Broken Chords (Songs and Sonatas Book 4)

by Jerica MacMillan

  I open the door for Charlie and, without thinking, place my hand on the small of her back again to guide her inside. It’s not until she glances at me over her shoulder and gives me another bright smile that I realize she didn’t stiffen at my touch this time. Which makes me smile back at her. Tonight is going to be perfect.

  Chapter Four

  Scale: a series of eight pitches using eight consecutive letter names extending from a given pitch to its octave, ascending or descending. The series usually consists of whole steps and half steps, and it is the location of the half steps within the scale structure that determines the type of scale (major, minor, etc.).

  Charlie

  When Damian’s hand makes contact with my back this time, I don’t flinch. I feel like such an idiot that I flinched the first time, but he caught me off guard. Casual touching hasn’t ever been a big part of my life. Even when I was paraded in front of the paparazzi with my latest “boyfriend,” I’d always stiffened when they’d touched me. At least at first.

  Most of those guys only wanted one of two things from me: career advancement or easy pussy. Sometimes both. The ones who were with me to boost their own careers were usually respectful. They were happy to be seen with me, and while hand-holding, kissing, and general couple-type touching was expected in public, most knew the drill. Once I made it clear that we were only a couple for public consumption, they kept their distance in private.

  Some of them, like Jonathan, became friends. Though, really, now that I think about it, he’s the only one who’s stayed a friend. Most of the others were friendly at the time, though. There were a few pouters who were upset they weren’t getting the full girlfriend experience, but that was their problem, not mine.

  But when my publicist paired me with someone who was designed to increase my star power … well, those guys came with … expectations. I tried talking to my mom about it once, but she brushed me off like I was making a big deal out of nothing. After that I just did my best to give them enough to placate them, but no more than I had to. I got really good at hand jobs and blow jobs. The quicker, the better in my opinion. Not everyone was satisfied with that. Nick, for example, could only be put off that way so many times before he wanted more.

  Looking up at Damian, I study his profile to banish those memories. That’s not my life right now. This date is the real thing with this cute guy who seems a little unsure of himself. But that just adds to his adorableness. His black-rimmed glasses make him seem older or wiser, and I like that he wears his hair long, pulled back in a ponytail to keep it neat. It’s thick and shiny, and I know people who’d pay big money to have hair half as gorgeous as his. He’s wearing a plain black T-shirt and dark wash skinny jeans that accentuate his slim build. I know some women like men who are all built and muscle bound. While that can be nice to look at, too many of those guys are the pushy kind in my experience.

  A pretty teenager in a maroon polo shirt and black pants looks up from the counter at the back of the room as we enter. Her large dark eyes light up when she sees Damian. “Hey! Haven’t seen you in a while.” She tucks a little folder into the apron tied around her waist as she walks toward us.

  Glancing at Damian, I see him smile back at her, meeting her halfway down the row of booths and giving her a big hug, and I wonder who she is. He comes here a lot, so they’re obviously friendly. “I’ve been busy. But a … friend and I were wanting to have dinner.”

  The pretty girl peers around Damian, her gaze sweeping over me in quick assessment before looking back at Damian. “And you brought her here?” Then she switches to Spanish, and I don’t know what she’s saying, but from her tone of voice, she’s scolding him.

  For bringing me here? I’m so lost right now.

  Damian glances at me with a sheepish look, but shrugs as he steps back, responding in Spanish. Then he switches to English. “This is Charlie. She’s a pianist. Charlie, this is my cousin Martina.”

  Ah, okay. Their dynamic makes more sense now.

  Martina offers her hand, her expression open and friendly, though her gaze is still assessing. Apparently I’m being subjected to some unknown test. I offer her my best magazine photo smile and shake her hand.

  “It’s nice to meet you,” she says and waves at the empty tables next to her. “You two sit anywhere that’s open. I’ll go tell my dad you’re here. He’ll want to see you.”

  With that, she turns and walks away with quick, confident strides, her long black braid swinging behind her.

  Damian directs me to a table, again with his hand touching lightly on the small of my back. He touched me last night, too. Just a little touch. He appears to be more of a touching guy than I’m used to. But he’s so nonthreatening with it that, other than that initial surprise reaction, it doesn’t bother me. In fact, I kinda like it.

  We sit, picking up the large laminated menus from the table. Before I have time to do much more than scan the front side, a short man with dark hair bustles up to our table with his arms spread wide, his neat white button-down shirt snug across the expanse of his belly. “Damián!” His pronunciation is a little different, with the stress on the last syllable. “I didn’t expect to see you today. How are you?”

  Damian stands and gives the man, who I can only assume is his uncle Marco, a hug, complete with firm slaps on the back. “You know I like to drop in and surprise you.”

  Marco wags a finger at Damian before glancing at me. “And who is this lovely young lady?”

  “This is Charlie,” Damian supplies.

  Marco holds out a hand in my direction, and when I place my hand in his, he covers it with his other hand. “So nice to meet you. Any friend of Damián’s is welcome here.” His voice is as warm as the hands cupping mine, and his dark eyes twinkle with humor.

  “Nice to meet you, too.”

