by Linnea May
“This is a Steinway Concert Grand Model D,” the girl gasps without turning around. Her eyes are glued to the piano lid. “It’s so… beautiful.”
“Isn’t it?” my mother agrees, now walking closer to her.
“You know I took a few lessons myself while I was still at Juilliard,” she says. “But I never came close to being any good. It’s just a hobby for me.”
Miss Hill looks at my mother, her eyes wide with curiosity.
“So it does get played?” she asks.
My mother nods. “I toy around with it once in a while. Just to relax, you know. Always playing the same few melodies. It would be a pity if no one would ever use it.”
The girl nods. “Yes, it would be!”
“Kingston can play, too,” my mother adds, causing all heads to turn in my direction. “He took lessons for a few years while growing up.”
I shake my head. It’s true that I was forced to take lessons as a child, but it must have been years since I touched a piano.
“Nothing to brag about,” I say, trying to divert attention away from me.
My mother smiles at Miss Hill, and I can tell that she’s completely in her element. Ever since my brother and I were young children, she’s been talking about how much she misses the world of the performing arts. She’s always been involved in some kind of fundraising and charity activity to support students of the arts, especially those who - like Miss Hill - don’t have the monetary access to lessons. My father doesn’t support her love for these activities, but there’s very little he can say about it now that her burden as a mother and homemaker has lessened.
“Please,” she says, gesturing toward the piano bench. “Play for us.”
Miss Hill nods, clasping her black folder as she carefully takes her seat on the bench. She places the folder on the music rack and begins to adjust the bench, while my mother beckons for the rest of us to sit down.
Again, I make sure not to sit next to Gloria. I don’t want to deal with her exasperated breaths as she endures Miss Hill’s performance. Until just a few minutes ago, I would have been on the same page as her and have shown equally low interest in this.
But that was before this girl showed up. This sweet, innocent girl who is the complete opposite of the woman I am to marry. She’s raw and pure, incapable of hiding how intimidated she is by this whole situation. Her pale complexion, the chocolate brown hair, and her big green eyes, captured me from the very first moment I saw her.
She’s different.
And I like different.
She’s also as forbidden as can be, because messing around with her could put this entire charade at risk.
And I fucking love forbidden.
She’s taken her seat on the bench and now looks up, those big, beautiful eyes widened in question.
“Start with something simple and familiar,” my mother answers her silent question. “Something classical that would be a good fit for some mellow background music.”
“Debussy maybe?” the girl asks.
“Clair de lune!” my mother completes her suggestion. “That’s a good one.”
Miss Hill nods.
I watch her face as she places her dainty fingers on the keyboard. It’s hard to tell, but I think she lets out a faint sigh as her fingertips touch the keys. I’ve never seen anyone taken by a simple instrument as much as she is right now. It’s hauntingly beautiful to watch.
And sexy as fuck.
It seems she doesn’t need her sheets for that one, as she just starts to play right away. She flinches when the first few very soft tunes echo through the room. As the melody speeds up, she closes her eyes and it seems as if she’s the one following where the song goes instead of playing it herself. Her brown hair falls over her shoulders when she leans forward during the louder middle path and her lips part as if she was singing along. Her expression is so passionate that I cannot help but wonder if that is what she looks like when climaxing.
I want to make her look that way while she’s pinned down beneath my rock-hard body.
My cock needs to knock it the fuck off.
I shift around on my chair, changing my seating position to hide the growing bulge in my crotch.
This is new. You’d think I’m suffering from blue balls, but my encounter with that sexy brunette from the club was not that long ago.
That’s not it.
Yet, I’ve never reacted like this to the mere sight of a woman before. What the hell is happening here?
She doesn’t even look that sexy in a traditional sense. Nothing about her screams sex like it does with the vixen from the club. Her dress looks worn out and I know that neither Gloria nor our mothers would ever want to be seen in something like that. There are even a few threads hanging out at the side right below her arm. I bet she didn’t notice when she put it on before she came here. Her shoes look equally used and are just as much a telltale sign of her poverty as is the dress.
Her makeup is subtle and I’m sure she stepped it up a notch for today. I’m sure her lips are naked and I’m looking at her natural color, as I imagine them wrapped around my hard cock.
Her play intensifies, and she’s long forgotten about our presence in the room. She’s lost in the music, her upper body swaying along with the melody and her eyes are still closed, even at the sections I’d imagine are the hardest to play.
Her fingers remain on the last keys as she ends the song and freezes in a bent-over position, while the last note echoes through the room.
Even when my mother starts the applause and we chime in, the girl doesn’t look up from the piano. Her eyes remain closed for a few more moments, before she finally opens them, casting a dreamy gaze across the piano lid. She almost looks as if she cannot believe that she was the one who just played that melody.
“Beautiful!” my mother praises, while Gloria barely lifts her eyes from her phone.
