Broken Chords (Songs and Sonatas Book 4)

by Jerica MacMillan

  Which makes deleting her voicemail more symbolic than anything. She’ll just call back tomorrow if I don’t return her call tonight.

  But right now I’m too worked up, pissed off at her for ruining an otherwise good night.

  I got asked on a date. By the cute cello player who I could’ve sworn had a crush on Lauren. That day when she invited her friends over to introduce me around, his eyes followed her almost the whole time. I also noticed that she seemed oblivious to it.

  So what if it’s not the type of date you see in rom-coms? He called it a date. Which makes it the first date with a guy who’s not using me to further his career. Or a guy my mom thinks would help my career.

  My first real date. Ever.

  Lauren looks up when I walk in from where she sits with a book in her lap on our super comfy cream couch. “Hey. How was practicing?”

  I drop my keys on the accent table that stands by the door. “Good. I got a lot done.”

  She closes her book and sets it on the couch next to her. “Is Dr. Gomez still griping about your technique?” She’s been making an effort to get to know me, asking me about classes and lessons since the semester started a few weeks ago.

  “Yeah. But I’ve been assured that he always picks someone to be his worst student out of the new freshmen. I guess it’s me. He does say I have a good sense of musicality, though, so I might be able to salvage something.” I set my pile of music and papers on the coffee table and plop down into the matching overstuffed chair. Lauren thought I was ridiculous for splurging on the sofa, loveseat, and chair set, but I think it makes our house welcoming and homey. Since I’ve lived almost half my life in hotels and tour buses, I wanted nice, comfortable furniture. I also bought an expensive mattress and a gorgeous dresser that’s all clean lines and dark wood. I know it goes against the poor college student persona I’m supposed to portray to help me keep a low profile, but I figure we can tell people that my parents helped. Or I inherited a bunch of money from a dead aunt. Or something. That is, if anyone even asks.

  Lauren’s friends seemed pleasantly surprised by our furniture and decor choices, but no one said anything. At least not to me. She can tell them whatever she wants, as long as it’s not the truth. And even though we don’t know each other all that well yet, I trust her not to out me.

  “Are you struggling with something you’re working on?”

  I lift my eyes to Lauren. She’s ready for bed—her face scrubbed free of makeup, her auburn hair pulled back in a messy bun, and wearing lounge pants and a tank top. “Not really. Why?”

  She surveys me with her sharp hazel eyes. “You were staring at your music like you wanted to murder it.”

  “Oh.” I let out a soft chuckle. “No. The music is fine. I mean, it’s more challenging than what I normally play, but I’m enjoying that part, even if Dr. Gomez thinks I have the technique of a fourth grader. He doesn’t call me a whore for not having proper wrist position or anything, so I can deal with that.”

  Lauren’s head cocks to the side at that, and her mouth opens and closes like she doesn’t know how to respond to that. “Did someone call you a whore?”

  “Not recently.”

  She continues to stare at me. “Okay,” she finally says, the word drawn out. “I don’t even …” She gives a shake of her head, like she’s trying to move past that portion of our conversation. “Is something else wrong?”

  “Oh, well …” I swallow, considering how much to tell her. My first instinct is to not tell her anything, but I’m supposed to be making friends, and friends tell each other things, right? “My mom called while I was talking to Damian before I left the music building. She left a voicemail about some performance invitations.” I wave a hand like it’s no big deal, not wanting to fill her in on all the convoluted crap that comes with having my mom meddling in my career. Even if she’s not officially my manager, she’s still part of my management team, and she talks to my actual manager more than I do. “I deleted it, but it ruined my good mood. Sorry if I was brooding.”

  “Brood away. Are you going to call her back?”

  I shake my head. “Not tonight. I told her when I left that I was taking time off indefinitely. I’m not going to agree to play the Super Bowl halftime show. That defeats the whole purpose of taking a break and staying out of the public eye.”

  Speaking of eyes, Lauren’s go wide and round, and she visibly swallows. “Right. Yeah. Makes sense.”

