling anything but.
“Yes or no.” Without seeing his mouth, I sensed he was scowling. That more-familiar growl was back in his voice. “Forty-eight hours.”
And as though we had both decided the conversation was over, he turned on a heel and left. Only when the rumbles of his bike were no longer audible did I finally breathe easy.
I wasn’t sure how long I stood there like a wall-eyed fish out of water. Eventually, my parents came out from the sitting room to find me stupefied in the hallway.
“I’m so confused. What should I do?” I whispered more to myself.
“It’s a wonderful opportunity, working with the Maestro every weekend,” my mother said, her voice smooth and calm as always.
“But you don’t have to do it. If you—” My dad turned to my mother as if a thought had just occurred to him. “How did he know her real name?”
“Green Valley isn’t that big,” she said. “Most people know Kim. Gossip probably got up to Knoxville somehow.”
That wasn’t exactly true. Not many people connected Jethro’s ex, Kim Dae, the truant who ruined her chances for Juilliard, with Christine Day, the fourth chair cellist in the SOOK. That was the whole point of the stage name. I had split myself off into a new person.
Of course my friends in the Scorned Women’s Society, SWS for short, knew; we all had our own baggage in addition to being Jethro’s exes. We took care of each other. No ex left behind.
My father argued, “He’s got a temper.”
“He’s an artist,” mom countered.
“That excuses it? We’re artists. We didn’t throw tantrums and break batons.”
They stood right in front of me and spoke as though I wasn’t there at all.
My mother simply stared at my father, who was absolutely a moody artist, known for locking himself away for weeks at a time until he finished a novel.
“Don’t give me that look, Meredith,” my dad said.
“I didn’t say anything, Lindsay,” my mother soothed.
My folks never raised their voices when they fought, they just used names. If ever they get to their full names, it was time to get out.
“You did. With your eyes. And yes, I could be emotional when I had book-brain. But at least I didn’t throw paint at the doorman.”
“That was one time,” my mother retorted calmly. “Artists are fickle. We understand that more than most.”
“He couldn’t even take off that ridiculous hat and mask in our home,” Dad said.
“You know what they say. He’s … different. Maybe he’s found his face makes people uncomfortable.”
My father harrumphed. “I still don’t like it.”
“Just think of the one-on-one instruction she’d receive from such a musical genius.” Mom, in her silk kimono, shifted her attention back to me. Dad wrapped an arm around her in his own matching kimono—because they were exactly that couple. After forty years of marriage they were morphing into the same eccentrically dressed, gender-neutral person. “What do you think, sweetie?” she asked me.
My toes started to tingle. The room unfocused until only their faces were clear. Distantly, I was aware that my breaths were coming quicker. I was tired of being a passive follower in my life, but I didn’t know how to change. It seemed to come so easily for other people: bravery, boldness, and passion. Nobody would describe me with those words. But I did feel those emotions, hidden deep in my bones. What would this opportunity garner? Would I want it? What damage could this decision set into motion?
“I—I don’t know.” Images flashed through my mind. A cello solo. An icy lake. Wild nights. Bad choices.
Devlin came here to ask me to help him with his composition. He was a hulking, leather-clad biker-composer. He wore a mask with a skull and was quick to temper. Everything about him was designed to scare and push people away. He intimidated me, but he didn’t scare me.
What he wanted from me did.
Chapter 2
Always play like you’re first chair, even in the back row.
KIM
He wants me. Devlin wants me.
To play for him. The Devil of the Symphony wanted me to play for him.
“I don’t think I can do it,” I told Erin.
She was my clarinet homie in the SOOK. In rehearsal, she sat in my direct line of sight and we often passed the hours sending each other looks—as no phones were allowed—and trying to get the other to laugh with the most ridiculous faces.
“Why not?” she asked. Her hair was purple today, save her dark roots, and the cut was a sharp bob just above her shoulders. She wore jean overalls over curvaceous hips and a bright green T-shirt. If I was the side table of a room, she was a lava lamp.
Devlin planned to debut his newest—and supposedly, most amazing—composition at the SOOK fall showcase. The spring/summer season had just begun, but with the arrival of the Devil of the Symphony, the gossip was already focused on the September show. This year, the pièce de résistance was to be Devlin’s crowning achievement. He wanted me to help him perfect the cello solo, and to receive private tutoring sessions.
Why me?
Erin and I stood in the corner of the room, huddled together, sipping crappy free coffee before practice. My two days were almost up. Devlin … Maestro … whoever, would need my decision today. Every time the door to the rehearsal space opened, my heart dropped to my toes thinking he would walk in and ask me in front of God and everyone what I had decided.
“I’m just not that good,” I said with a glance to the door.
It was just Barry, second chair cellist, schlepping in on the heels of Carla.
“Ugh,” Erin groaned. “I hear you play at night when I’m waiting for Mom to finish cleaning. I know you’re so good. You come alive when you think nobody is around.”
Had I been so obvious? My love for the instrument never diminished over time, even if the person playing it had.
“You’re so good. You should be first chair,” I said.
“Thank you. I know. Stop deflecting.” She poked my shoulder teasingly.
“I just worry about—”
“Is it because he’s so big and scary? I wouldn’t want to be alone with him.” She shuddered theatrically.
“You think he’s scary?”