Finally, Miss Hill looks at us, a shy smile appearing on her face.
“A very common song, though,” Gloria’s father interjects. “Do you have anything more out of the ordinary? More complex?”
She looks at him, quiet for a few moments, as she ponders her reply. Just as she opens her mouth to say something, she’s interrupted by Gloria’s mother.
“Nothing too special, though,” she says. “There’s no need to get too esoteric, we still want people to recognize the music as their own. We’d like to play a few of their favorites.”
She casts her husband a warning look and he shrugs.
“Yes, absolutely,” Miss Hill says. “I have a few pieces in mind that are perfect for a romantic musical accompaniment, such as the 2nd movement of Beethoven’s Pathetique or some of Chopin’s more docile salon pieces.”
“Chopin!” my mother sighs. “Oh, he is one of my favorites!”
The girl’s face lights up.
“Mine, too,” she says. “Personally, I’d suggest some of the Nocturnes - Opus 9 in e-flat major for example - or his preludes in F sharp major, Ab major and maybe even the Db major. Next to his waltzes, which could also be played to-”
“I think we get the idea, Miss Hill,” my father interrupts her. “There’s no need to get too much into the detail. I think Kingston and Gloria should have a say in this, as well.”
He throws expectant looks first at me, then at Gloria, who manages just in time to fake interest in the whole conversation.
“What do you think?” my father asks. “Is there anything in particular you wish to hear?”
I gesture toward Gloria, implying that she should be the first to speak, but she just shrugs her shoulders.
“Classical sounds good, I guess,” she says.
“I could also play John Williams variations or Phillip Glass,” Miss Hill says, trying to catch Gloria’s attention. “To add a modern touch to the repertoire.”
Gloria furls her eyebrows. “Who?”
“Movie composers,” I enlighten her. “Especially Glass, who has written a lot of piano pieces.”<
br />
From the corner of my eyes, I can see Miss Hill nodding.
“I don’t think we want to go in that direction,” my mother interjects, speaking as if we just suggested turning the engagement party into an alternative rock concert. “Just show us a few more of your classical pieces.”
Miss Hill nods quietly and closes her eyes to devote herself to another song.
Chapter V
Elodie
It’s like they’re not even here. While I play on this beautiful piano - a freaking Steinway Model D concert grand piano - I forget everything and everyone else around me. I forget where I am, who’s watching me, and what this whole performance is about.
It doesn’t feel like a performance, or like I have to prove myself right now. Once I start playing, nothing else matters. It’s just me and one of the greatest pianos I have every played on. The sound is out of this world, and I feel as if I’m bathing in the music.
The only thing I cannot block out are his eyes on me. A normal person would let their gaze travel, maybe even close their eyes to suspend the one sense that is utterly redundant, to enjoy a good piece of music.
But he doesn’t.
He’s staring at me nonstop, and it’s the only thing that makes it hard for me to get completely lost in the music, as I usually would.
Yet, I can barely hide my disappointment when Mr. Abrams announces that they have heard enough for today. The family decides that I should create a playlist for the evening that is long enough to fill about three hours. Mrs. Abrams is the only one who adds suggestions to the list, which leaves me pretty much on my own.
“So, you want me to play?” I ask, as everybody is getting ready to leave the room and escort me outside.
Mrs. Abrams turns to me, tilting her head to the side and smiling, as if I’d just asked a very stupid question.
“But of course, dear,” she says. “Why would we not?”
I feel a wave of relief traveling down my spine. Even though I had the bliss of getting lost in the music for the few minutes while I was playing, I sort of took this meeting to be an audition. But Mrs. Abrams is making it sound as if they’d been sure of hiring me even before I showed up today.
“I… er, I just wanted to make sure,” I stutter.
She smiles and places her hand on my shoulder.
“Your play was wonderful,” she says. “And we’re looking forward to having you perform at the engagement party in two months.”
Two months. That’s still so far away. On one hand, it leaves me with a lot of time to prepare, but it also means that I won’t be seeing any money until shortly before my graduation.
Everybody but Mrs. Abrams and her sinfully handsome son has already excused themselves and left the room. As Mrs. Abrams escorts me down the stairs, her son walks closely behind us, looming over us with his tall stature as she raves about her time at Juilliard. It’s obvious that she still feels very connected to our school, even though her time as a student was such a long time ago.
“If you don’t mind,” she says, as we reach the entrance door, “we will have to meet again at least twice before the actual event. Once in about a week to go over the play list for the evening, and another time to further discuss the evening’s schedule. We might have little addresses and such, and the music should be planned accordingly.”
She stops speaking and turns toward her son, who - for whatever reason - is standing right next to us, locking me down with his intense stare and making my insides vibrate with a dangerous desire due to his proximity. I can even breathe in his intoxicating smell.
How can he not be aware of his effect on women? Why is he still here? Shouldn’t he have left with his fiancée?