  A smile tugs at my lips, but I manage not to laugh at her. Since I met Lauren through Gabby, who’s now touring with my old friend Jonny B, I assume she understands more about life as a touring musician than she really does. I sometimes forget that she’s just a normal college student. I’m the weirdo here. Not her. She tries to play off my weirdness like it’s no big deal, which I appreciate, but it’s funny when she doesn’t quite manage it.

  She clears her throat. “So you said you were talking to Damian? What about?”

  “Oh.” I scratch my nose, thinking over my exchange with Damian and what I witnessed when he was over here a few weeks ago. I don’t think there’s anything between her and Damian, but if there is, or there was, then I should tell her about our date, such as it is. My experience with normal friendships is limited for sure, especially with other girls, but I’ve watched enough movies and TV shows while traveling between cities to know that “chicks before dicks” is a thing. It seems like the sentiment probably applies here.

  Lauren’s face is open and curious. Friendly.

  I’ll just tell her and see how she reacts. “He was listening to me play at the end of my practice session and wanted to know what I was working on. And he suggested that we play together sometime since we both like to practice later in the evening. So we’re meeting tomorrow for dinner, and then we’re going to play some piano and cello sonatas he’s going to dig up for us.” I say the last part in a rush, my eyes fixed on my cell phone resting on top of the pile of sheet music sitting on the coffee table in front of me.

  When I bring myself to look at her face, Lauren’s lips are parted in a surprised O. “Damian asked you to dinner?”

  I nod. “He called it a date.”

  She covers her mouth with her hands, but the smile hidden behind them is unmistakable. “Ohmigod, that’s awesome.” She claps her hands and bounces in her seat. “Yay! I’m so happy for you. Damian’s a sweetheart.”

  Her enthusiasm seems genuine and unforced. “Did you and Damian ever …”

  She shakes her head quickly. “No. Well, I mean, we went on one date once, but it was more friends than anything. He asked me for another date, but I turned him down.” Her forehead creases, and her smile falls. “I think he had a crush on me for a while, actually. But I’m not looking for a relationship. Even if I were, I don’t think I’d date any of the guys in the music department. Not seriously anyway.”

  That has me curious. And a little concerned. “Why not?”

  Her mouth hitches up in a half smile. “Well, for one thing, it’s a small department. If I got involved with one of the guys in my class and then we broke up? It would be so awful to have to see them in class and rehearsals every single day. Especially if it were an ugly breakup. And in my experience, even the supposedly amicable breakups end up being ugly if the people involved are in close proximity afterward. On top of that, I’m not sure I’d want to date another musician. We’re all volatile divas at heart. It just seems like a recipe for disaster.”

  She looks at my face, and whatever she sees has her backtracking. “I mean for me. Sometimes it works out really well. Look at Gabby and Jonathan, for example. They’re both musicians. And that seems to make their relationship stronger than normal people’s. So what do I know? And anyway, one dinner with Damian doesn’t mean you guys are going to do anything more than play some sonatas afterward.” She points a finger at me. “And I mean that very, very literally. That’s not some weird music major euphemism for sex.”

  I burst out laughing at that. “I never
would have suspected it was.”

  She smiles with me. “If Damian’s asking you out, that means he’s not crushing on me anymore, so that’s good. And I know that part of your goal in coming here was to experience ‘normal’ college student life. One of those things is dating guys.” Her eyes get an avaricious glint in them. “Find out if he’s a good kisser. I only kissed him on the cheek. I didn’t want to lead him on.”

  Heat rises to my cheeks, and a nervous giggle escapes. “I don’t know about that.”

  Her gaze turns calculating, and she nods slowly. “I have a feeling you’ll get to find out. He’s shy, so you might have to work on drawing him out.” I open my mouth to say that from what I’ve seen, he doesn’t need any drawing out, but she shrugs and continues talking. “Even if it doesn’t turn into something, like I said, he’s a good guy. He’s quiet, but when you get him to open up, he’s fun to talk to. He’s got this dry sense of humor that cracks me up. And he’s really sweet. Even if you guys are only friends, I think he’s exactly what you need. The perfect entry into the world of normal college student dating life.”

