by Ava O'Shay
“I like your idea of changing up the instrument,” Quill said cautiously. “Cello?” Don smiled.
“Isn’t it girly?” Quill fiddled with his hat.
“Here let me show you something.” Don spun the iPad they used as a cash register around. He tapped it a few times, then turned it so Quill could see. On the screen were two guys about his age. Each had a cello between their knees. Don turned the volume up. They began playing. After a minute Quill recognized the tune from the eighties band Scorpion. The guys proceeded to whip their heads around and rock out as if they were jumping around stage with an electric guitar.
“Wow. I guess that’s kind of what I’m going for. But if they already did it, is it new?”
“They’re called the 2Cellos.” Don tapped the screen to return the iPad to cash register mode. “What don’t they do?”
“Huh?”
“What’s missing in their performance that you could do?”
“I’m not even sure I can play the cello.” Quill ran his hands down his thighs. He was beginning to sweat.
“What was missing?” Don repeated. “I don’t know.”
Don rolled his eyes at him.
Then it clicked. “They don’t sing.”
“Exactly. They don’t change up the songs. They change up the instrument. But they don’t sing. I bet if you get the song down, you will be unique not only because of your instrument choice but because of your voice. I heard you out there.”
Quill was getting excited. He liked the challenge Don was putting out there for him. He was the first person to ever challenge him and believe he could do it.
“Why are you helping me?” he asked.
“Why not?” Don said in his usually off handed way. “What do you want in return?”
Don looked confused by the question. “I want to help you with your class.” “No, what are you expecting from me?”
Don frowned. “An honest day’s work and to lure young women into my store to buy a guitar?”
Quill looked at his feet and shuffled. “Nothing else?”
“Son, I’m paying you for a job. All I expect is you to earn the money I am paying you and respect me and my store. Don’t worry, it doesn’t include mowing my yard or trimming my hedges. Strictly professional and on the up and up. No special favors included.”
Quill wasn’t sure if Don noticed the stress in his shoulders leave, but he felt the weight of worry lifted for the time being. Don may not have understood what Quill was eluding to but he understood enough.
Don ran into the storage room and came back carrying a cello. “I know it isn’t all cool like the one in the video, but until you reach YouTube stardom, you’re stuck with mediocrity.”
Quill laughed and carefully took it from him. “You know I don’t even know where to start.”
Don bounced in his sandals. “I’ll give you the basics. Then I’ll show you how to hook up your phone to one speaker and the cello to the other so you can hear yourself playing along with the song.” He ran around the counter and pulled out a bow. “Sit, sit.” He pointed to the cushioned bench for trying out the guitars.
“You really think this is going to get people into the store?” “Well there aren’t coming in now so I don’t think it can hurt.”
“But it’s a cello.” Quill was afraid he was starting to sound whiny.
“I’m going to be blunt, Mr. Quill. You are a good looking man. I think you could play the flute and they’d come in. But to help with guitar sales, I will be working my magic while you concentrate on simply playing your song.”
“Should I feel like a prostitute? You know, you being my pimp… pimping me out for my looks?” Quill smiled.
“I certainly hope not. Remember, shades up at all times. No nooky in the practice rooms.
Respect the establishment and the people in it. Now, let’s get started so we can make some money.” Don sat down beside Quill. Quill watched, making sure Don didn’t scoot closer or brush his thigh innocently. He knew those touches turned desperate quickly. Don placed the cello between his thighs. Adjusted the metal pin at the bottom of the cello then began tightening and loosening the knobs at the top.
“These are your tuning pegs.” He ran his hand down the neck. “This is your finger board, much like that of a guitar. This is the peg box where the strings come in. Wood bridge.” He pointed at a thin piece of wood holding the strings up from the body of the cello. “And sound holes, self-explanatory.”
Quill nodded, not sure if it was necessary to remember all the parts.
“Tighten and loosen the strings to get the sound you want. You have the ear. I don’t need to do it for you.” Don pushed the instrument at Quill. “Set it so it’s comfortable. You aren’t learning this to play in a symphony. Make it yours. You are trying to be unique so when they say sit up straight and act regal, you slouch and act like your poo doesn’t stink.”
Quill snorted.
“The closer you are to the bridge, the higher the note since you are shortening the length of the string. Lower notes, move the hand higher. Your top notes are C, G, D, A… then they change as you move your fingers, just like with the guitar. Play around a little to find the notes. Your ear will get you in the right place. There is a ton of terminology I could tell you, but basically hold the bow in a way that feels comfortable and draw it across the strings in an even manner. Again. Play around with it. Find the notes you need. Play with your heart. The rest will come.”
“Seriously? Play with my heart and the rest will come?” Quill smirked. “I heard once that Lionel Richie… “
“Who?”
Don gave him a look of utter disgust. “I will forgive your lack of musical knowledge for the mere fact we do not have the luxury of time needed to explain the significance of this man… he was in summary… a song writer. But when asked if he wrote songs, he would say no. He wrote stories. Write your own story.”
“I don’t think anyone wants to know my story,” Quill muttered.
