He nods and shoves a huge helping of banana walnut pancake into his mouth. Why is this man so thin? “No, that’s for the best. The sooner you finish with school, the sooner you can take over the American side of the business. Your cousin Armando is doing a good job, but he’s a Segovia, not a Romero. A Romero should be at the helm.” He winks and calls a passing server for the check.
On our way out the door, he gives me a kiss on the cheek and makes a suggestion. “I’m on my way to Lincoln Center. I have a meeting with the board of directors about this year’s funding. Why don’t you come with me? I’ll bet you the orchestra is rehearsing. You might have a chance to watch.”
“What?” The acid and bile that’s churned in my stomach since the middle of the night rushes through my esophagus and reaches my throat. I slap a hand to my mouth, dart back into the restaurant, clip a passing waiter and charge into a bathroom stall. Without locking the door, I fall to my knees, hug the throne, and let her rip. Fortunately, my stomach is nearly empty, and my torment is quick.
“Sweetheart? Are you okay?” A passing woman sees my sneakers jutting out from the stall and taps me gently.
“I think so. Thank you.” She’s was surely a tourist. A fellow New Yorker would have kicked my shoe for blocking her path.
Too dazed to care that I’m sitting on a gross bathroom floor, I try to calm the beat of my racing heart. Lincoln Center? No, I can’t go there. Marek’s there. It’s too soon. He hasn’t had time to forget me. How can I face a man who had his hand on my privates? On my shamefully wet privates.
And dear God, he still has my underwear!
What if Daddy insists? I need to come up with an excuse. I’m sick. Yes, I’m sick. Stomach flu.
When I stumble out, Daddy is waiting. “Aria? Are you hungover? Is that why you weren’t hungry?” He narrows his eyes in fatherly judgement.
My mouth falls open. “Pardon?” I’m offended. He knows I never drink.
“Well, young lady?” He taps his foot and crosses his arms at his chest. Pancake syrup lingers by his mouth and I consider saying nothing to make him look foolish at his meeting.
“I don’t drink. You know I don’t drink. I think I’m coming down with something. But thank you for your concern.” I turn my head and huff. He's lucky I didn’t inherit his penchant for drinking. Hypocrite. He’s the reason I need to be careful.
“Sick, huh?” He feels my forehead with his sticky hand.
“Dad!”
“You feel warm.” He takes his phone out and escorts me to his waiting car. “I’m taking you to your Tia Isabel’s place. She can take you to the doctor and watch you until you’re better. I don’t need you getting that thing that’s going around.”
He pushes me into the car, and we speed off towards Central Park. I’m confused. I don’t know what’s happened. I’m not sure what thing is going around, and I have no idea when they’ll let me go home.
But thank goodness he’s not taking me to Lincoln Center.
Chapter 9
Marek
“Diego, take over. I’ve had enough.” I toss my baton on the floor and storm out of the rehearsal hall. Two hours listening to slightly better than average musicians squeak out one of the greatest masterpieces Beethoven ever composed and my nerves are shot to pieces. It’s obscene that they should subject me, the whole of New York, our patrons, season ticket holders, and tourists to this level of mediocrity simply because they can’t put in the level of dedication required for their positions. I’m not going to stand for it.
Jesus Christ, where the hell is she?
There are no music students named Aria matching her description attending Columbia University. I doubled checked with every other city university and college in New York and then cross-referenced the entire tri-state area and can’t locate this girl. It’s unbelievable. Was she a ghost?
No, I still have her panties in my pocket.
Someone needs to know who she is. How can she do this to me?
There’s a quiet tap at my door. “Maestro?” It’s Diego.
I clench my fist and gnash my teeth. “Why aren’t you at rehearsal? We have another hour.”
He tiptoes in and hands me my baton. “I let them go early. People were too upset to continue. A few women and two men left in tears. They’re not used to being berated quite so much. I mean, they’re accustomed to your harsh tone and manner, we all are, but I don’t think you realized how over the top you were today.” His eyes shift awkwardly from side to side as he waits for me to speak.