  “Okay. Good. I’m glad I said yes.”

  Chapter Three

  Half step: the smallest interval, or distance, between two notes in Western music. On a piano keyboard, a white key and a black key are a half step apart, as are the two white keys without a black key between them.

  Whole step: an interval consisting of two half steps

  Damian

  Sunlight streams through the wall of glass windows into the lobby of the music building, illuminating Charlie standing alone next to a grouping of chairs, pacing slowly and nibbling on her thumbnail. She hasn’t seen me yet, and I stop in the opening of the carpeted hallway to take her in. Her head is tilted down, her gaze on the terrazzo tile of the lobby, but her short hairstyle leaves her profile visible. She has her glasses on, her lips painted a deep red, a sharp contrast to her pale skin and the muted earth tones of her clothes—a long, rust-colored top over skinny jeans and brown knee-high boots, the strap of a leather messenger bag crossing her torso. The sun glints off a shiny pendant hanging on her chest, the one flashy thing about her outfit. But she doesn’t need jewelry to sparkle. She does that all on her own.

  Adrenaline spikes in my bloodstream, kicking my heartbeat to a higher tempo. Some part of me half expected her to not be here. I’d dawdled after Strings Seminar, hoping to give her enough time to get here so I wouldn’t be standing around waiting for her like an idiot. Which I’m making her do right now.

  Wiping suddenly sweaty hands down my thighs, I clear my throat and take a step onto the tile. Her head snaps up, and her eyes meet mine. She drops her hand from her mouth, and a smile spreads across her lips as she steps toward me. I love seeing her smile. “Hey. How’d your seminar go? Did you play today?”

  Her voice has that husky quality it sometimes gets right now that sends a little electric shock down my spine. The best kind. “Not today. Next week.”

  “Cool. What are you going to play?” Her pale blue eyes have a ring of navy around the rim, and her pupils are tightly contracted against the sunshine, allowing me an unfettered view of the feathery patterns in her irises as she gazes up at me.

  “The Dvořák cello concerto.”

  “Oh.”

  My smile grows wider. “Haven’t heard it?”

  Her eyes drop from mine. “Uh, no. Not yet.”

  “Maybe I’ll play it for you tonight. After we play together.”

  She meets my gaze again, her smile bright. “I’d like that.” We stare at each other for a second, my attention captured by her eyes again. She clears her throat and glances outside, her fingers skimming over the top of her ear like she’s pushing her hair back. “I’m starved. Ready to get dinner?”

  “Right. Yeah. Dinner. Of course.” The smile she once again directs my way has me stumbling over my words like a moron, but she doesn’t seem to notice or care.

  She turns and heads for the doors that face the center of campus. I’m surprised, since the main parking lot is at the end of the building, but I catch up quickly, my long legs eating up the distance between us in a few strides. “You scored a spot over here?”

  “What?” She glances up at me as she pushes the door open.

  I catch it above her head and prop it open for her, following her out. “You parked on the side?” I tilt my head to the left. “I usually park over on the end. I was running late and had to park out at the back of the parking lot.”

  Her laugh trips across my nerves, pleasure flaring at the sound. I’d love nothing more than to listen to that laugh all night. “No.” She shakes her head. “I’m parked over there too. Probably as far out as you, since I got here in the middle of the main performance seminars. We piano performance majors have our seminar in the recital hall on Tuesday afternoons while you’re in orchestra rehearsal. Since we have to be available to accompany everyone else.”

  “Are you accompanying anyone yet?”

  She shakes her head, a grimace twisting her berry-colored lips. “Terrible technique, remember?”

  I chuckle at the pained expression on her face that I know isn’t real because of our conversation last night. “In all honesty, it can’t be that terrible. Otherwise you wouldn’t have been admitted. Or gotten the standard scholarship offer.”

