Downbeat (Biting Love)

by Hughes, Mary

  Then the man himself entered. All eyes swung to him, instantly, helplessly—and I realized See-Sucks wasn’t even in the same universe.

  Six foot five inches tall, sheer muscular elegance in black-on-black, Dragan Zajicek gathered our eyes like an event horizon sucked up galaxies. Glossy ebony hair with one dramatic river of silver flowed past his collar. Jet brows slashed over brilliant black eyes. Strong cheekbones and a sharp jaw combined with a blade of a nose and sculpted lips into a face that was classically handsome, almost beautiful.

  In pictures, Zajicek was so good looking he made my eye teeth hurt. In person he made my chest hurt, because I’d stopped breathing.

  I knocked a fist into my breastbone and sucked in air.

  Then he moved across the room. His elegance was sharpened by a fierce energy, like an apex predator. He was so outrageously sensual, so irresistibly compelling, that if it was the only way to make him touch me, I’d have done the puddle and coat thing with my body.

  After a moment’s stunned silence, we applauded like madmen. In that instant if Zajicek wanted us we’d have been his forever, despite Hugo Banger’s hundred years.

  Zajicek vaulted onto the podium with athletic grace, displacing Kevin with sheer presence. His dark eyes swept over the orchestra like a rapier. He held up one long-fingered hand. There was instant silence, so quiet I could hear my heart hammer.

  “Greetings. We have much work to do. We’ll start with ‘Appalachian Spring’ after tuning. Mr. Obois?”

  Peter gave the A and the woodwinds started to tune. As we matched our As to Peter’s, Zajicek’s head tilted slightly and his dark eyes sharpened, as if he could hear each individual player and was judging their sound, tone and technical ability just from that A.

  I barely kept myself from freaking. Hugo hardly heard the melody. I was used to getting away with a few wrong notes in the general cacophony. Not Zajicek. It was almost intimate, how closely the man listened.

  But he didn’t comment. Nothing, not even a wince when the brass joined the tuning a quarter step flat, the musical equivalent of merging into traffic in clown cars. He simply tilted his elegant dark head and listened.

  After we had all tuned (more or less), Zajicek took up his baton, the white stick as slender and graceful as the man himself.

  But before he raised it, he paused. His dark eyes pierced the air over my left shoulder. I glanced back. Bertram Bosun, our principal bassoon, was fumbling through his folder. Reading Bertie like a score, Zajicek said, “Can’t find your part, Mr. Bosun?”

  “Um.” Bertie clutched his bassoon and turned red. “Yes. I mean…no.”

  Zajicek’s head swiveled to Lila Urtext, fourth-chair cello and also our librarian. Zajicek’s features in profile were even more compelling, acid-etched marble, his black gaze sharp as a bayonet. I hoped like hell that gaze never skewered me. “Ms. Urtext. Find another part for Mr. Bosun, if you would.”

  Lila jumped out of her chair so fast her cello went diving. Fortunately her stand partner was Mr. Miyagi, martial arts teacher in nearby Meiers Corners—and yes, he’s a double for Pat Morita (my small town rocked coincidence like Cabot Cove drew murders). He had the reflexes of a cat and snagged the cello before it smashed into pricey kindling.

  Wow. When Hugo asked for music, Lila cracked her gum and told him all the parts had been handed out, and if some people lost theirs it wasn’t her problem. For Zajicek I got the feeling Lila would copy out another part by hand if she had to. Using her own blood as ink. She found the bassoon part and waved it at Zajicek, her face lit with a brilliant smile like a good little girl who’d eaten all her peas and expected a treat. Zajicek inclined his head and Lila’s smile dazzled, as if she’d gotten the best treat in the world.

  When Bertie and Lila were both settled, Zajicek lifted his baton. An all-embracing sweep of his black gaze gathered our eyes up to him. We waited, our breath and very hearts in his fine hands, ready to leap to our deaths if he bid it.

  He gave the downbeat.

  Normally we crank out the first note of a rehearsal like a car grumbling to life on a sub-zero morning. We putter along well enough once we get going, melody recognizable, harmonies not so much.

  But with Zajicek, the violas and second violins sang that first note perfectly together. When Doreen joined them, she twined in like a lover. In successive miracles, every entrance was clean and beautifully balanced.

