Vibrato

by Tamara Mataya

  Alex shrugs. “Let’s see how the night plays out.”

  The server arrives with our next round, preventing me from asking what she meant by that. I hope she’s not planning on dragging me to one of those after-hours places again. The sampled strings over the crashing beats depressed me more than made me want to dance.

  When he sets her beer in front of her, Alex pulls the waiter close, whispering something in his ear.

  Ah, now I get it. He’s cute, maybe a bit skinnier than the guys she typically goes for, but definitely not outside her wheelhouse of interest. While it’s one of our last times to hang out, if she made a date for later that’s fine by me. I’m still going to turn the tables a little, though.

  I wait for the server to leave before waggling my eyebrows. “You little minx.”

  Alex stops grinning and tears her gaze from the server’s retreating ass to look at me. “What?”

  “What was that about?”

  Her brow furrows. “What was what about?”

  “Hitting on our waiter? Are you trying to give me a real world example of how it’s done?”

  “I’ve created a monster. I wasn’t hitting on him. I told him to make sure that I got the bill, but the fact your mind immediately dove into the gutter shows how desperately you need to get banged.”

  “I may spend way too much time alone with a stringed instrument, but that didn’t look like ‘I’ll get the tab’ to me.”

  She stands and stretches. “I plead the fifth. I’ve got to hit the ladies room, watch my purse?”

  “Sure.”

  She sashays away, and the difference between us is highlighted again. In another world she’s the conservative musician and I’m the flirtatious girl who goes for the things she wants with no regrets. I don’t sit by the windows playing heartbreakingly beautiful songs written hundreds of years ago. I don’t wonder what it’s like to throw caution to the wind without worrying about what people think. The pressure of perfectionism and expectations don’t nearly break my feet with the weight of every step I take.

  But we’re not in that world.

  And as much fun as I have with Alex, I wouldn’t want her life. I’ve worked too hard for mine.

  I can’t help myself from looking back at Tattooed Guy. He winks at me. I look away as quickly as I can, not wanting to give him the wrong idea. This won’t lead anywhere, but I do sort of like these electric gazes at each other.

  If Alex liked him, she’d strut over there and make conversation, be utterly charming and fun and even leave with him—if she wanted.

  But I’m not Alex, I’m Rachel, so I look away and focus on the framed micro-brewery awards on the wall. Now closer to eleven o’clock, more people stream into the bar, taking up seats, taking up space, taking the quiet atmosphere and charging it to the beat of the faster music chugging through the speakers. I miss the solemn hum of my cello, filling my apartment with only the sounds I create.

  Even that’s changed, now that most of my place is packed up. The acoustics are off, rendering familiar music foreign again in subtle ways.

  How would it feel to kiss a man like Tattooed Guy? Or touch. Or fu—

  “I’m back, what did I miss?” Alex adjusts the strap of her tank top and sits down again.

  “Nothing?”

  “Nothing at all? Not even with your friend over there?” She sips her beer oh-so-casually.

  Prompted, I look over at him again as the waiter sets a full beer on his table. Tattooed Guy raises his beer in a private cheers and winks.

  A shiver runs down my spine. He’s so...brazen.

  Alex cackles.

  That can’t be good. I’m immediately suspicious. “What’s going on?”

  “Seems like the sexy stranger is trying to get your attention.”

  Sure enough, when I look over he gives a small wave. I don’t wave back. “What did you do?”

  She holds her hands up, feigning innocence. “You bought him a drink. Go over there and take credit.”

  Her conversation with the waiter... “Alex! Why would you do that?” I fiddle with my scarf, suddenly too warm with mild mortification.

  “Oh, come on, it’s harmless.” She dismisses my argument, shrugging one shoulder like it’s no big deal.

  “He thinks I like him!”

  “Don’t you?”

  I can’t like someone I don’t even know, even if he is...magnetic. “I—that’s not the point.”

  She sighs, suddenly serious. “Rachel, I created an opportunity for you because I knew you’d never open the door yourself. That’s all it is. You just have to walk through it. What’s the worst thing that could happen if you go and talk to the guy?”

