I need to stop this. I’m not a mindless teenage girl.
Anyway, this isn’t just about a foolish crush on an older man. I have no time for those. I once read Marek Misiak played piano with the Philharmonic the year I was born. If that’s true, he might remember my mother. And if he remembers her, maybe he can tell me more about her. Most of what I know about her, I’ve learned from Aunt Isabel, but there’s so much missing. Daddy doesn’t speak of her. At first, I thought it was too painful, but I’m beginning to think he hordes those precious memories all for himself. It’s not a deliberate act of cruelty. It’s jealous love.
He wants her all to himself.
As I charge down the steps towards the courtyard, I suddenly remember my cello. My stylist appointment was so close to campus, I left it behind after my afternoon practice. I can’t leave it here overnight. It’s priceless. Maintenance will unlock the practice room and after they leave for the evening, anyone will have access to the hall. That’s too big of a risk with my mother’s cello.
Without missing a beat, I pivot around the trees and rush back up the stairs into the auditorium. I’ll be quick. I just need to grab my cello and head home.
I couldn’t possibly have time for more than a few songs.
Chapter 5
Marek
More than an hour has passed, and my patience has worn thin. Once again, Duncan has failed me. I search for Diego, in hopes of finding an accomplice to help me escape unnoticed but he’s being difficult. I catch him leaning against a roman column wooing the daughter of the mayor and when I make eye contact, he ruthlessly turns his back to me and dismisses my signal. I’m unaccustomed to this level of disrespect. He must be horny. I can understand that. We’re mid-spring. Mating season. Every man for himself.
Fucking Diego. I’ll pay him back.
Another socialite spots me and heads my way. I can’t take anymore useless conversations with these two-dimensional women. If only that cute girl was still here. I can’t believe how quickly she bolted. I can’t remember the last time I was so repellant. Maybe middle school. It had to be those two months in eighth grade, before someone notified me deodorant had become mandatory and acne had set in. A wave of shame hits me and I casually check my arm pits. Jesus, I thought I evolved. Maybe, I’ve sat on my laurels too long and lost whatever mojo I cultivated in my twenties and thirties.
I might be overthinking. I need to get out of here before this ruins my peace for the next week.
Without thought to transition or smoothness, I grab my jacket and head for the door. I’ve had enough. If I make it home in the next thirty minutes, I’ll still have two hours of practice and a chance that inspiration finds me before bed. It’s a slim chance but I’ll take it.
Shuffling through the gardens, I cast my eyes west and see a lonely light lingering in the piano rehearsal room of the university music hall. I know that place well. For years after college, I used that room to rehearse when I lived two blocks away and I preferred composing on their Steinway over the cheap Yamaha I kept in my cramped apartment. I never slept, I hardly ate, resources were thin, but inspiration flowed like a raging river. I miss those days.
I reach for my phone to call my driver, then slide it back in my pocket. Something calls me. A feeling I haven’t felt in ages. Spontaneity. Everything in my life is planned. Maybe, that’s the problem. A sudden surge of adrenaline courses through me and I change trajectories. Instead of heading towards the gates, I rush towards the music hall and pray to God the front door is unlocked. It must be. Someone is inside. The lights are on.
With cat-like stealth and courtesy for whomever might be playing, I push the door open and slink inside. Two steps in and I’m struck by silence. There are two maintenance staff gathered on both sides of the hall leading to the piano room, but neither makes a move to greet me or question my presence. A sudden whisper is hushed. My heavy footsteps are met with disapproving gazes. I recognize this reverence, but I can’t hear anyone playing.
I turn to ask a young man, mouthing the words. “Is someone here?”
He nods, points towards an open door down the hall and then holds a finger over his lips to keep me quiet. I frown.
I’m not a child. I do this for a living.