He’s right. I was unnecessarily abusive but I’m in no mood to admit the reason behind my contemptible behavior. I spent most of the morning pulling out my hair searching for what I can only hope is a girl of legal age, who stole my heart and left me like a thief in the night with a raging hard on and shredded lacy underwear I wore over my eyes all night. I haven’t touched my piano. As soon as my bow struck my violin, I broke out into a fit of tears that continued for more than ten minutes. These are not details that need to be shared.
“Please apologize for me. I’ll do it myself tomorrow. These deadlines are causing more stress than I anticipated.” I refrain from eye contact. Diego is a good friend and doesn’t deserve dishonesty.
“Of course, Maestro.” He hesitates before he continues. “Duncan asked to see us. He asked Bernice to call you to the boardroom, but since I was on my way to see you, I said I would do it myself.”
I frown and whine. “What? Why now? Didn’t we do enough yesterday?”
He shrugs. “Señor Romero is here. You snuck out before you had a chance to kiss his ass last night.” He laughs and gestures for me to follow him.
“And you? Didn’t you do the honors?” I push him forward as he walks.
“No. I snuck out right after you. The mayor’s daughter had her father’s limo and desire in her heart. She’s quite the music lover.” He wags his eyebrows and presses the button on the elevators.
“What about you? Did the great Maestro find someone to keep his bed warm?”
I groan and wait for the doors to open. “Oh, shut up.”
“Marek!” When the doors fly open, Duncan greets us with open arms and Edgar Romero by his side. Tall, dark and smooth, we met when he played cello for the London Symphony. He and his wife played for the Philharmonic shortly after they were married and up until her untimely death. It was tragic. She was a lovely girl. My mind drifts to her face and a pang of familiarity stings my heart.
“Maestro, so good to see you again.” He gives me a firm handshake then turns to greet Diego in Spanish. They converse briefly while Duncan and I stare helplessly lost and ignorant before they return to our world.
“Thanks for coming to see me before I leave, Maestro. I’m looking forward to your new symphony this summer. This is fortuitous. I’m coming back in July to visit my daughter. She’s a sophomore at Columbia and taking a summer class. Poor thing works so hard.” He laughs and pats Duncan on the back.
“Jesus, your daughter’s a sophomore in college. Now, I really feel like an old man. I remember the day Anna brought her into rehearsal to show her off. She couldn’t have been more than six months.” The vivid memory pulls a heartstring I can’t touch and something visceral ignites.
Edgar’s face lights up. “Of course! You knew my Anna! Oh, my sweet Anna. Aria was the light of her life. She hated going anywhere without her.” He stops to hold back the flood of emotions.
“Aria?” My eyes grow twice their size.
“Yes, my Aria’s nineteen now and majoring in Business, but we Romeros can’t escape our love of music. I’m sure she finds time to tickle the ivories.” He winks at Duncan who chuckles with sycophantic adoration.
“Good afternoon, Señores. I’ll take my leave and head to the airport before my assistant reprimands me for being late.” He struts away and I rush into Duncan’s office to use his computer.
“Marek? What are you doing?” He looks at me like I’ve gone mad, but I hold my hand up to stop him
from getting any closer.
“Back off, Duncan. You put me behind schedule, and I need to check on something.” I run a quick search on Columbia’s website. Aria Romero. Business Department. Oh my God, there she is. Aria Romero Segovia, my girl. My beautiful girl. She’s right there on the screen. I found her.
I jump out of Duncan’s chair and race back to my office. On my way there, I touch the panties in my pocket and remember the ugly truth. I met her. I met her when she was a baby. Dark hair and big round hazel eyes, she was one of the prettiest babies I’d ever seen. Her mother wanted me to hold her, but I begged off. I’d never held one before.
Oh my God! Shame, denial, disgust and outrage take up residence in my soul as I stagger through my office door and throw Aria’s panties into the waste bin. I’m the most disgusting man who ever lived. I met her as a baby and last night I held her with her back against a wall and ran my hand through her naked pussy.