  Still holding my hand, he says something in Spanish to Damian, who once again looks sheepish. My eyes dart back and forth between the two, trying to catch what’s going on here.

  But then Marco says, “Ah! Where are my manners? I’m sorry. I was telling Damián that he needs to be sure to bring you around more often.” With that, he gives my hand a squeeze and lets it go before clapping his hands together. “Now. Have you decided what you would like to eat?”

  I shake my head, charmed. “Not yet. We just sat down.”

  With a nod, he takes a step back. “I’ll send Martina out in a few minutes. The tacos are the best in town and our enchiladas are delicious. The sauce is an old family recipe.” He gives me a wink, which is remarkably not creepy, and turns away, stopping to check on the other customers scattered around us on his way to the back again.

  Damian clears his throat. “So that’s my uncle.”

  I chuckle at his understatement, hoping to put him at ease again. “I gathered. He seems nice. Like he really cares about you.”

  Damian nods. “He does. He’s my mom’s younger brother.”

  “Your family is close?”

  “Yeah. And they’re all here. My grandparents live in a retirement community in the Spokane Valley. My uncle owns this restaurant. My mom and her sister own a hair salon downtown.”

  “Wow.” Before I can say anything else, Martina comes back with baskets of chips.

  She sets them on the table along with two small bowls of salsa. “Decided what to eat yet?”

  Damian gives me a questioning look. But I’ve still barely had a chance to look at the menu. I glance at it again and make a split-second decision. “I’ll have the chicken enchiladas.”

  Martina scribbles my order on her notepad. “Good choice. Your usual fish tacos, Damian?”

  I grin, because they really do know his usual order just like he said.

  At his nod, she scribbles that down and takes our drink order before hurrying off again.

  I reach for the small glass of water on the table and take a sip, glancing around the restaurant again, taking in the brightly colored murals on the walls depicting stereotypical Mexican scenes
. The decor is chintzy but comfortable, and I feel like I can relax. Which is still an unusual feeling to have in public.

  “What about you?” Damian asks.

  Turning back to him, I set my glass down. “What do you mean?”

  “Are you close with your family?”

  I tilt my head to the side, considering that question. Once, not so long ago, I would’ve said yes. But things are more complicated now, especially since I decided to come to school.

  “We used to be. But me coming to Marycliff has strained the relationship with my parents. Especially my mother. So, I guess not as much now.” I give him my practiced press smile to cover over the discomfort that accompanies my answer.

  He braces his forearms on the table and leans closer, a wrinkle appearing between his eyebrows. “I’m sorry. That sounds tough. Did they want you to go to school somewhere else?”

  A surprised laugh escapes. “No. My mom didn’t want me to go to school at all.”

  Damian blinks, taking that in. He adjusts his glasses to give himself time to think of a response. “Why not?”

  “Ah, well …” I sort through the possible answers to that question, adjusting my own glasses. Some part of me wants to blurt out the bald truth, that I’m a mega-famous popstar, and my mom thinks I’m tanking my career by taking a break. Truthfully, she might be right. An industry adage is that a pop career is made up of a continuity of hits. If I take too much time off, too much time between hits, I might never recover.

  But if I don’t give myself this time off, I’ll end up like Britney Spears, shaving my head and in a mental hospital after the psychotic break from coping with all the stress.

  That cautionary tale happened shortly before I got discovered, and it’s stuck with me ever since. Not that I could’ve forgotten even if I’d wanted to. That was my mom’s constant refrain whenever I tried to get out from under her thumb. “Remember what happened to Britney Spears? Do you want to end up like that? I’m not going to let that happen to you. I’m only looking out for what’s best for you.”

  And that was always enough to get me to buckle to whatever she wanted. But not this time. This time I’m the one saving me from a psychotic break.

  Which means I can’t tell Damian the truth. At least not all of it.

  I clear my throat and shift in my seat, reaching for a chip to cover my half answer. “They don’t like me being so far from home, where they can’t protect me.”

  “Protect you from what?”

  Why didn’t I see that question coming next? “They’re just really overprotective. Which is part of the basis for our strained relationship. I’d like to branch out on my own. I am twenty-one, after all. Most children aren’t living at home anymore by my age.”

  He nods thoughtfully. Before he can ask any more questions, I turn the tables back on him. “You mentioned your uncle and cousins and your mom’s sister. Do you have any siblings? Other cousins? Are they all around here too?”

  “Yeah. Three siblings—an older brother and two sisters.”

  My eyes widen at that. I can’t imagine being one of four children. Although I think back to hanging out with Jonathan and his brothers when we were touring together as kids. That was a lot of fun. “Where do you fall in the lineup?”

  “I’m number three. My brother’s the oldest, then one of my sisters. My other sister is the baby. She’s a senior in high school this year, so she still lives with my parents. My older sister got married last summer, which was a big deal. She’s the first of us to get married. And my brother is the IT manager at a hotel in town.”

  “Do you plan on staying here too? After you graduate, I mean?”

  He shakes his head, breaking eye contact as he finally reaches for his own chip. Is this a difficult subject for him?