  I raise an eyebrow. “You bought him a drink and said it was from me so I’d go and talk to him?”

  She giggles. “Fine, I’m busted, talk is cheap. I want you to ravage him! I want you to leave this place with a big, dirty fuck you’ll still remember when you’re eighty years old. I know there’s a secret freak in there screaming to come out and play. A lady doesn’t spread her legs that wide on stage for everyone to see if she doesn’t have a wild streak.”

  I close my eyes and shake my head. “I eagerly await the day you run out of cello jokes.”

  “And I eagerly await you getting it on with that scruffy delight of a beefcake. For once in your life experience someone who cares more about your body than your bowing technique.”

  “Hey, I’ve—”

  “Nope. You never follow your baser instincts. For tonight only, be impulsive! Instead of comparing resumes and five year plans, listen to your body and treat him like... like lust is a song you’re playing together. But not overplayed, over-practiced, lifeless notes you know by heart. Spontaneous like jazz.”

  I blot my palms on my jeans. “You know how I feel about jazz. It breaks too many rules that are there for a reason.”

  She stops what was going to be a longer rant with a hand on my forearm. “I’m trying to speak your language. Throw me a bone here.”

  “Is this really that important to you?”

  “It’s...I won’t be there with you in Boston, but I can see how it’s going to go. How it could go. You’re getting the job you want, but maybe it’s a little bland devoting your life so completely to it. We’re young, we’re supposed to be floundering around a bit, screwing up and taking names! Taking names and screwing people. I’d hate for you to be so focused on the end result that your life becomes a means to an end.”

  I didn’t know she was so worried about my goal-oriented nature. Her words should sting, but they resonate more than anything. “Thank you for caring so much.”

  “Someone’s got to be the voice of chaos in your starchy life.” She grins.

  “But there’s no guarantee he’s even interested in me.”

  “Snow White. With a tight ass.” She moves her hands like a conductor drawing the song to a close.

  “Don’t make that my catch-phrase.”

  “You should have business cards made.”

  The thing about Alex is it’s impossible to get mad at her—even when you should be. This time when I sneak a glance, the sexy guy smiles at me, revealing even, white teeth and a dimple on his left cheek. Goddamn, he’s delicious.

  “Careful, Rachel. He might think you’re going steady if you keep looking at him like that. Time to raise the stakes and flash him an ankle.” She clutches fake pearls, acting scandalized.

  “Excuse me, girls, sorry to interrupt,” the waiter cuts off my witty retort.

  “Yes?” Alex trills like she was expecting this all along.

  He leans closer to me and gestures at the stranger “I” bought a beer, who jerks his head up in a nod of recognition. “That gentleman has requested you join him.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  For three shaky inhalations I’m frozen by possibility, by temptation. By the look in his eyes and his sexy mouth.

  I swallow hard. “Please thank the gentleman for his invitation, but tell him we’re
on a girls’ night.”

  “Rachel!” Alex looks like she wants to catapult me into his booth.

  “Thank you,” I say more firmly to the waiter, dismissing him. “You know I can’t, Alex.”

  “I know you should,” she pouts. “Why can’t you?”

  If she knew the conditions I’d agreed to in order to secure my position on the symphony, she’d drop the whole thing. For half a second, I consider telling her, but I’m not supposed to say anything. I trust her to keep my secret, but honestly, I don’t want her to know, and there’s a good chance if she did know, she’d encourage a one-night fling even more. So I give her another reason I can’t. “Let’s say I go over and talk to him and he’s not a complete jerk. Maybe he’s even interested in me.” And we go to his place and have amazing sex that blows my mind and changes me into a wilder version of myself. Unlikely. I shake my head. “Then what?”

  She snaps her fingers and waggles her head. “Then you leave here with a spring in your step and a twinkle in your eye.”

  “No. Because even if I want those things to happen? They won’t. It sets me up for disappointment. It kills the fantasy. Sometimes the not knowing is better. I can pretend he’s the best ever.” I won’t know what I’m missing. “I won’t be disappointed.”

