The Treble With Men

by Smartypants Romance

  I was desperate to turn around and gauge Kim’s reaction to the song. God, if only I could play like this for her all the time. But I felt it—I felt the bar’s energy coursing through me, felt the transformative power of a great fucking song. My body came alive as I played. My voice belted out the words. I was raw with explosive energy. I’d missed this—playing for people. I thought I’d shut this part of my life away. But here I was, loving every second of it.

  As the whoops and applause broke out, I pulled my mask back into place and stood to bow.

  Kim and her friends had made their way to the front and were clapping and pumping their arms. I jumped off the short stage and pulled Kim into a hug. When we pulled apart, she looked as dazed as I felt. I hadn’t thought about doing that. I was just buzzing with adrenaline and my body moved without thinking.

  Gretchen smacked my shoulder with the back of her hand. “Erik Jones in the flesh.”

  My eyes widened. Nobody seemed to hear it in the cacophony of the bar.

  “Gretchen!” Kim punched her in the arm.

  “Ouch! What the fuck?”

  “Language,” Suzie warned.

  “It’s not like anybody could hear me.” Gretchen rubbed her arm with a frown.

  “Still,” Kim eyes were wide imploring. “This was exactly why I didn’t want to tell you.”

  “How many people would connect that random guy in Genie’s with the pop star?”

  “Okay, you have got to stop talking.” Kim grabbed my hand and pulled me away from her group of chattering friends.

  The ones who weren’t talking were staring at me with wide, shell-shocked eyes. The blonde whispered to the brunette and I swear I heard her ask about an autograph as I was tugged to a quiet corner near an old cigarette machine.

  This was exactly what I was afraid of. In any other circumstance, I would have just been a guy. I wanted to, God, I dunno, impress her? I’m such a tool. This was what I got for listening to Wes about anything. I wanted to show her something more than my instructor side without giving away too much of what I felt for her. But it backfired. I didn’t think they’d all recognize me. This was why I wore the mask. How differently would I be treated now? Because now I was only some former celebrity with a crap career.

  “Hey.” Her finger poked my cheek and I cursed the mask for the distance between our skin. “I can’t tell, but I’m pretty sure you’re frowning under there. Don’t worry about them. They won’t say anything. They’re just surprised. They are of that generation that was a little, uh, obsessed with you. Not me. I wasn’t. I definitely didn’t have posters of you all over my room …”

  “I’m not worried about it.” I was bothered though.

  She shifted from foot to foot, studying the scuffed-up wooden floor. “That was an awesome performance.”

  “Thanks.” I studied her, desperate to see any signs of her feelings. “It’s a classic song.”

  Her hair was down tonight in a straight, dark style that fell almost all the way down her back. It had been in a tight twist today at rehearsals. Had she come straight here? I imagined her shaking her hair loose. Pulling her fingers through it, back arched … slow motion.

  Jesus Christ, I needed another drink.

  “Sure. But your singing …” Her cheeks flushed too. She was half a breath from twirling hair around her finger.

  And there it was. She looked at me with hearts in her eyes. We had been making such strides with my composition. But all at once, I was a teen pop star again. A crappy one, at that. It was one thing to see my face these last months, but it was different to hear me play this kind of music. I triggered a fangirl crush she’d kept hidden. I wanted to be more than that to her. Would I ever just be Erik to her? I wanted to be more than a Maestro, more than a popstar. The rest of the world be damned, what did she think of the real me?

  “Well, anyway. I promise that they won’t bother you about it. And they won’t say anything, okay?”

  I nodded and tucked my hands deep in my pockets.

  “I’m going to go back to my, uh, meeting. I’m glad I got to see you here tonight.” She spoke seriously enough that I forced myself to meet her gaze. “It was nice to see you outside of practice or rehearsals. Sometimes, it’s nice to just feel the music and be reminded. You know? Yeah, you know.” She licked her lips.

  “Yeah.”