“Tell it to them anyway. Tell it to them using Bono’s story. Now, you have two hours left on your shift, so get cracking. Then tomorrow and the next day come in and sit here and all will be good. You will destroy the competition.”
“It isn’t a competition, it’s a class.” Quill cocked his head, running the bow over the strings, making an ear piercing screech.
“Everything is a competition.” Don grinned.
.eleven
Quill Diaz
September 23
4:00 p.m.
“I suck.” Quill dropped the bow at his feet and swiped the head phones off his head.
Don was on the sidewalk in front of the store handing out advertisements for lessons. Don’s idea of using a cello seemed like a good idea until Quill sat for the last two hours trying to figure out how to get the stupid instrument to sound like something other than a dying cat.
He rubbed his face and moved his neck to get the aches out. When he straightened again his gaze was drawn to the blue haired girl talking to Don.
“Cori.” Quill smiled to himself. “Or Corrine.” Damn, He gave himself a mental head slap. How had he not figured that out before now? Don must have had quite a chuckle at his expense. Quill going on and on about the girl in his music class while knowing the entire time it was his daughter.
No matter how hard he’d willed the professor to have Cori return, she had yet to appear at the piano in class again. Which made total sense now that he knew she was Corrine, the daughter off for two weeks with the symphony. A few other people had demonstrated their skills at music, but none were able to affect him in the same way she had.
Quill leaned back against the bench and watched her smile. Relaxed Cori was even more attractive than rocker Cori and guest pianist. Cori grabbed Don’s arm and leaned her head against his shoulder. Quill sighed and felt the stress in his shoulders lift. She did something to him, and he had no words to explain it. As if she felt it too, Cori turned and locked her gaze to his. The easy smi
le she’d given Don slid from her face, and her eyebrows drew together. She looked back to Don, said something then walked into the store.
“So, you’re the infamous, Mr. Quill. Never dawned on me that is was a first name not a last name.” She stood a few feet from him with her hands on her hips.
Quill tilted his head, giving her one of his devilish grins. She may turn his brain to mush, but his womenizing skills were second nature. “Guess I didn’t make as big of an impression as I thought. Or you just aren’t as clever as I gave you credit for.”
“You know that shit eating grin won’t work on me. I know your game.” Quill looked at his scuffed, black boots and shook his head.
“Whatever.” She waved her hand like there was a fly in front of her face and walked to the back practice room.
Quill chuckled to himself. Silence was golden when it came to her. “Quitting?” Don came back in to the shop.
Quill lifted his hands over his head and stretched. “Yeah.” He looked up at his watch. “Got to get home and tackle some homework.”
“Did you meet my Corrine?” Don tugged at his beard, hiding his grin. Quill dropped his arms. “Cori?”
Don smiled. The wrinkles around his eyes deepened at the love that simple word evoked. “She doesn’t like Corrine. But she’ll always be that to me.”
“She was the girl in my class. The piano player.”
Don nodded. “Yeah, I figured as much. Not many people can play like her.”
“Didn’t think to tell me she was your daughter? Especially after I went on and on about how awesome she was.”
“I did. I told you all about her. Not my fault you didn’t catch on that Corrine and Cori were the same person. Guess you aren’t as clever as I gave you credit for.” He repeated the words Quill had just said to Cori. “Besides what dad doesn’t want to hear unabashed praise for their daughter?”
“Guess clever isn’t in high demand these days.” Quill laughed.
Don laughed, too. “That’s an understatement.” Don came over and grabbed the cello. “How’d it go?”
Quill laughed. “I suck.”
“It was the first two hours you have held the lady in your hand, so what did you expect?” “The lady,” Quill snorted.
Don ran a hand down the cello’s side. “What woman have you seen who has curves that can compare with this lady?”
Quill narrowed his eyes. “Never thought of it like that.”
“Well, Mr. Quill. I think if you start to, things will come together. How are you with the ladies? I’m sure you have some moves. Yeah?”
Quill didn’t want to confirm his past with the ladies. Besides, he wasn’t sure if he’d ever needed moves with the girls he found. Drunk girls didn’t really expect moves. “I’ve had a few.”
Don nodded again. “Well I hope you treated them with respect.”
Quill couldn’t look at him. He hadn’t treated them with respect, and they hadn’t expected it. “I try.”
“Take her home tonight and touch her, treat her like a lady. You’re running the bow over her like you’re combing rats out of your hair. Stroke her. Love her.” Don’s voice got soft.
Quill wasn’t sure what to say. He felt like he was being entrusted with Don’s favorite daughter. He wasn’t sure he deserved Don’s trust in taking it home.
“Maybe I can leave it here… “
Don snapped out of his mood. “Oh… no, no. Take her home. She’ll enjoy getting out and seeing the town.”
Quill stood up, gripping the cello around the neck. “I’ll take good care of it… I mean her.”
“I got the case in the back somewhere. Wait here.”
Quill was standing by the counter awkwardly holding the instrument when he heard the music. He leaned it against the bench and headed back to the practice room. The curtains were rolled up just like Don told him they would be. Cori was sitting behind an electric piano. One hand holding a pencil poised over a spiral notebook and the other playing with her lip. She’d put dark rimmed glasses on and looked like a little professor. He leaned against the door frame, trying not to make a sound. The music she was working on was different from what she played in class. This time she was utilizing a group of synthesizers to add what sounded like a variety of xylophones and wind chimes to a song. A song he found slightly familiar. As with every other time she played, Quill let the music flow around him until the song came to him.