  “Admitting you’re interested is the first step. Maybe in another hour, you’ll be strutting over there...” She trails off and I follow her stare to his table where a woman is sliding into the place next to him with a giant smile. Her tank top is dangerously low cut, jeans painted on, but she looks completely in her element, breezy smile on her glossy lips. He doesn’t object to her presence.

  “Right. And I’m supposed to be his type?” Obviously he isn’t that sad about my refusal, because he nods and smiles at the woman, not removing her hand when it wanders up his shoulder.

  “She took your open door.” Alex is more disappointed than it’s worth.

  I shrug. “She can have it. I’m moving and don’t have time for dalliances.”

  “The fact you just called booty calls ‘dalliances’ only further argues my case.”

  “Whatever. I’m going to the bathroom.” I take my clutch with me, planning to refresh my lip-gloss because it’s been wiped away on my wine glass. Not because of him.

  Okay, also because of him.

  Unfortunately, the hallway to the Ladies room is right next to Tattooed Guy’s booth. I feel like a high schooler trying to slip past my crush after my friend went and sent him a ‘check yes or no’ note on my behalf. Keeping a casual pace—I don’t want it to look like I’m sprinting to the bathroom—I manage to get to his table without him noticing me. Then again, he’s pretty distracted by his visitor, now practically draped across his lap.

  He’s even more attractive up close, chiseled features less perfect but more stunning in their flaws. No trace of the creatine-fat face like most of the jocks I know. But maybe he does steroids, which is bad because steroids shrink guys’ testic—what the hell is my issue tonight?

  I duck into the bathroom and firmly slide the lock into place, breathing in the cooler air in the stall. I never think about strangers’ packages. It’s got to be the wine, or the move. Both. I’m making the right decision to join the Boston Symphony, but lately, beneath the flurry of preparations for the move, I feel certainty swirling away from me. No pun intended. I chuckle, and flush with my foot before exiting the stall, glad the bathroom’s empty.

  A few tendrils have escaped my ponytail, and once I’ve washed my hands, I smooth my hair down, noting my flushed cheeks as I reapply my gloss. Snow White indeed.

  Even with the ego-boosting shine on my lips, I hesitate with my hand against the door. Okay, I’ll walk out and not even look at him on the way past, no big deal. He’s just another guy.

  The bar’s filled a little more, gotten a little warmer and louder. A woman wobbles past, heading to the bathroom, and knocks me closer to Tattooed Guy’s table in the process. My accidental arm flail when attempting to right myself catches his eyes—a gorgeous stormy teal, the exact shade of the center label on my favorite Bach record.

  “Hey.” He grins. His voice is deeper than I expected, warm like the buzz from a needle on an old record.

  Pretending I don’t know he’s talking to me would be rude, and I’m already half-turning toward him like a flower to the sun. “Yes?”

  “Thank you.”

  He’s alone at the table again. Where did his new friend go? Will she be back? “For?”

  He holds up his bottle. “You bought me a drink. And then refused my invitation.” His head tilts to the side. “That’s kind of contradictory, isn’t it?”

  “Sort of?” Ugh, now I have to explain. “Okay, here’s the thing. I really didn’t buy you the drink. It was my friend.” My nose itches. This is so embarrassing.

  “Oh.” He looks back at Alex, alone at the table. “So she’s the fan then?”

  Is it my imagination, or does he sound disappointed? “Excuse me?”

  He doesn’t repeat himself, turning his focus back to me. “Nothing. Sit down for a minute.”

  I should politely decline and go back to the table with Alex, and then go home to finish packing. Except it isn’t home anymore. It’s a mostly empty place I used to live. I should—

  “That’s a nice scarf.” His deep, teal eyes focus on my scarf for a long, lingering moment.

  Houston, we have interest!

  I slide into the booth beside him, a silly, egotistical part of me thrilling at his words. That means he’s interested in me, right? At least physically. “Thank you.”

