by Olivia Janae
The Loudest Silence
Olivia Janae
Heartsome Publishing
Published by Heartsome Publishing
Staffordshire
United Kingdom
www.heartsomebooks.com
Also available in paperback.
ISBN: 9781999702960
First Heartsome edition: September 2017
This is a work of fiction. Names, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to action persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.
Olivia Janae asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
Copyright © 2017 Olivia Janae
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Dedication
For Swen, my J's, and the man in the purple hat.
Contents
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
A PREVIEW OF SHADES OF BLUE, PART TWO IN THE LOUDEST SILENCE SERIES
About the Author
Available Now from Heartsome
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Coming Soon from Heartsome
Acknowledgments
The man in the purple hat. I promised that I would dedicate my first book to you and that is something I'm pleased to be able to do. I wouldn't have written a word if we hadn't met. Wherever you are, I hope you're still spreading your magic.
Swen. Each and every one of you. You made this happen and I thank you for your undying support. If I could, the first round would be on me. It was your interest and care that got us this far.
Amanda and Emma. The thing is, there were other people you could go to, I knew that. It wasn't always easy but we got here and now my own book is on my bookshelf. You took my dream and made it reality. I will always owe you for that.
AJ, you made me feel like I could be a writer. That was everything. I always felt like a little girl coloring with her crayons on a page until you convinced me otherwise. You held up my dream for me and showed me that it fits. The crazy thing is, you didn’t simply do it once. You did it over and over and over again.
Kals and Jen. You two are the spearheads, my first reader and my believer. Kals, you started it all. Jen, you made me feel like it was worth it. You two have been the two biggest TLS cheerleaders in my life. I'm not sure this would be here without that. You two deserve to be here on this page. I only wish I could repay you properly.
Jac and Jill. You might think being together means you mean less but in reality it means everything. You are my two souls. I love you.
Jena, the muse behind the music. She answered so many questions, read and re-read this and everything else I’ve ever written. To top it all off, she married me which is something I’m still shocked and excited about! Love you eight days a week, babe.
And Janet. I don't have the words. I wish you were here to see this. 'However far away'.
This book and the next is because of and for all of you.
1
The first thing Kate noticed when she walked in was that it was quite an impressive hall for so small a chamber group.
Kate shrank back against the gold embossed doors, feeling tiny in the ocean of steep, red velvet seats, the stage looming in front of her in a grand half-circle. The hall was unnecessarily lavish, with its tall pillars, double-decked balconies, gold-leafed walls, and its huge chandelier of cloud diffusers. It was a lot, and it was intimidating. Then again, she reminded herself, this was the home of the Chicago Symphony Orchestra, one of the largest and best ensembles in the country, as well as the WCCE, so… there was that.
Built to comfortably hold the CSO, an orchestra of more than one hundred people, the measly group of twenty musicians that made up the Windy City Chamber Ensemble seemed comically small on the large stage.
She was grateful for that, though. It helped the nerves… a little bit.
She bounced her shoulders and rolled her neck.
Kate had spent the better part of her life with a cello strapped to her like a child’s backpack, and while it only weighed thirty pounds, it left her shoulders and neck aching constantly. Stretching and popping had become as second nature to her as walking and talking – not to mention something of a nervous habit. She pushed her head to the side, waiting for the usual pop as she studied the crowd ahead of her, finding comfort in the routine of it. She was nervous, and no matter how much she told herself that it was fine, that she was fine, the flutter of butterflies wouldn’t leave her stomach.
Stepping out of the way of a new arrival, she tensely checked her phone again, unsure if she felt better or worse that her screen had, thus far, remained blank. Tonight she had been forced to do something she hated, something she rarely did if she could help it. She had left Max with a stranger. She was pretty sure it won her a whole bundle of bad mom points, but they had only been in the city for forty-eight hours, so anyone she left him with would have been a stranger. There had simply been no other choice. She needed to get to work, so she hired a babysitter she had only just met that afternoon.
A horrible image flashed through her mind: Max alone and injured, her apartment empty of their few belongings, the fan still swinging haphazardly. The whole mental image was in black and white, just like old cops and robbers movies. Of course, the officer who responded to the 911 call would have his hat cocked, sounding very much like Humphrey Bogart as he explained that there was ‘very little we can do, sweetheart.’