  Zajicek pulled music from us. We played better than ever before, better than we knew we could, swept along in a tide of almost perfect music.

  Magic. That’s the only word that comes close. From our dross he spun emotional gold using only his fine hands. We responded with everything we had, everything we were.

  By break time, I was emotionally and physically exhausted. I stumbled out to the drinking fountain. Peter stumbled out after me. We rehearsed in the basement of a church, in the fellowship hall under the nave. The fountain and restrooms were in a back hallway under the chancel—nave and chancel being church-speak for auditorium and stage.

  I took a small drink, then stepped back to let the rest of the inevitable line have their sip.

  There was only Peter.

  I peeked through the doorway at the rehearsal room. All the chairs were empty.

  The orchestra, and I mean the entire orchestra, had swarmed Zajicek. The only reason I knew he was at the center of that brightly chattering horde was because he was so incredibly tall. His dark head with that distinctive silver lock floated well above the multicolored sea.

  Peter peeked in beside me. “Quite a mob. Zajicek must have a magnetic personality.”

  “Well, blood has iron.”

  “Not what I meant.” Peter returned to the water fountain with the shot glass he used to keep his reeds wet and dumped the old water out. “Why aren’t you among the admiring flock?”

  “With my timid personality? I’d be trampled before I could even get close.” I turned the fountain on for him.

  He stuck his shot glass under the stream. “You’re fearless enough when you play.”

  “Sure, because it’s my job. All principal flutes must have labia of steel and clank when they walk. But you know me. In real life I’m so much a wallflower I have wallpaper paste on my behind and light switches for teeth.”

  A bubble popped out of the boiling mob—Doreen. Her hair was mussed, her face flushed, and her sweater’s neckline was pulled oddly out of shape. She made a beeline for the drinking fountain and gulped greedily for a full minute before coming up for air. “Damn. That man makes my undies vibrate.”

  “Did you get to talk with him?” Peter asked with almost puppy-like eagerness.

  Doreen snorted. “I wish. No, the Wicked Witch got there first.”

  The Wicked Witch was Wendy Wagner, our associate concertmaster, or to the rest of the world, second chair violin. She claimed to be a descendant of the Wagner—Richard Wagner of the four-opera Ring cycle fame, fifteen hours of screeching sopranos straining to be heard over heavy brass—and boasted she’d inherited his talent. Hopefully she meant his musical talent, since he also had a knack for womanizing and being in debt. Wendy made no secret of the fact that she thought she should be first chair, going so far as to soap Dr. Vilyn’s bow—with Lava.

  “I wanted to get Zajicek’s autograph.” Doreen held up a felt-tip pen. “But the Wicked Witch zipped in on her broom, followed by every other first-circle string. They coated him like plastic wrap. Then the second stands double-locked him. We poor wind players didn’t stand a chance.”

  “Where’s your paper?” I took off my eyeglasses and polished them on my shirt tail.

  “Paper?”

  “For Zajicek’s autograph?”

  “Oh, paper.” Her face reddened and she tugged her sweater neckline up. “Um, left it on my chair.”

  “I’d like his autograph too.” Peter stuck his reed in his mouth and sucked water thoughtfully. “Maybe after rehearsal.”

  “Good luck.” Doreen took another drink
. “That mob’s wrapped him like a cocoon. He’ll be immobilized for months.”

  Peter’s eyes widened. “Unless he takes the cocoon with him.”

  I perched my glasses on my nose.

  The mob was moving our way.

  “Scheiß,” Doreen breathed. “He’s coming here. He’s coming to talk to us.”

  “Not us,” Peter said.

  “He’s headed straight for Rocky.”

  Chapter Two

  “Me?” I said. “No way. Conducting’s thirsty work. Zajicek probably just wants a drink.”

  “He’s not looking at the water fountain.”

  “No?” My heart palpitated. It did seem that his black gaze was sort of aimed in my direction. Like a laser is “sort of” a flashlight or a saber is a “sort of” a butter knife. “No. Oh no.”

  “Oh my God, yes.” Doreen nudged me. “Here he comes. Talk to him.”

  “Talk?” I squeaked. My bucket crush, once safely taped inside my locker, had somehow leaped down and was sweeping toward me like a lava flow—smoldering hot and sucking oxygen. “Like sentences? With, like, words? No way. I can’t.”