Suddenly, a bow strikes the G string of a cello with perfect pitch and I freeze. The warm hum instantly fills the silence like a slow-moving tidal wave enrapturing everyone in its wake. I feel paralyzed but I take a step forward, and eagerly follow the sound like a sailor enslaved by a siren’s song. Two more steps and recognition hits me. The song is mine. The player has adapted a piano concerto for cello and made it their own. My jealous soul trembles with anger but the hypnotic melody soothes me, reverberating within as it calls me forward in search of its source.
And just like magic, my muse returns.
My brain buzzes as songs form in my mind. An unfamiliar passion fills my heart and quickens my step. As the crescendo climbs, the faster I step through the hall. The higher it ascends the more desperate I become. Each note they strike is both precise and heavy with a violent chaos I failed to conjure when I set this music to paper. This was the music I wanted to write. These are the notes that swirled in my head but never made it on the page. My lack of talent or skill hindered their creation. I’m too awestruck to feel envy or anger. I need to see the player. I need to cast my eyes on the person creating the most divine music I’ve ever heard.
As my heart pounds ferociously in my chest, I push aside the curtain and feast my eyes on the only face I truly want to see. The girl with no name. My tormentor. My heart soars. With a soul like hers, I don’t care what she looks like, and yet she’s the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen. She’s tiny, childlike. Too small to be holding such a large cello between her legs, but the vision sets my mind reeling with the filthiest thoughts I’ve had in years. When she reaches the highest note, I accept my fate. I know what I want. My soul surrenders to its mate. I’m in love. Anyone that can wield such perfection has been sent by heaven for me to worship until my dying breath.
All my life, I convinced myself true perfection was an illusion. I told myself my mastery, my talent and my creativity were enough.
Everyone told me they were enough.
Now, I know they were wrong. I was wrong.
This is true perfection. The echoes of angels. The only music God would allow in his presence. Never have I heard any man or woman work the strings of a cello with such exquisite finesse, such flawless, sublime magic that my heart instantly recognized this creature was sent from heaven to destroy and remake me into whatever they willed.
When she sees me standing at the door enraptured and salivating like a voyeur, her eyes flare and she tries to stand. With a nervous step, I hold my palms up and point to a violin nearby. I want to play with her. That sounds as filthy as I mean it. But for now, I want to play music. She understands and nods demurely. In an instant, her previous assertive bearing transforms to the submissive, bashful posture of a teenage girl. She looks young, too young for me, but my heart is set and immovable.
“You played beautifully.” I extend my hand and rake my eyes over the only woman I’ll ever love. Yes, this is love. I feel in every cell of my body. I feel in my soul. This is the girl I’ve waited for all my life.
“Thank you, Maestro.” As her eyes meet mine, pools of dark caramel drag me into the abyss, smother me and hopelessly brand me as their slave. No one has ever had this effect on me.
“Please, call me Marek and please, tell me your name.”
She smiles and for the first time in my life, everything before me is clear. My life finally makes sense.
“My name is Aria.”
Nothing will ever be the same again.
Chapter 6
Aria
Like something out of a fantasy, Marek Misiak, the maestro of the New York Philharmonic, sits down, places a violin at his chin and begins playing a duet with me. Despite my shock, there’s no hesitation. We launch together and let the
music take us into the unknown. I’ve never played impromptus with anyone. No one could ever keep up. In my wildest dreams, I never imagined they’d feel like this. Wild, reckless and yet flawless in execution.
He lets me lead and follows close as if he reads my mind. Our eyes lock. Our timing, our rhythm, our strings, our bows slash back and forth, until our harmony melds into something magical and unimaginable. Each note extends into a melody of otherworldly music that swirls in my brain and wrecks me with its beauty.
Every few beats we catch our breaths and the passion flowing through his hands drifts into my heart. Is this lust? I’ve never felt anything like this. The longer we play, the thicker the air grows with an unfamiliar desire that stifles my breath, tightens my nipples and dampens my core. But we sore higher and higher. By the time we reach the crescendo, my heart feels like it may thump straight out of my chest. My mouth waters, then slacks. In the middle of a magnificent decrescendo of orgasmic proportions, he kicks out his chair, sets his violin down, throws off his jacket and marches over.