“Also, Gloria and Kingston might wish to add a little dance,” she says, tilting her head again. “A newly engaged waltz maybe?”
He finally takes his eyes off of me and regards his mother with a polite but distant smile.
“We’ll see,” he says to her, before turning back to me. “How are you getting home, Miss Hill?”
“Oh, I’ll just take the subway, it’s not far,” I hurry to say.
“Nonsense,” he says. “Let me give you a ride home. You live on campus, I assume?”
I hastily shake my head.
“It’s really not far, I can just-”
“Oh, don’t be shy,” his mother says. “Let my son be a gentleman and make sure you get home safely. A young lady shouldn’t be out by herself in the dark in Manhattan.”
What?!
I’m inclined to tell her how ridiculous that sounds to me. She and I live in completely different worlds, and mine certainly doesn’t provide personal drivers or even the possibility to call for a cab whenever needed.
“I was about to drive downtown anyway,” he says. “I can make a little detour to Juilliard.”
Oh, please God no. The thought of being alone with him kills me.
“Really, it’s not-”
But my protest is silenced once again by Mrs. Abrams, who thanks her son for making the offer and opens the door to let us out. We say our goodbyes and I follow him outside, my legs shaking.
It’s become cold outside, and I just now realize that I forgot to bring a cardigan with me to wear over my thin dress. If it wasn’t for him looking and acting the way he does, I would actually be thankful for the ride.
“This is really not necessary,” I repeat, while following him around the house where he heads toward a black sports car.
“If you say that one more time, I’m going to drop you off in the middle of the Bronx,” he says, as he opens the door for me.
I flush as I squeeze past him and my crummy dress skims the expensive fabric of his attire. The contrast between us is so vast, it makes me feel incredibly uncomfortable.
He closes the door behind me and runs around the car to take his seat on the driver‘s side. The awkward flutter I felt while just standing next to him is nothing compared to the way I feel now that we‘re sitting right next to each other, alone, in a confined space. He starts the engine and drives out on to the street, and I realize that I cannot even remember the last time I’ve sat in a car, let alone a car that was driving through Manhattan.
“You really liked that piano, didn’t you,” he says, casting me a quick look from the side.
“It’s a beautiful instrument,” I say. “I barely get to play on a grand piano like that. Even for performance, they barely provide a Model D. They are expensive and rare!”
He chuckles. “I guess so. I have to agree I’ve never spent much thought on it.”
Of course, he hasn’t, and I feel like an idiot for getting so excited about something that means nothing to him. He must think I’m such a nerd.
“You will probably play on the same model during our engagement party,” he says. “Don’t you think it would make sense for you to practice on ours once in a while until then?”
I look at him, my eyes wide with surprise and confusion. “What?”
“I’m sure it could be arranged,” he says, glancing over at me so that our eyes meet for a second.
Damn, he’s handsome. How can a man be so beautiful? Is it the money, his wealth? Am I really that superficial?
No, he’s just that good looking, and he would be even if he was wearing a garbage bag.
“That’s not necessary,” I repeat my mantra from earlier. “We have plenty of pianos at Juilliard and I-”
“I think it would be better if you practiced on ours, in our home,” he says. “You wouldn’t disturb anyone. It’s just my parents who are still living there, and they aren’t home that much. Besides, it’s a big house and the piano hardly gets used. My mother was kind of exaggerating when she said she’d play once in a while. She does it like twice a year, as far as I know.”
My heart sinks at the thought of that. Such a beautiful instrument, and no one playing on it. If I had a Model D in my home, I don’t think I could ever stop playing.
Also, if I had a home like that, I w
ould make sure to spend as much time as possible there. Rich people really don’t appreciate what they have.
“I… really don’t want to impose,” I whisper, clutching my sheets.
The thought of being able to play on this beautiful piano on a regular basis for the next few weeks is almost too good to be true, even if it means having to step inside a world that makes me feel incredibly uncomfortable about myself. But I know none of that will matter once I start playing…
“You’re not imposing,” he insists. “I’m sure my mother agrees that this is a good idea, and my father really doesn’t get much say anyway. They’d be glad to let you practice in their home. I’ll speak to them.”
A heavy lump in my throat prevents me from speaking, or even reacting to what he said. The prospect is too alluring. It flatters and confuses me that he would make this generous suggestion.
“I will need your phone number,” he adds, and my heart jumps.
“Why?”
He laughs. “Because I need a way to contact you to let you know when you can use the piano. We might have to set up a schedule.”
“I’m sure your parents have it.”
“Just to be safe, give it to me, as well,” he insists, nodding toward the glove compartment. “There’s a pen and notebook in there. Write it down.”
My eyes wander back and forth between him and the glove compartment. This feels weird and wrong. Why do I feel like he’s hitting on me? He’s engaged! Am I really that dazed by how handsome he is?
Still, I do as he tells me and leave my phone number, just for him.
End of Preview.
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