My heart breaks. And then those pieces shatter. I can’t continue. I found her and now I’ve lost her again.
Chapter 10
Aria
“Aria, mi vida, wake up. You’ve slept enough.” My aunt swings open the door and barges into my room. Well, it used to be my room. Now, it’s her guest room.
Shocked awake, I shoot up and nearly fall off the bed. “Isabel! I locked that door!”
“I have the key. It’s 8:30. It’s much too late to still be sleeping.” She marches into my bathroom and starts the bath. It’s been over a year since I moved out, but she can’t stop mothering me. The lines will be blurred until the end of time.
I stomp in after her and shut the faucet. “You don’t have to do these things anymore. I’m a big girl. And I locked that door for a reason. You can’t just burst through. What if I was entertaining a gentleman?” I stand a bit straighter and fiddle with the top button on my pajamas.
She guffaws. “You? A gentleman? Don’t make me laugh. Oh, it’s too late. Please, Aria. You have one friend and I don’t think she likes you very much. My room is right next door. We share a wall. If there was a man in here, I would’ve known and if I couldn’t hear you, for the love of God, dump him. A man should make you scream.” She giggles at my expense and leaves the room.
“Scream? What the hell have I been missing?” I trudge back into my room, plop down on the floor and search through the overnight bag Daddy made me pack in a rush. I want to go home. Isabell knows I’m not sick but she’s holding me hostage until Dad reaches Madrid and signs off on an obligatory check-in call.
“Is my sexy niece hungry? Or is she going to wait until lunch to dress?” She pops back in then dodges a flying sneaker I toss her way.
“Cut that out! I’m getting dressed.” After I scrounge up a pair of shorts, a sports bra and tank top, I head into the shower. I’m never living this down.
“So, tell me. Who’s your phantom gentleman?” Isabel pours me a glass of orange juice and tries hard not to smile.
I roll my eyes and hold her hand to keep her from buttering my toast. She’s thirty-nine years old and she acts seventy. “I never said there was a gentleman. I was using a hypothetical situation. You just want to make fun of me.”
She clutches her heart in dramatic offense. “Me? After I raised you? After I found you abandoned and plucked you from a basket by the river?” She giggles and snatches my toast.
“Stop comparing me to Moses. You could have handed me back to Daddy anytime. You love playing the martyr.” I dig into my breakfast, filling my mouth with enough food to keep her from asking further questions.
“You know you want to tell me. Who else are you going to tell?” She smirks.
“He’s nobody. We shared a moment and I ended it. He’s too old for me and a musician. Daddy wouldn’t approve.” I play with my food and try not to look bothered by any of it.
“Oh, Aria. You’re in love. Aren’t you?” She covers her mouth, slumps her shoulders and sighs.
My eyes flare wide. “In love? I said a moment. It was nothing.”
“Who cares what Edgar thinks? Do you think my parents wanted Anna dating a greasy musician?” She wrinkles her nose and waves a dismissive hand.
“He was a cellist.” I stare, confused.
“He wore too much hair product.” She huffs. “You’re nineteen and you’ve always been mature for your age. I know you, muñeca. If you set your sights on someone, it’s for a reason and if you give your heart away, it’s for keeps.” She leans in and gives me a side hug.
“But he’s forty-two. That’s Daddy’s age.” I tuck my chin into my chest and avoid the glare that accompanies her loud gasp.
“Ay Dios mio! ” She makes the sign of the cross.
“Isabel!”
“I’m just kidding. So what? Who cares? Forty-two isn’t old. But why are you dating a forty-two-year old man? Why can’t you date men your own age and leave the hot ones for your poor, decrepit old aunt?” She purses her lips and takes a sip of coffee.
“Decrepit? You’re a cross-fit coach! Stop teasing me and be serious. Would you date a man twenty years older than you?” I slap her arm.
“Hell, no! I’m not dating a man who’s fifty-nine and twenty years from the grave. But forty-two is different. You still get another forty years with this man, maybe more if he’s in good health. Is he in good health?” She raises an eyebrow.