She gave a start, realizing she had let her mind drift. She knew she had to get her head in the game, that this was why they had moved to Chicago. This was why they had packed up and moved in a week, setting a new record for quickest and most finance-depleting relocation of their many relocations. This new job with the WCCE meant that she could stop freelancing for a few years, a reprieve she was thankful for. She didn’t want to be thankful for the former cellist’s tragic accident, of course not, but… it would also be a lie to say she wasn’t, just a little bit. Her last contract had ended a few months ago, and she had been stuck. It felt like bad karma to be grateful, but this job, while not great, and with a small, local chamber group when she had grander dreams, was going to save their butts.
It also meant that she was going to have to deal with some awkwardness for a little bit, but that was a small sacrifice, assuming of course that her son wasn’t hog-tied by the new babysitter or something.
She rolled her eyes, inwardly chastising herself for being an idiot.
Kate took a deep, shaky breath, clicked on her usual crooked half-smile, and started toward the stage, hands shoved deeply into her jeans pockets.
Common practice in the world of classical music was that all auditions were posted online, and then, once the job was won, photos and a bio of the new hire were posted as well. I
t was just one of those unspoken rules, like slapping a big red ‘sold’ sticker over a property sign once it had been purchased. Because of this, few were all that interested in a newcomer, having already checked her out online. She didn’t mind that. She had hated the times when she’d walked into the rehearsal space and everyone had turned to stare as if she were a new zoo exhibit.
It gave her uncomfortable PTSD flashbacks, reminding her of all the first days at new schools she had suffered as a child and teenager. Each time a new family thought that the blonde-haired, green-eyed little girl was the one they wanted to foster, Kate had been forced to relocate, to start a new school in a new area, new town, new city. The fact that said family would inevitably decide they didn’t actually want her wasn’t the worst part of the scenario; it was that first day of walking into a new school, feeling all of the new and curious eyes on her. She had hated it then, and she hated it now.
The problem this time was that Kate’s photo hadn’t been posted; the audition hadn’t been listed. No one knew who she was. No one knew anything other than the fact that she had been the one out of ten cellists to win the last-minute audition to fill Hilary’s place. She was there under extraordinary circumstances, and as she walked toward the stage the constant humming of talk died until the drop of a pin could be heard. Each and every head turned to stare, looking at her as though she were both a relief and a curse.
Kate was there to cover for someone who had been hurt. The very need for her scared them, and so they stared.
Kate flinched, hiking her cello up on her shoulder as she paused at the foot of the stairs. This wasn’t her first rodeo, though, so she took a moment to steady herself and then, shoulders squared, she climbed onto the stage.
She spent a few minutes introducing herself to a number of officials in suits and ties, their lofty yet uninterested expressions all clear markers that they were board members. Once that was done, she turned to her fellow musicians, who looked a bit more like her in jeans and T-shirts.
The casual wear helped to settle Kate’s nerves a bit more. She had been worried that the performers in a chamber group this prestigious would always be in professional wear, concert blacks even during rehearsals. It had happened to her before. She had shown up to a new orchestra job in her typical, comfortable clothes to find the lot in bow ties and cocktail dresses. The whole room had rolled their eyes as if to say, with an elitist groan, ‘Freelancers.’ Kate had pretty thick skin, but it had been humiliating to sit beside the elegant, well-dressed people while wearing jeans, an ‘I heart NY’ shirt, and old, scuffed Converse.
Still, for the sake of looking her best and making good first impressions, she anxiously forced her fingers through her hair, trying to tame a few of the windblown curls. She wished she had thought to stop in the bathroom and brush it down. She got a few smiles back, but most just gave her a shifty-eyed nod and then turned back to their instruments and books of études. Nonplussed, she sat and released her cello from its confines to begin her usual warm-up routine.
“Katelyn? Are you Katelyn?” From the wings a woman floated onto the stage, her features small and sharp, her hair in a raven crop. A large, reddish-purple bruise on the side of her neck let Kate know she was a violinist. Which, if Kate recalled, also meant that this was the personnel manager she had spoken to on the phone.
She stood again, nervously running her hands over her thighs before giving her a half-smile. “Kate. Hi.”
Obvious relief on her face, the woman dropped some papers into Kate’s chair and shook Kate’s hand with both of hers.
“Hi. It’s so nice to meet you! Thank you again for doing this. I’m Mary.”
Kate gave a nod. “Yeah, of course. It was the fastest move we’ve made, but it was nice and easy.” Mary’s face slackened into an open and wide look of pity that made Kate uncomfortable, so she added quickly, “Thank you for the opportunity.”
“Of course. I’m just sorry it had to be under these circumstances. You come very highly recommended.”
“Yeah, well …” Kate wasn’t sure to say to that. Her hand was still trapped in Mary’s, and starting to feel uncomfortably warm, but when she gave a small pull, Mary didn’t seem to notice. “How is Hilary? Any updates?”