  She looks away, her hand curling around the pendant of her necklace. “Right. True.” Then she smiles at me again, and whatever question I was going to ask about her weird reaction flies away. “Anyway, we were going to dinner. I usually eat in the campus center. Is that not what you had in mind?”

  With a bark of laughter, I shake my head, daring to place my hand on the small of her back to guide her toward my car. She stiffens under my touch, just a little, but I notice and quickly drop my hand. “Sorry.”

  She shakes her head. “No, it’s fine. I’m sorry. I just … It’s, um …”

  Her face looks troubled, and I jump in, not wanting to make her feel like she needs to defend herself. “Don’t worry about it. I didn’t mean to startle you. But no. I didn’t intend to take you to eat in the cafeteria. We said this was a date, right? Dinner and making music. Maybe a little unconventional as dates go, but I think it sounds perfect.”

  “I think it’s perfect too.” She bumps my arm with her shoulder, relaxed once more. “Everything about me is unconventional. Why would I want a conventional date anyway?”

  “Right. Exactly. But there’s no way I’m taking a date to the cafeteria for dinner.”

  She laughs again. “Got it. No cafeteria. So where are we going?”

  Glancing down at her, my smile is irrepressible. Even if I wanted to hold it back, there’s no way I’d be able to. Not with her. I don’t know what she sees in me that she likes, but the way she’s smiling and laughing with me, I’m not going to overthink it and ruin this. Not even my date with Lauren started off this well, and I’d been over the moon when she’d agreed to go out with me. I hadn’t realized at the time that she’d meant it as something platonic.

  This, though? The way she keeps looking up at me, the smile stretching across her lips, how close she’s walking next to me? Nothing about this screams platonic to me.

  “How do you feel about Mexican food?” I slide the key in the lock of the passenger door of my beat-up Subaru and open it for her. My car’s old and seen better days, but it still runs great, and the hatchback means I have plenty of room to haul my cello around.

  She waits for me to fold myself into the driver’s side before answering my question. “I like it.”

  “Good. I know a great place. Locally owned.”

  “Cool. Is it one of those places where they know you and what you always order before you even sit down?”

  I chuckle, looking behind me before pulling out of the parking spot. “Something like that. Maybe not for everyone, but they know me that well.”

  A quick glance at her reveals raised eyebrows and a tiny smile, calling my attention to her mo
uth again. Those lips are going to be the death of me. I force my gaze back to the road, both so I don’t crash and so I don’t miss whatever she says.

  “You go there that often?”

  God, I can’t stop smiling. “Well, it happens to be owned by my uncle. I used to work there. Still do sometimes when I need extra cash or they’re short staffed if I have the time.”

  “Wow, that’s cool. I’ve known a few restauranteurs in California. It’s nice to have an in at a good place.”

  “Uh, I’m not sure I’d go so far as to call my uncle a restauranteur, but he’s good at what he does. And it is nice to always know I can get in whenever I want. As long as I don’t mind the third degree.”

  Soon, I pull into the cracked and pitted asphalt parking lot of Marco’s Cantina, a rectangular brick building with a faded yellow and red sign and neon glowing in the windows. “Here we are. It doesn’t look like much, but the food is delicious. And they serve house-made tortilla chips. The best in town.” I gesture at the vinyl banner hanging on the door that shows they were voted Spokane’s best Mexican restaurant the last three years.

  She flashes me a big smile as she unbuckles, apparently not needing my reassurance. “This is great. I love finding hole-in-the-wall places. They’re usually the best.” She waves a hand. “Michelin starred restaurants have good food, but they’re so stiff and formal that they’re not very fun. I mean, don’t get me wrong, sometimes it’s nice to be fancy, but I prefer to keep those to like once a month or so. This looks perfect.” And she climbs out, leaving me blinking after her in shock for a second before scrambling out of the car to meet her around front. Gourmet restaurants once a month?

  But I have no time to contemplate that because she’s headed for the door. At just after five o’clock on a Wednesday, only a few other cars occupy the parking lot. The midweek dinner rush is lighter and starts closer to six. At least it always did when I worked here with my uncle and his family.