The Treble With Men (Scorned Women's Society #2) - Piper Sheldon Page 0,33
up. She smelled a little like cider and camping. I breathed deeper. And maybe lightly of peonies. That scent, captured in a symphony, would make listeners feel the same warm comfort engulfing me now.
We broke apart slowly like the last note fading into the air.
“That was nice.” Her candidness was surprising, as she normally seemed so restrained.
I would try the same thing. “It was nice.”
She let out a long yawn. “That was a lovely evening. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. You’re not a prisoner here. We’re helping each other.”
But did she think that? As much as I wanted to use my power to strong-arm her into playing for me, it would never work that way. The choice had to be hers. The music had to come from her.
I’d given her the space earlier. Brought her friends over in hopes of cheering her up. Now, I faced the very real possibility that she might pass on the opportunity. But I had to let her be strong enough to let me down.
The air was heavy, thick like the bellowing notes of an oboe.
She took a deep steadying breath. “Okay. I want to help you.” She filled her diaphragm a second time. “I will do it.”
I didn’t need to ask for clarification. We’d been having the same internal dialogue. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.” Her eyes hardened with resolve.
“Okay. Good.” The words fell painfully flat considering the relief that coursed through me. “I think we’ll do really well together.” I swallowed thickly. “But you have to really want it.”
Her eyes moved around the room and she chewed her bottom lip. Then a decision was made behind those dark eyes. “I do.” She focused on me. “I want it, bad.”
We held each other’s gaze. We were professionals. I was a professional. But that last sentence stayed in my mind long after I took her home, haunting my thoughts as I fought to sleep.
I would not break my music stand on that trombonist’s head. I would not be the devil they painted me to be. I had restraint. I was a professional.
I kicked a chair instead.
My gaze went to the first chair cellist where Carla sat once again. Kim caught my eyes. She frowned and looked quickly away. Shame crept over me. She had to see that they weren’t listening to me. They weren’t respecting me. I needed every note they played to be brilliant, but if the musicians didn’t trust my vision, the symphony would fall flat and the critics would roast me.
They were sloppy and chatty. I didn’t care if it was early Monday morning. We only had so many weeks until our first show together as a symphony. They needed to play better.
“Break for ten. And when we reconvene, I want you all to pretend that this is your career and that you give a shit.”
The room was silent after my outburst. I was working on the bursts of anger. My therapist said outbursts like that would only diminish their respect for me, but I found it therapeutic—and better than violence toward the closest musician. That first chair violinist would snap like a twig if I so much as looked at him too hard. Their eyes were on me as I left the room. I didn’t look at Kim when I passed. As far as I was concerned, she was Christine while we were here, and nothing had changed.
My temper was only increased when Chagny appeared outside the rehearsal room door with a bouquet of flowers and dumbass grin on his face. He stepped slightly in front of me as I left the room.
I looked pointedly at my watch then said, “Chagny.”
“Aren’t you being a little hard on them?” he asked with cool affability.
How much trouble would I be in with Andy-Dick if I punched him in his smug face? I saw right through his nice clothes, styled hair, and manicured hands to the slug underneath.
“Rehearsals are closed,” I said.
He grinned like my silly rules had no control over him. “I’m here to see my dear friend, Christine.”
Since when? I almost spat.
“This is a rehearsal, not the Front Porch on date night.”
He winked. He actually winked at me. My fists balled. I rocked my head from side to side to pop my neck as I took a cleansing breath in.
“I’ll only be a minute.” He clapped me on the shoulder. As if we were fucking pals. “My parents are excited for the showcase. They can’t wait to see this new composer taking the world by storm.”