  “Why would your friend buy me a drink and say it was from you?” He doesn’t seem as weirded out by it as I’d be in the same situation; his expression is more amused than anything, a teasing tone in his voice.

  I throw a glare at Alex, who beams my way. “Well, I’m moving soon and she was trying to find me a date before I left.”

  “Why bother if you’re moving?”

  “She wasn’t thinking long term?”

  “Hmm.” The single syllable reverberates through my core like I’m a string he’s plucked with only his voice. “And I look like the kind of guy who’d fit the bill for a fling?” He leans in. “Funny, I was thinking the same thing about you.”

  All words leave my vocabulary at the dark, brazen lust in his eyes. That can’t possibly be true. “I, uh—”

  “Why are you leaving town?” He straightens, creating a more comfortable distance between us and the mood lightens again, though my belly is still tight with wanting and confusion.

  “Work.”

  “Don’t tell me. Let me guess what you do.”

  I set my purse on the table. “Why?”

  “It’s a game. I’m good at playing this one.” His gaze crawls up my body. “You do something important with finances. Banking, maybe?”

  I bite my lip. “You’re terrible at this game. I’m a musician.”

  “Oh?” His easygoing smile fades a bit. “Like in a band? Are you moving to Hollywood to find your big break? Reality television audition, maybe? America’s Got Talent, or whatever?”

  I grimace at the thought. “Hardly. I’m a cellist, and I just accepted a contract with a symphony.” I shouldn’t sound as proud as I do, seeing as how it wasn’t merely my talent that landed me the seat.

  “Interesting. So you’re serious about music.”

  I cross my legs. “Very.”

  “I’ve never met a cellist before.”

  “We don’t show our faces in public often. You can usually find us scuttling around in orchestra pits.”

  He laughs and holds out his hand. “I’m Dylan.”

  You’re easy to flirt with. “Rachel.” I take his hand. Electricity sizzles up my arm at the touch of his palm against mine.

  “So, Rachel-who-is-moving, tell me what made you get into the cello?”

  I tear my gaze from his biceps. “I couldn’t fit inside the violin.”

  “Bah-dum-chh!”
His throaty laugh exposes the strong lines of his throat, and the gentle beginnings of a five-o-clock shadow. I’m stricken by the desire to feel it. With my tongue.

  What the hell is wrong with me tonight? I should go now, quit while I’m ahead. The words form on the tip of my tongue.

  “So, you’re a fan of the classics, huh?”

  I nod. “They’re the only kind of music worth listening to.”

  He drags his bottom lip between his teeth. “Really. So the rest of the world’s been wasting its time and money creating and listening to all the other genres for a couple centuries?”

  I normally don’t engage in musical debates, but he’s gently teasing instead of confrontational and it does something to me, loosens my shoulders and lips, makes me feel playful. “Yes.”

  “That’s a pretty controversial opinion in this day and age.”

  “Is it?”

  He waves at someone across the bar. “Most people don’t listen to classical music anymore. I’m not saying they’re right, but you can’t call yours the only kind of music worth anything when the consumers aren’t backing you up.”

  I turn in the seat to better face him. “Are you saying that all that matters is what’s popular in the mainstream culture?”

  “To an extent. If there’s no interest, things fade out.”

  “Because if that’s true, there are plenty of bands who never see commercial success who are amazing musicians. Or grungy little rock bands no one appreciated but you probably love.”

  He sips from his beer and licks his lips. “Maybe it’s more about sales instead of fame. Or a combination of both that gives a band staying power.”

  If he’s trying to distract me from my arguments with his lip-licking, he’s doing a fine job. I blink hard a couple times. Focus, Rachel. What’s that band Alex is always making fun of? “Ah! Nickelback!”

  He grimaces. “They do not count. At all.”

  I point in his face triumphantly. “They’re rich and wildly famous. Even I’ve heard their names.”

  “They’re also terrible musicians.” He takes my hand and lowers it, keeping it captured in his, bringing it beneath the surface of the table to rest on the seat between us.