My jaw drops as my bow falls to my side. “Maestro...”
Without asking, he reaches for the neck of my cello, lifts it and gently sets it to one side. “I said to call me Marek.”
“Marek.” I whisper, too stunned to say anything else.
He raises an eyebrow and extends his hand, gesturing for me to hand him my bow. I quickly comply and he sets it down next to the violin.
I’m not sure what happens next. Nothing is said. Is something said? No, no words are spoken. There’s an ache, a growl, then his arm grips my waist and winds my dangling legs around his back. I tremble in his grasp then melt as his hands smooth down my back and sink into the curve of my ass. This feels wrong in all the right ways and right in all the wrong ones. But I say nothing. I let his mouth find mine as his teeth graze ever so slightly against my bottom lip.
“Where did you come from? Where have you been?” His deep voice slays me, further weakening my resolve before his lips crash down and seal us in a hot blistering kiss that makes me forget I’m kissing a man old enough to be my father. I should stop him. We hardly know one another. We played together. That’s all. We composed an impromptu. It was magical and moving. Beautiful.
Wait, what?
As my brain churns out cons that morph into pros, something stiff digs into my thigh and I almost lose my train of thought.
“I’ve been here.” I whimper against his lips as he walks us towards the door to close it.
He shakes his head. “No, you haven’t. You’ve been hiding from me. Don’t ever hide from me again. I can’t bear it.” With his lips sealed to mine, he slams me against the wall, slinks his hands beneath my dress and yanks my panties off in one tear. I gasp, melting into his embrace, his scent, and hurdling into the forbidden without a care in the world until his hand cups my dripping sex and I freeze.
Oh, no! What am I doing?
“Marek, I can’t. Not here. Not like this. I’ve never done this before.”
Chapter 7
Marek
“Done what?” I gaze into her wide eyes as my hand slides into her slick folds. The warm fluid coats my fingers and my heart flutters even as it sinks. She’s a virgin? How is that possible? Did I just rip the panties off a fucking virgin?
Jesus Christ, I’m going to hell.
But not before I spend my life worshipping this beautiful girl. She’s mine. All mine. I’m never been more certain of anything in my life.
“This. I’ve never done any of this.” Her breath catches as I stroke her clit, drawing out this moment a few seconds longer.
I’m normally not a weak man. But I've never felt like this in all my forty-two years and my strength of character has fled. When a sweet moan escapes her puffy lips, I guide a trembling finger into her gushing slit, push it inside and imagine my tongue is in its place.
“Were you waiting for me?” That’s such a cocky thing to say, but this feels fated. I’m certain something’s brought us together.
Unbelievably, she nods. “I think so.”
Her soft sigh sinks into my soul and my lips fall on hers, devouring her with a reckless kiss that steals her breath and makes my hard cock strain against my trousers as it fights for release. She’s mine and she’s right, this is no place to make love. Not this first time.
“Let me take you home, angel.” I whisper as I begrudgingly slide her down the wall. The last thing I want to do is stop but the sooner I get her home, the sooner we can start the rest of our lives. We don’t know one another, but that makes no difference. This is destiny. This is a once in a lifetime love and we’ll have the rest of our lives.
“Home? My home? No, you can’t take me home. I’m sorry. I need to go.” She yanks her dress down, ducks under my arm and rushes to store her cello.
Confused, I follow and kneel next to her. “What’s wrong? If you’re not ready, we can wait. I just want to see you home. Have I upset you?” I’m too lovestruck to understand what’s happening. Surely, she’s not trying to get away. We’re soul mates. We’ve found our other halves. This is the greatest thing that’s ever happened to me. She couldn’t possibly think this is a one-time fondling in the middle of Columbia University!