  “You could probably come hang out for a drink but I wasn’t technically allowed to invite boys. It’s against the code …”

  “Don’t worry about it.” I waved away her offer.

  “Okay, well, bye.” She stepped up on her toes to kiss my cheek. The one little sliver of exposed skin between the mask. Her lips were warm and soft. Her head bumped the bill of my hat. She giggled and rubbed her forehead. “Sorry.”

  She walked away quickly with fists balled and a little shake of her head.

  It was time to leave. Coming here and performing like that had been a lapse in judgement. I went to the bar to square up my bill. I was glaring at the bar top when someone sidled up next to me. I wasn’t in the mood.

  “I feel bad.” It was the redhead, Gretchen. “I shouldn’t have spilled your secret identity to the whole bar.”

  I shrugged but didn’t face her.

  “Nobody heard me,” she said.

  “It’s fine,” I grumbled.

  “I’m easily excitable and sometimes words just blah,” she said, motioning words coming out of her mouth with her hand. “But it isn’t my jam to spill people’s secrets. I’m usually like a vault.”

  I tilted my head to convey my disbelief.

  “It’s true.” She blew out a long breath making a show of it. “Like I wouldn’t tell you, an almost total stranger, that Kim was a big fan of you back in the day. She tried to hide it, but your song was always playing. It was her go-to bad mood song. You know the song that makes you get up and shake your tail feather no matter how dark the day is?”

  I sighed and turned toward her. “Like a vault, huh?”

  “It’s true. I wouldn’t tell you that. Because that was forever ago. She’s hardly the same person now. Definitely not the same person that used to keep a shoebox full of old notes.”

  I cleared my throat. Despite the cold dread her other news brought me, this had me taking notice. “Notes?”

  “Yeah, from some band camp. I definitely wouldn’t tell you what those meant to her.”

  Heat burned down the back of my neck. It took all my strength not to run to Kim ask her about it.

  “And I absolutely would not tell you that Roderick Chagny has been taking credit for them her whole life.”

  My whole body jolted. “What? That pea-brained, coattail-riding little shit? He wouldn’t know how to compose a grocery list, let alone a note.”

  Gretchen shrugged like I had a minute ago. “Not my business. Things locked inside.” She acted out locking her mouth with a key.

  “Why are you telling me this? I thought you didn’t trust me.” The last time I was around her, she had given me a definite look. In fact, I think she’d even whispered a not-so-thinly-veiled threat.

  “I don’t trust you, but I trust Roderick Chagny less.”

  “Something tells me you don’t trust men,” I said.

  She pulled from her beer bottle. “What have you done to deserve it? As a species, men are wholly disappointing.”

  This was a woman scorned for sure.

  “Men have done some good things,” I said. “We helped make the population.”

  “Barely.”

  I shook my head with a laugh. Then remembered. “Fucking Chagny.” I gripped the edge of the bar, wishing I could rip it off and throw it out the window.

  “He says he wants to take care of my girl.” Gretchen rolled her eyes.

  “He wants what she can get him and that’s money. That’s all anybody in the industry cares about.” My voice was low, mostly to myself, but I was sure she heard.

  “It’s weird, isn’t it? Him showing up right now? Right
when she’s getting attention.” She shook her head and lowered her voice. “Deep down, she has to know he isn’t the author of those notes. Kim is smart, but she’s also fragile. She clings to them so desperately. I’m not here to take something away from her that brings her comfort. My only concern is that she’ll listen to anything Roddy says because he represents safety to her.”

  We both drifted our focus to Kim. She danced with the other girls, her hair flowing around her as she line-danced across the floor. Happiness was written all over her face.

  “You’re going to have to tell her one day,” Gretchen finished.

  I licked my dry lips. My Adam’s apple sat too high in my throat. “Why’s that?”

  “It’s written all over your face, how much you feel for her.”

  “You can’t see my face,” I said.