  The neck of the hallway packed the approaching ring of players together, five lanes of Chicago rush hour narrowed to one. My clenched muscles relaxed. No way Zajicek would get through that diamond-tight lattice of bodies.

  With a wave of his long-fingered hand he cracked the mob open and strode out.

  My feet automatically backed away. As he stalked forward I shimmied back…and hit the drinking fountain. His lithe body loomed over me and his dark stare pinned me in place. I couldn’t move, not even to breathe.

  “Ms. Hrbek.” Zajicek’s deep tones were as smooth as basswood honey, his words flavored with an Eastern European accent. Saying my name, he made my undies vibrate.

  “Yes, sir?” I squeaked, trembling, anxious. He was giving me epilepsy just by talking to me. If he were here to criticize my playing I’d curl up like a pill bug and die.

  The Wicked Witch swooped between us. “Maestro? Would you like some water? I’ll hold the handle.” She bumped me out of the way with one hip, like being whapped with a sand bag.

  “I am not thirsty, Ms. Wagner.” Said in his dark, purring voice, Zajicek made “thirsty” sound like a bedroom word. “But thank you for asking.”

  Wendy frantically fanned herself.

  Zajicek returned his piercing gaze to me. “Ms. Hrbek. I understand you reside in Meiers Corners.”

  His words barely filtered through the buzz in my ears. “Y-yes, sir.”

  “I know Meiers Corners, Maestro,” Wendy said. “I can help with whatever you need. Whatever.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Wagner.” Zajicek gave her a short bow, very old-world. Then he waved her aside with one hand, shifting her with personality and air pressure, and slid in so close I could feel the heat of his body and smell the exotic spice of his skin. His eyes held mine captive. “But I am sure Ms. Hrbek will be sufficient for my…needs.”

  Yikes. Talk about suggestive. My skin prickled as I broke out in a sweat so hot my eyeglasses steamed up. I jerked them off and polished them again.

  “What needs are those, Maestro?” Wendy cooed. Okay. We all thought it, but only Wendy had the gall to say it. She shoved in front of Zajicek, never mind that he was toe-to-toe with me. I got a gut full of elbow and a mouthful of hair.

  Zajicek’s gaze drilled through the Wicked Witch as if she didn’t exist. She deflated and slunk off. He said to me, “Perhaps it would be better to discuss this later.” His voice was soft as a promise. “Alone.”

  I melted into a puddle of goo. “Um, sure?”

  He inclined his head, that elegant nod, spun and strode back into the rehearsal room.

  The orchestra bleated and jumped to follow. In their hurry, they tangled arms, feet and instruments. Finally Dr. Vilyn pushed Wendy aside and strutted to his chair. Wendy shoved everyone else out of her way and humphed after. One by one the orchestra unknotted and returned to their places. I waited until everyone else was seated to find my own chair. All that hot innuendo had cooked my legs to limp noodles.

  I put my glasses on. They felt like Dali watches melting onto my cheeks.

  The rest of the rehearsal went by in a blur. I played okay, but only because I’d practiced enough years that the finger waggling and blowing was automatic.

  At the end, Zajicek gave the orchestra another of those old-world bows. “Thank you all for a productive two hours.”

  We all wondered how he made “productive” come out sounding like “sex”.

  “Next week we will start with the Prokofiev Symphony No. 1. The Classical. Please be ready to begin promptly at 7:30. Good evening.”

  Then he stiffened. In the doorway behind his shoulder, movement flickered, a woman with a cornucopia of cleavage and a roaring waterfall of black hair, as insanely gorgeous as Zajicek was handsome.

  I knew her. Camille.

  Owner of several drug and sex dens, she’d tried to corrupt my hometown. She aimed greedy green eyes at Zajicek, as if she were a cat and he was cream she’d like to lick up.

  Deep inside me, something stirred. Something like never.

  I shook my head, confused.

  Zajicek turned to go and locked eyes with her. He nodded toward the exit, a nonverbal “meet me outside”, but his grimace said that whatever he was planning to do with her, it wasn’t a pleasure tryst.

  Then he disappeared.