“Maestro...Marek... I’m sorry. I need to leave. This was lovely, and I’ll never forget this night, but I can’t see you again.” She shoots up, frantically fastens the cello to her back, wipes a stray tear and races out of the room.
My brain explodes. My heart breaks. I rush through the door and charge into the hall after her. When I catch up, I reach for the strap on the back of her cello but miss and fall against the tile floor. Like a pathetic man, I fake an injury to curry sympathy but she it doesn’t work
“I’m sorry, Marek! I won’t forget you. I promise.” Her tearful voice cracks as she storms away.
Forget me? What? I scramble to my feet and chase her into the garden. She’s nowhere in sight. That’s impossible. She couldn’t have gone far. With panic in my heart, I listen for footsteps. Some women are walking in the distance. She’s not among them. I march towards the quad but seconds later, I hear a car door slam. Frantic and heartsick, I race towards the sound but I’m too late. I reach the sidewalk just in time to watch a cab pull away from the curb and Aria’s diminutive figure, obscured by the giant cello sitting next to her, grow distant as it rolls into the night.
What the hell am I going to do? I don’t even know her last name.
For a moment, I contemplate chasing the cab. It’s futile, I’m not fast enough to catch it, but it’s a grand romantic gesture that might convince her to stop. Like a fool, I second guess myself. I’d look like a psychopath and scare her off for good. What if I’m hit by oncoming traffic, spend months in a coma and she marries someone else?
Defeated and lovesick, I fall into a bench and feel my heart ruthlessly clench until my eyes mist for the first time in years. One by one, tears trickle down my cheeks and I let them fall as I remember the sweetest night I’ve ever known. I’ve never felt this way. I’ve never loved anyone. Music was the only thing that shook life into my heart and made me feel alive. But Aria is my music. I won’t give up what I found.
I take a deep breath and bring my palms to my forehead. The scent of Aria’s sex shocks my senses and brings back vivid memories of the last hour. The sound of her cello, the look in her eyes, the passion that flowed between us while we composed something from nothing. I can still taste her lips and feel her warm body molded to mine.
This is bullshit. What am I doing? Why am I sitting around?
I jump out of my seat and scold the air with her torn panties in my fist. “Aria...whatever your name is...you’re not getting away little girl! You’re mine! I don’t care if I need to turn this fucking city upside down. I’ll find you, drag you away like a brute and never let you out of my sight again!”
Chapter 8
Aria
“Aria, what’s the matter with you? Mija, you haven’t touched a thing on your plate.
” Daddy lectures me as he wolfs down his breakfast and eyes my pancakes. I push them over and pick off bits of a croissant.
“I said I wasn’t hungry. I woke up early and microwaved some oatmeal.” I cringe. That’s a half-truth. I made oatmeal, but it’s still sitting in my sink. I have no appetite.
I’ve been up since 3:00am, after crying myself to sleep well past midnight. The only reason he can’t tell my eyes are swollen is because he never pays close attention to anything about me. He can’t look too closely at my face. I look too much like my mother.
While a server refills his cup of coffee, he glances at his watch. “Listen... mi reyna, I have a week of meetings in town, then I’m off to Madrid for a week, then I fly home to Mexico City. Why don’t you come with me for the summer? We never spend any time together and I’d like you to learn more about the business.”
My heart sinks. If I leave, I can’t take my mother’s cello. He doesn’t know I have it. He left it with Aunt Isabel, and she gifted it to me years ago. If I leave, I can’t practice, I can’t play and if I can’t play, I’ll die a little each day.
I take a deep breath, exhale slowly and contemplate each word exiting my mouth. I hate lying to my father. I’ve gotten good at it over the years, but it tears at my heart each time I do it.
“Daddy, I signed up for a summer seminar that starts in a couple of days. I thought you’d want me to finish early.” I sigh and slink a little into my chair. I’m such a jerk. Why can’t I just come clean?
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