  “You should know I’m wise beyond my years. All us girls in the SWS have experienced things that aged us too young. We can see right through the bullshit. Actually, most women can.” She took another drink. “Unless we aren’t ready to.”

  “That’s my fear.” My heart hammered into my throat admitting this. “I don’t think Kim is ready to hear the things I have to tell her. I don’t want her to be swayed for the wrong reasons. She should come to her own conclusions, in her own time.” I couldn’t look at her friend while I spoke but couldn’t stop the words from coming out either.

  She nodded. “She isn’t ready. She’s living with too much fear. But she can’t do anything without all the facts.”

  My heart sunk. I knew that Kim was attracted to me. I was ravenous for her. If we gave into those surface feelings, the intensity of what I really felt for her might push her away. Her feelings would never deepen. I realized that now, talking to her best friend.

  I needed to gather myself and double down on the music. Let us get to the showcase. Let her see what she was completely capable of and then tell her everything. For now, I had to be patient.

  “You need to be honest with her,” Gretchen said. “Or I will introduce you to my collection of bats.”

  “Noted,” I said.

  Even if I could never have Kim in my life at the level I wanted, at least I knew she’d be taken care of.

  “Just so you know. It’s totally obvious when you’re smiling,” she said before pushing off the bar and rejoining her friends.

  Chapter 27

  Stop when you are done, not when you are tired.

  KIM

  Something had changed, because the next few weeks of practice with Devlin were off. Really off. The chair announcements were delayed yet again, for the reason that the committee couldn’t decide on a few chair positions, like a hung jury. And tangible tension was ratcheting up in the Symphony. My feelings for Devlin had bloomed to a point where the mere sight of him sent a bolt of adrenaline through me. I remained professional, but wondered if my feelings were transparent. There was still the issue of Roddy, too. He seemed to offer so much, but my heart was not interested.

  All the while, Devlin seemed to have retreated. He reset those strict boundaries after the performance at the bar. I had been given a glimpse at an alternate reality, a life I found myself daydreaming about. One where we were a couple that went to bars and sang and danced and everything was out there. There were no dark secrets, no shame from our pasts. I longed to peel back his layers and learn everything about him. Yet he pulled away.

  We were more than halfway toward his showcase performance. Pressure sat like invisible bags of sand on our slumped shoulders. Technically, the composition was written and complete. At the end of each practice he would return to scribbling notes in the pages with a furrowed brow, a hand tangled in his hair.

  “That spark isn’t there. I can feel it,” he’d say. And no matter how I encouraged him that it was wonderful, he would reply, “Wonderful isn’t good enough. It needs to be perfect.”

  There was no such thing as perfect. I understood that better than most.

  Now, it was our last weekend practice before the Fourth of July, and I was at his house. I skipped the pretense and packed an overnight bag. Not for any lusty reasons but because this was going to be a long weekend and going home was a waste of time. Better to at least be prepared and sleep in my own clothes. My parents had been relatively quiet on the issue and that too added to my anxious thoughts.

  “Before we start today you should know something.” He stood towering over me as I gripped the neck of my cello. He was all business, with dark brooding eyes and full delicious lips. The ring finger of his left hand tapped lightly on the knee of his jeans. It was the only indication of nerves in an otherwise smooth demeanor.

  Whatever he was about to say was important.

  “Yeah?” My gentle tone reflected an attempt to stay cool.

  “The delay with the chair decision is because I’m sampling the cello solo from the Smokey Mountain Concerto. As a sort of teaser for the September showcase.”

  Small tendrils of dread swirled my thoughts like early morning fog on a lake. I nodded once, urging him on.

  “As you may assume, the first chair cellist will have that solo at the Fourth of July performance.”

  My stomach filled with fiery heat like I’d taken five shots too fast. Was he telling me I got first chair? It felt like a warning.

  “That makes sense.”