  Not disappeared as in an athletic jump off the podium and out the door. Gone, as in “poof”. As if the orchestra was under a collective spell and when we came out of it, it was a dream.

  Camille was gone too.

  “Um…I did see him, right?” Peter blinked at the empty podium. “I wasn’t hallucinating Dragan Zajicek conducting us?”

  Doreen took a deep breath. “No. We all saw him. And felt him. Rowr.” She loosened her ligature and dealt with her reed.

  “Well.” Peter shook his head and started packing up his oboe. “I knew from his recordings that he’s an amazing musician. But I don’t think I’ve ever seen better conducting.”

  “He does have good stick technique,” I said.

  Both Peter and Doreen choked.

  “Er…I meant baton technique.” That didn’t seem any better. I hid my red face by grabbing my case from under the chair.

  “Coward.” Doreen disassembled her A clarinet and started swabbing it. “I wonder where he’s going to meet you.”

  “Wait, what?” I jerked straight.

  “Right.” Peter’s eyes widened. “He had something to discuss with you, Rocky. Alone.”

  “Oh, I’m sure…it’s not…he took off already. He probably forgot all about it.” I thrust the cloth-covered rod into my flute and swabbed so fast I scrubbed off a layer of metal.

  “He doesn’t look like the kind of man to forget anything.”

  He didn’t, but he also didn’t look like the kind of man who could possibly want anything to do with dowdy Rocky Hrbek. “He probably realized he made a mistake.” I packed my flute in its case and clicked the case shut. “Whatever he wants, he’ll get Wendy to help him. Or the Meiers Corners hausfraus in the second violin section.”

  “He does have a reputation with the ladies.” Doreen stopped swabbing to stare at the doorway and sigh.

  “Mmm,” Peter said. “Not just ladies. Fast women, fast men, fast cars. He’s a bad boy, our Maestro Zajicek.”

  “All of which are not me.” I slid flute case, purse and music folder into my Altiere bag, hoisted it onto my shoulder and stood. “See you guys next week.” I joined a couple of brass players headed out into the warm October night.

  Now to find my car.

  See-Sucks rehearsed in the Old Red Church, aka Faith Presby, located in Redfox Village, a suburb of Chicago near Naperville. While big-league symphonies practice in their own rehearsal halls and regional orchestras often anchor local performance centers, we gave performances wherever we could. One time we played at a nursi
ng home. We did the “1812 Overture”, complete with cannons (percussion section shooting blanks into garbage cans). In our defense, none of the heart attacks in the audience were fatal.

  But my car… Old Red, built in the days when people walked to service, had a tiny two-car lot. Neighborhood garages were one-car so the street was always parked up. I’d left my car five blocks away. I started forward.

  The sidewalk was as old as the church, with slabs like an orthodontist’s worst “before”. I watched my feet on the uneven walkway as I navigated. At least it wasn’t winter, when I’d be skirting ice as well.

  “May I accompany you, Ms. Hrbek?”

  I jumped and nearly tripped. Zajicek caught my wrist to steady me. His fingers were long and slender but amazingly strong—and fiercely warm. Like iron filings to a magnet, my skin aligned instantly to him. Hot sensation juddered through me, knocking me even more off balance. I scrambled to regain my equilibrium, only to have my feet scud into one of the semi-vertical sidewalk stones. My flute bag slipped off my shoulder and nosedived into the crook of my arm, yanking me sideways. I went down.

  Powerful arms wrapped around me and saved me from severe pavement burn. The arms were gentle righting me, and I stood in their comforting embrace a moment to get my breath back. A strong heart beat under my cheek. My palms pressed against warm, crisp cotton. The body under the cotton was a solid, cloth-covered cliff, so unlike my own soft limbs. I shivered.

  “Are you all right, Ms. Hrbek?” Zajicek’s deep honeyed tones, tinged with amusement, came from somewhere over my head.

  “Huh?” Not the snappiest of rejoinders but I was cheek-to-massive-chest with Dragan Zajicek, the posterboy I’d had the hots for half my life.

  He was definitely not pasteboard now. The longer I stood there the more I felt. Every ridge of his taut abdomen, the roped muscles of his long thighs, the poke of his belt buckle; they all became alarmingly three-dimensional. His warm breath stirred my hair. Something else stirred too, at hip level…and silent laughter rippled through him.