For the First Time

by Stephanie Doyle

  “Please. I beg of you. No more whatevers. Not tonight.”

  “Lame. First one up makes breakfast.”

  “Deal,” he said, even though he knew it was a trap. Sophie had mastered the art of staying in bed until he was awake, so he would be stuck with breakfast duty. One time he tried to outwait her and ended up lying in bed staring at the ceiling until almost ten in the morning. While dinner was his responsibility, they both agreed breakfast and lunch were a free-for-all. During the week they stuck to toast or cereal.

  On Saturdays he went the extra mile. They both liked egg, pork roll—a Pennsylvania tradition she’d introduced him to—and cheese on a bagel. Saturdays were quickly becoming his favorite day of the week. On Sundays they visited Dom and Marie, and while he didn’t mind visiting them, he definitely liked it better when it was just him and Sophie.

  It was becoming their thing. Despite her hostility, her snark factor and even her stubborn refusal to relent and fully forgive him, he was coming to like her. Loving her was automatic. But now he liked her.

  He had to get her to like him in the same way. Forgoing the movie, he grabbed a beer and made his way to his bedroom, where he kept his personal computer to prevent any snooping from his daughter. Not that she would be able to get through his security, but its location added one more level of protection.

  Sitting at his desk, he turned on the computer and accessed the site that would provide him with the most comprehensive information on JoJo Hatcher. A site that went beyond basic fact-checking, that some considered not completely legal.

  But he wasn’t messing around. The woman was now officially working for him. If he was going to ask her to help him track down whoever sent that note, he had to know everything about her. Not a single piece of information was insignificant. It was time to know exactly who he was dealing with.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  THIS WAS THE start of a battle. A prelude to the fight. This was a time for her to lead her people forward into the unknown. They would give their lives for her. They would sacrifice all. Where she played they would follow. With wisdom and knowledge and no fear…

  “Sophie! Sophie, halt!”

  The words finally penetrated and Sophie looked up from her piano, the story she’d been telling with her fingers suddenly gone.

  “Yes, Maestro?” She looked up at the short, plump man standing on the raised platform with the baton in his hand. Igor Romnasky, the legendary composer and conductor from Moscow, had been chosen to direct this performance of Grieg’s “Op. 16 in A minor.” He claimed he’d accepted the opportunity to work with Sophie. Or so she’d been told. Instead of listening to her play however, all he ever seemed to want to do was stop her.

  “You are out of pace with the orchestra, yes?”

  It always sounded like a question when he said it, but it never was.

  Sophie nodded, but thought that if anyone was off the pace, it was the orchestra. He should be keeping them in time with her, not the other way. It wasn’t arrogance, it was the way the music had been written. The piano was king. Or in her case, queen.

  “Again, yes?”

  They had already been at it for three hours without a break. Her fingers were starting to get numb.

  Sophie, too fast, yes? Sophie, too slow, yes? Sophie, too hard, yes?

  No. Sophie was ready to take the bald man’s baton and shove it up his—

  “How about a short break? It’s been a couple of hours. I think we all could use it.”

  This from the principal violinist. Sophie looked at Bay and smiled. He gave her a wink and she really hoped it didn’t make her blush too horribly. She knew it made her heart race, which of course caused her palms to get sweaty. Which was gross when you were trying to play.

  The maestro seemed to consider the young man with the big talent and finally relented.

  “Fifteen minutes. No more, yes? Our first performance is next Friday.”

  Sophie pushed out her bench and stood. She hadn’t realized how stooped over the keys she’d been and she nearly groaned when she stretched her back.

  “You weren’t off the pace.”

  Sophie smiled as she heard the quiet words in her ear. Turning, she smiled into Bay Tong’s beautiful face. He was Korean on his father’s side and Caucasian on his mother’s, and so completely the most gorgeous person she’d ever met. She didn’t think it was possible that someone like him would ever pay attention to her, but he did and it thrilled her every time he spoke to her.

  Once a child prodigy himself, she got the feeling he tried to shelter her in ways that maybe he hadn’t been. But at age eighteen he was no longer identified as special. Merely incredibly talented. Certainly talented enough to win the first chair position in the Philadelphia Orchestra.

  If only he would see her as more than a kid.

  Of course, it was totally understandable when she was fourteen and had first met him. But now she was nearly fifteen and they were going to be only three years apart in age. Which was practically nothing, given her level of maturity. If she really wanted to, she could test out of high school. Then she wouldn’t even be considered a student.

  “His hearing needs to be checked,” he added.

  “I know. I think he gets off on bossing me around. Whatever. I’ve dealt with conductors like him. They all think they will be the one to make me do something I’ve never been able to do before. It’s all about their ego. All I want to do is play.”

  “Yes, but you can learn from them. Sometimes I know it’s hard to think that way when they’re yelling at you. You have to take the one piece of instruction or advice that works for you and throw the rest away.”

  “I spent three years at Juilliard. I know how to take instruction.”

  “That’s different. They are trying to improve your technique. These guys care about something more. They want to pull a performance out of you and they can be ruthless in doing so. Sometimes even mean. That stuff can get to you after a while.”