Hilary Ajam was, or had been, the Windy City Chamber Ensemble’s resident cellist for the last five years, and as far as Kate had heard, no one had any complaints. However, just over a month before, Hilary had been crossing the street on her bike, safely in the bike lane, when a Nissan Altima blew through the crosswalk. The hit had fractured her leg cleanly, but in her forearm the radius had been shattered, ripping through one of the attached muscles. The ten-month WCCE season was about to begin, and Hilary would not be participating.
“From what I hear, she’s good. They put some type of anchors in her.” Mary’s eyebrows drew together, trying to remember. “Extensor something or other. I don’t know, but you’re here!”
Kate chuckled, finally pulling her hand free.
There had been the audition, and Kate had won. She felt bad for Hilary. Everyone in the classical world dreaded an accidental, career-ending injury, but Kate knew she had gotten lucky as a result. The contract was for one year, and Mary had assured her that come next May, there would be another waiting for her, as Hilary would most likely need another year of rehab. Kate had never seen someone come back from that type of injury in even two years, and so she was elated for herself and for Max, sure that, for the time being, they could settle.
“Well,” Mary sighed, reaching out and giving Kate’s arm a caress, “I’ll let you get warmed up. I’m so glad you’re here. Thank you again.”
Kate nodded and sat, doing her best to ignore the eyes on her.
The musicians around her brought out their instruments and began plucking or tooting away, warming their muscles like athletes stretching before a game. The scatting of the trumpet to her left made Kate’s ears pop.
She pulled her cello to her, all at once comforted by its steady presence, but before she could begin her own warm-up, a voice spoke behind her.
“You look nervous.”
She craned her neck a little as she turned to see who had spoken, cello supported firmly between her knees. For just a split second, her eyes widened as she took in the face of the attractive woman half hidden behind a huge, upright double bass.
Kate clicked on a polite smile. The fact that she had been staring dumbly for a few seconds made her cheeks go slightly pink.
Though a moment before her expression had been bland, on seeing Kate’s pause, the bass player broke into a huge, smug grin. Kate had been gawking, and this gorgeous stranger knew it.
“I’m sorry?” Kate asked, thoroughly unimpressed with her malfunctioning brain.
The bass player’s smile had melted again, expression matching her tone. Her aloof gaze twitched between Kate and the cell phone in her hand, as though she was talking to Kate to be kind and the text she was reading demanded her full attention. Kate cleared her throat a little awkwardly, and the stranger finally looked up, her piercing olive eyes holding Kate’s gaze with intrigue and confidence. Her strong jaw, angled cheeks, and pale skin were as impressive as the long, dirty blonde dreadlocks tied in an effortless knot behind her head.
It was unusual to see a female bass player. The instrument was huge, so women usually had a harder time wrapping around it. This woman seemed to have no problem with that; her arms draped around the large instrument comfortably, her long, thin – and now phoneless – hand resting with ease across the strings.
“I said you seem a bit nervous, chica.”
As a matter of fact, she was attractive enough that the horn player to her left kept shooting furtive glances her way, as if begging her to look over and notice him. The woman’s expression gave Kate the distinct impression that she was aware that she was good-looking, just as she was fully aware of the hopeful glances of the horn player to her left, who kept shooting furtive glances her way, as if begging her to look over
and notice him. The woman, however, was firmly ignoring him. That didn’t surprise Kate. She didn’t need her “gaydar” to know this woman was “Kinsey-six gay.” It radiated from her like a Sapphic cologne.
“Uh, I’m not nervous exactly.”
It was more that she wasn’t entirely sure she was supposed to be there. She had won the job, yeah, but she still wasn’t sure they had meant to pick her instead of some other thin blonde with her initials. It wasn’t a new feeling, either. She was always somewhat convinced that someone somewhere had checked the wrong box, passing her forward in the audition instead of kicking her to the gutter where she truly belonged.
It was stupid – she had earned her place and she knew it, – but it always took her a little while in a new job to let go of the feeling. She hadn’t gone to a prestigious school like most of her colleagues, she didn’t come from money, and she didn’t have a gaggle of parents or cheerleaders behind her. In fact, it had always been her, alone, until Max was born, and then it had been them, the Flynn duo out to get the world.
A large part of her imposter syndrome was habit; she knew that. Kate had never really felt like she would fit anywhere; that was just a fact of life.
Then again, she could still hear the small voice in the back of her head reminding her that this job didn’t really count, that she had only gotten it because of an emergency, that they had been desperate. It warred with her logic, and though she tried to ignore it, the voice was persistent.