Nickleback’s When We Stand Together. Quill began to move with the beat until he could follow the changes she’d made. Her brow was wrinkled, and she was deep in thought, scribbling down notes and musical notations. He needed her to look at him. He wanted her to see he was more than the guy she thought he was. But her head was bent, her gaze glued to the paper in front of her.
So, Quill did the only thing he could think of… he began to sing.
It took two verses before she realized he’d added words to her work in progress.
Slowly, Cori raised her head. Her glasses had slid to the end of her nose, her black eyes peeking over them. At first she looked pissed, but he closed his eyes, feeling the message of the song, and sang out the chorus. The music stopped abruptly, Quill’s voice trailed off.
He opened his eyes.
Cori had her hands splayed flat across the top of her piano and was frowning.
Before Quill could apologize or tell her the music was beautiful, Don came up behind him, grabbing him by the shoulders. The ease the music had given him disappeared, his body tensed at the touch. The expression on his face must have made the discomfort clear because Cori’s expression changed as well. To one of concern, then questioning.
Quill didn’t want her concern. He didn’t want her to see a weakness in him and quickly turned, shaking off the mood with a laugh. “Just listening to her play.”
Don moved into the room, meeting Cori half way and wrapping an arm around her. “She is good. But I heard something good coming from you, too. You two should team up. Would sound better than the hack band you have going now.”
“Dad,” Cori complained. “They’re fine. It’s just for fun.”
“Nah. I got to get going,” Quill said. He needed to get out of the store. Cori made his head crazy and watching the two of them banter back and forth was difficult. He was in need of a good ‘fuck you’ from Ren, which she was sure to deliver as soon as he got home.
“Here’s the case. Bring it back tomorrow, and we’ll see how you’re doing. Got you signed up for two lessons tomorrow, too.” Don smiled brightly, completely unaware of the tension in Quill’s body or at least giving him the grace of ignoring it.
Quill took the case and moved back into the main store to get his stuff together. He’d just finished zipping everything closed when Cori slid onto the bench in front of him.
“Sorry to ruin your jam.” He turned to leave. “My jam?” She laughed.
“Whatever you music types call it.”
“Music types.” She ran her fingers through her hair, stretching her back, her small breasts protruding toward him.
Quill diverted his eyes, busying himself with the zipper of the bag. “Do you have an original thought or are you just going to repeat what I say?”
Cori snorted.
She was even cute when she snorted like a pig.
“I got to go, so is there something you needed?” Quill wasn’t good at conversations that didn’t belittle and contain at least half the amount of cuss words as actual words.
She frowned.
He opened his eyes big and shrugged at her in the universal sign language symbol for ‘What?’
“It’ll get you fired,” she finally said. This time Quill snorted. “What will?”
“Seriously, he won’t put up with your shit.”
“And what shit would that be exactly.” He wanted to make her say it. If she kept reminding him of his asshole ways, it would be easier to get her out of his head. “What am I doing?” he repeated.
“Dry humping at the club.” She
raised an eyebrow. “You’re better than that.” Quill let out a laugh. “Dry humping?”
“Now who’s repeating?”
Quill moved the cello to his opposite hand, then shimmied his leg in between hers.
Placing his free hand on the back of the bench she’d settled on, he leaned in. Brushing his lips against her ear he whispered, “There was nothing dry about that night.”
“Don’t be an asshole,” she breathed out.
“The president of the club two years running.” He winked.
“I don’t want you to get fired. He likes you.” She blinked up at him with her big, dark eyes. “Don’t let him down.”
Her final words had him hesitating.
“Then I guess I’ll be good.” Quill moved away from her and the strange power she seemed to have over him. The same weird feeling that always came when she was around filled his stomach, but his dick was cool, calm, and limp as a noodle. What in the hell was she doing to him?
“Excuse me,” Quill mumbled, turning sideways to get through the door as a guy turned to squeeze past.
“Quill?”
Quill looked up. He didn’t recognize the face, but he certainly recognized the voice. “Assad?”
Assad gave him his signature lazy smile. “Yeah.”
Quill glanced back at where Cori remained on the bench, intently watching. He jerked his head for Assad to follow him outside. The last thing he needed was for her to witness whatever was going on between him and Assad.
“I guess you didn’t recognize me in my civilian attire.” Assad dramatically waved his hand over his faded jeans, Chuck Taylors, and hooded sweatshirt.
“Yeah you look… “ “Normal?” Assad laughed.
Quill gave him a once over. While at the club it had been difficult to tell if Assad was a girl or boy. Primarily because he wore an Aunt Jemima handkerchief on his head, a skirt, and make-up, but now looking at him out of costume… he was an incredibly gorgeous guy, and currently Quill’s dick was agreeing whole heartedly on his assessment. Quill pinched the bridge of his nose, willing his dick to behave itself and get on the same page as his head. “I was going to say plain. But you’re not.”