  “No. I won’t be staying here, most likely. If I make it as an orchestral musician, I’ll end up wherever I win a spot in the cello section. If I can manage to become a soloist, then I’ll end up traveling even more. I suppose I could keep Spokane as my home base, but …” He trails off and shakes his head, taking a bite of his salsa-laden chip. “No. I won’t be here forever.”

  I sit, letting the silence stretch between us after his quiet statement. Imagining what that must be like. His whole life, his whole family, has always been here. But he’ll be leaving by choice. Does his family support him?

  I open my mouth to ask that question, when he surprises me by volunteering, “I actually was supposed to be gone already. I was going to audition for the major conservatories on the east coast—Boston, Manhattan, Peabody. Then my mom was diagnosed with breast cancer my junior year. She’s in remission now, but things were dicey for a while. Surgeries. Treatments. I couldn’t …” He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “I couldn’t leave in the middle of all that. So I auditioned for Marycliff, knowing it was a good program. Maybe not what I would’ve gotten elsewhere, but I needed to be here to help out.”

  His dark eyes, when they meet mine, are pained. And without thinking, I reach a hand across the table, placing it on his left forearm that’s still braced on the table. He looks down, surprise registering on his face as I give his arm a squeeze and a little pat before withdrawing.

  “I’m sorry about your mom. That sounds rough.”

  He nods, moving his arm so his hand is pointed in my direction, but his palm remains down. It’s not an invitation, but almost. “It was. Like I said, she’s doing a lot better.”

  “I’m glad.”

  The heavy conversation is interrupted by Martina returning with our food. If she notices the emotional atmosphere, she gives no indication as she places our plates in front of us. “Watch out, they’re hot!” she chirps before leaving again.

  By some unspoken agreement, our conversation when it restarts stays on more neutral territory—classes, practicing, professors we’ve both had. He tells me stories about living with Zeke and Jason, making me laugh at their antics.

  When we head back to his car after our meal, he once again guides me through the restaurant with his hand on my lower back. And this time, I relax into his touch, enjoying the warmth of his hand through the fabric of my shirt.

  Chapter Five

  Chord: a group of notes sounding simultaneously or in close succession.

  Triad: the simplest chord; a triad is a three note group formed by two consecutive thirds. A triad in a key I identified by the scale-step number of its root and expressed by a roman numeral

  Damian

  I open the door of the music building for Charlie, falling in step beside her as we head for the instrument storage room where my cello waits. “Think the big piano majors’ practice room is open?”

  “Should be. I put my name on the schedule for this evening. So even if someone’s in there, we can kick them out.”

  I grin down at her. “Good. I’d hate to have to try to squish into one of the smaller rooms.”

  She laughs. “I don’t think you’d fit, much less you and your cello. And you need room to play that thing, don’t you? Will you even fit in the room we have? Yeah, it’s bigger, but it’s still not what I’d call big.”

  With a shrug, I spin the dial on my instrument locker, yanking on the metal once I’ve entered the combination. Hoisting my cello onto my back, I close the locker door, leaving the lock hanging open. “Let’s give it a try. We can take over the instrumental rehearsal room if we need to. But anyone could walk in on us there.”

  She raises her eyebrows at me. “Planning on needing privacy for some reason?”

  I laugh, but it comes out a little more husky than I planned, her suggestive tone making my blood run hot and my pulse pick up. Eventually, yes, I would like to take her somewhere even more private than a practice room. But not tonight. Instead I say, “I don’t feel like having a nosy audience. Do you?”

  Her smile is crooked, her gaze a little more calculating than I’m used to. “No. I guess not.”

  I gesture for her to lead the way upstairs. The ot
her two piano majors’ practice rooms are occupied, but the big one is empty. The sheet on the door has her name written in from five till eight. It’s just after six right now, so that gives us lots of time to play through the music stashed in the pocket on my case.

  As she unlocks the door, I leave my cello next to her and go steal a chair and music stand from an empty practice room. Charlie helps me wrestle all the equipment in the room, laughing at the tight fit in the curve of the piano. There’s just enough space next to me for my cello case.

  I pull out the music first, setting several pieces on my stand. A couple of them I already had, but I also printed some from IMSLP, the public domain online music library, and checked a couple of things out of the university library.

  I got a range of time periods and difficulty levels. I don’t have a clear picture of Charlie’s abilities. She’s a freshman, but she’s also twenty-one, so that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. But Dr. Gomez has singled her out as having the worst technique of the new class, so …

  Since this is supposed to be for fun, I decide to start with the easy stuff I have my private students play in middle school and high school.

  As I’m unpacking my cello and moving my case against the wall, Charlie sits at the piano and slides back the keyboard cover, the sound audible over the piano music bleeding through from next door. They might just be six foot baby grands, but they can make a lot of sound.

  Charlie adjusts the bench, sitting and playing a quick scale followed by a simple chord progression—I, IV, V, I.

  Shuffling through the music, I pull out the Suzuki Cello Book 5 and hand her the piano part. “I have to confess that I don’t know much about piano repertoire. My piano skills are limited to what I learned for freshman Keyboard and Analysis. I thought it’d be fun to just goof off with some easy stuff, so I pulled things that are easy for me. I have no idea what the piano part’s like, though.”