I nod. “Very.”
“I see. Talk to me.” She tilts her head and leans in.
Chapter 11
Marek
I’m a disgusting man.
It’s been less than twenty-four hours since I found her, since I googled her address, stalked her online, discovered she lives just across the park and resides in a far nicer neighborhood. It’s been sixteen hours since I saw my therapist, followed by a priest. I’m not even religious. I just needed a second opinion.
I’ve rapidly tackled the five stages of grief and I circled back to my original conclusion. I accept my fate. It’s unfortunate, a little creepy and gruesome if you take it out of context, but I met her once. I didn’t stay in touch after our fateful meeting nineteen years ago. There was no grooming. I didn’t raise her or date her mother. According to Father Spinelli, the only thing suspect is our age difference and that never truly bothered me anyway. If this was simply someone I wanted to date, I’d forget all about it, but it was more. This is destiny. We were always meant to find each other. I just know it.
You want to know why I know? Because two days ago, I cringed and reprimanded a flutist for sneezing five feet from me and today I wrestled a sanitation worker to the ground, dove into his giant bin of filthy trash and retrieved that girl’s discarded panties like they were the Shroud of Turin. It wasn’t my best moment, but effective, nonetheless.
I’m sitting on a bench facing her brownstone. It’s not brown, it’s white and it’s the prettiest on the block. I knocked once and no one answered. After I peered through the door and lurked through a few of the windows I cursed my luck and came here to wait her out. It’s been four hours. I’ve only left once to use the restroom and I paid a delivery guy twenty bucks to watch the place while I was gone. Ten up front and ten when I returned. I’m pretty sure he played straight with me.
I’m in agony but it’ll be worse if I go home. I have so many questions and I can’t rest until I see her beautiful face and she answers at least one. Why is she a Business major? She’s the most talented musician I’ve ever heard. It makes no sense. People need to hear her gift. It’s cruel to hide it from the world. Even if she won’t have me, even if she casts me aside, I’ll devote my life to make sure everyone hears her music.
That thought feels too cruel. I’ll do right by her, but I need her. I need to be hers. I want to spend all my days and every fucking night loving Aria in every single way you can love a woman. I want to make beautiful music and beautiful babies. I want to see toddlers crawl near our legs while we play, listening to their parents compose lullabies they’ll play for their children. And late at night, I want
to take Aria in my arms and make the sweetest music of all.
Now that I see it in my mind, I can’t give it up without a fight.
When twilight sets in, I glance down the street for any sign of those pretty legs and consider calling it a night. It’s been seven hours. I feel like a fool. The knots in my stomach twist as I think about another day without seeing or talking to her. She needs to know how I feel. Maybe, she left with her father. Did I get the wrong address?
I’ll try again tomorrow.
With an ache in my heart, I bend down to grab my empty coffee cup, the fourth I’ve had since I arrived, and crunch it in my hand. As I walk towards the corner, I spot a fast-moving pair of well-toned tanned legs strut into the cross walk and speed towards the brownstone I’ve been watching all day. It’s Aria. Oh fuck, it’s Aria.
She looks young. Fresh and innocent. Her youthful ponytail flying in the wind makes my cock stand at attention. Almost every inch of her is on display. That tight little body is only marginally hidden by the tiniest pair of blue jean shorts and a blouse that resembles my undershirts. I watch her lithe figure as she walks. Without her heels, she’s more than a foot shorter than me. Without makeup, she looks younger than nineteen, and yet I’m not deterred. My heart won’t tolerate any more objections. I’m burning that outfit later tonight. It’s obscene. Every man on the Upper East Side is getting their fill of my eye candy.
This girl is mine. Mine. Mine. Mine.
As she hops up her steps, I run through the crosswalk, dodge a cyclist and run up behind her. “Aria Romero, explain yourself.”
She twirls around and gasps. “Maestro!”
I take her keys, wind my arm around her waist and crush her body to mine. “I’m not saying this again... call me Marek.”
Maestro Page 3