  “I don’t decide the chair ranking alone. The whole point of an unbiased third party is to ensure there was no favoritism or nepotism in the decision making. I won’t even know who is sat where until the positions are officially decided.”

  “First chair is a huge decision,” I said cautiously.

  He held my focus and I searched those dark eyes for answers.

  “Whatever they decide, let me assure you that these last few weeks have shown me without a doubt that your talent is astounding. You are astounding.”

  “Thank you.” I swallowed a lump in my throat. Neither one of us looked away. We sat watching each other in the silent room not saying a hundred things on the tips of our tongues. “Devlin, I—”

  He broke our trance first with a small shake of his head. “Let’s rehearse.”

  We played through the same piece we’d played a thousand times. Today there was no focusing. If he was telling me I got first chair and the solo, that would change everything. My breathes were quick and shallow, matching the tempo of my heart. My mind raced with too many distractions. Mechanically, I was fine. Most people wouldn’t even think there was anything wrong, but instinct told me this performance was subpar. Every passing measure the temper that gave the Devil of the Symphony his name seemed to grow.

  I needed to tell him the truth about how I felt. I was so tired of pretending. How could I when he’d just told me I was astounding? It might ruin how far we’ve come together.

  He stood up from the piano so abruptly the bench toppled over. “You aren’t trying.”

  “I am.” My insides shook. I needed to tell him.

  “No, you aren’t. You’re holding on to something. Just play. Hear the notes between the music. Listen to the message.”

  “What message?” I asked. He always talked about this, some hidden meaning or feeling. I tasted that power he spoke of—at the bar and for Ford’s Fosters—but I couldn’t just make it happen.

  He shoved the bench farther out of his way, standing so he had to hunch to play the accompaniment on the piano. “Listen, Kim. Feel it.”

  I played as my frustration grew. I matched him note for note. If he used anger as a weapon, I would give it right back to him. It was immature, but I was so tired of trying and falling flat. That anger fueled my fingers despite every muscle in my body burning with fatigue.

  “Better!” he shouted.

  I played harder.

  “More!”

  My fingertips went numb.

  “Faster!”

  I screamed out a growl. “Why don’t you just play it!” I snapped. “If you’re so fricking sure of how it should sound.”

&
nbsp; He glared at me, and at that moment, I had no idea why I was even here. Why I had even been chosen. I wanted to attack him with punches and scream until my throat went raw.

  “It’s your piece,” he said.

  He’d said that time and time again, but I didn’t understand. Any cellist could play this. I needed to understand why. He wanted me to listen. I was listening. I screamed out with a growl of rage as my hands flew.

  “You aren’t trying!” he yelled over the music.

  “I am!” I yelled back but my fingers missed a slide into their position. Tears threatened.

  I collapsed into my cello. Pressed my cheek against the hard wood. Inhaled the smell of resin and polish. I hated this version of him so much. We’d reverted so far back to the beginning. He’d pushed me too far. This was what he had wanted, wasn’t it? Maybe he felt my feelings shift at the bar when he sang to me. Maybe he was scared of the feelings I couldn’t hide. Of another fangirl falling over themselves for him. He wanted this reaction. He wanted to push me away.

  He was selfish. I was nothing to him but another instrument in his beautiful room. A tool for his own purposes. Maybe Roddy was right, and I was his muse. And a disappointing one, at that.

  I laid my cello down on its side carefully despite my shaking hands. “I’m done here.”

  “We aren’t done for the day.” He turned to face me, wiping his hands on his pants.

  “Devlin.” I stood and held his gaze. “I’m done.”

  “You promised. You committed. You can’t just go.”

  “You don’t want me. You’re mad about something, and you’re pushing me away. So fine. I’ll leave. I’m done.”

  His nostrils flared and his chest rose and fell when he stood to match my stance. “You can’t just leave.”

  “I’m tired,” I shrugged with effort and made my way to the door.

  “Don’t put this on me. You’re the one who’s holding back,” he said calmly.