  Sophie shrugged and lifted a shoulder. “I know.”

  “Just don’t let him get you down.”

  “Protecting me again?”

  He laughed softly. “Why do I think you’re the type who would say you don’t need anyone’s protection?”

  That made her beam. Because she was exactly that type of person, which meant they were getting to know each other. They had been working together since January and now, as April approached, she was starting to think that maybe things could change between them. If only he saw her differently. Her birthday was May 15 and once it came, she was sure he would look at her with new eyes.

  Today she’d intentionally worn tight skinny jeans and a top that was cut low enough to reveal the tops of her breasts. She’d spent thirty-six of her fifty-dollar-a-week allowance on a push-up bra from Victoria’s Secret. After weeks of owning it, she had finally worked up the courage to wear it.

  Only he hadn’t ogled her chest once.

  “It better not be because I’m a girl.” She threw her hip to one side in a pose she hoped was sexy. Then she flicked her hair—which she had spent almost twenty minutes straightening—off her shoulder. For the past few weeks she’d kept her hair loose instead of braiding it. All guys liked long hair. Everyone knew that. Well, maybe everyone except JoJo.

  Braids were for little girls. It could be completely annoying when her hair got in her face while she was playing, but that was something she would have to deal with. Maybe bangs was the answer.

  “Chill out, Gloria Steinem. I would do the same for any kid. Boy or girl.”

  Kid. That hurt. It also made her feel stupid wearing her bra. “You know, you’re only three years older than me.” When they’d first met, she had said she was almost fifteen, which she was—only in January that turning point had been further away than it was now.

  “Three years and three lifetimes, Sophie.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  He looked at his sneakers. For rehearsal, this maestro wa
sn’t concerned about what they wore, unlike other conductors who insisted the musicians rehearse in formal dress to better prepare for the performance.

  Bay was so hot in his well-worn jeans and brown sweater that Sophie actually came to understand how the word mouthwatering related to boys.

  “It means I’m eighteen and you’re fifteen and we’re just…friends.”

  Sophie felt another rush of humiliation, which she immediately countered with sarcasm. “Uh…yeah. What did you think we were?”

  He glanced briefly at her overflowing breasts, which were nearly busting out of her shirt. It was a silent message. He was letting her know he understood what she was trying to do with her clothes and her Victoria’s Secret bra. She wanted to fall through the floor. She wanted to cover her breasts with her arms.

  Instead she raised her hand to bite her fingernails.

  “You’re not supposed to do—”

  “I know,” she snapped. “Any other words of wisdom?”

  “Sophie—”

  “Hey, Sophie!”

  Sophie turned at the sound of her name. Mark was walking down the aisle. “What’s he doing here?”

  “You never cut him any slack, do you?”

  “You don’t know anything about my relationship with him.” Again she lashed out, still in pain from the rejection.

  Bay didn’t flinch. “I know he’s all you’ve got now. I know he’s here all the time trying to talk to you but you act like he’s a total jerk. He’s trying, Sophie. When are you going to try back?”

  “I thought you said we were friends. Friends have each other’s back.”

  “Sophie—”

  “But hey, I’m just a kid, so what do I know?”

  *

  MARK CLIMBED THE steps to the stage, where everyone was milling about. He’d arrived during a break, which was great so he could talk to Sophie, but was disappointing, too, because he wouldn’t hear her play today. Nothing moved him like listening to his daughter. Nothing made him more proud and, conversely, more guilty for having missed so much of her amazing life.

  They hadn’t been able to move her grand piano from her grandparents’ house into his apartment. As spacious as his place was, it couldn’t accommodate a piece of furniture that size. Instead he’d rented studio space where she could practice independently. She spent two hours there every morning before heading to the Kimmel for rehearsal. The performances would soon begin, but other than attending those, the only time he heard her play was when she messed with the electric keyboard in her bedroom.

  This would have been a pre-performance treat. Maybe if the break was short, he could linger. She had informed him that she didn’t care to be watched, which seemed odd since she was used to playing in front of thousands of people. Once, when she’d forgotten her purse, he came to drop off money for her lunch. She had curtly thanked him, then dismissed him. Evidently he was the only person she didn’t want watching her.

  Things were changing, he told himself. Ever so slowly, they were. He had to hold on to that.

  Gone now were any rules Sophie had laid down about when he could see her. That had changed the moment he received that note. Someone made a threat against him and used his daughter to do it. If he wasn’t watching her carefully, it would be someone else. Someone he would have to trust in a hurry.

  Mark approached his daughter, who was talking to Bay, the violinist. Mark had met the boy before. A nice kid who had a path to success similar to Sophie’s. He thought it was a great thing for her to have someone like Bay around with experience performing at this level at such a young age.

  At least he had thought it was good until he saw his daughter wearing ridiculously tight black jeans and a shirt that showed her…gulp…breasts.

  Holy jeezus, his daughter had breasts!

  And they were totally out there.

  “What in the hell are you—” Mark stopped when he saw her face. Tight, flushed. Ready for him to drop the hammer and call her out for wearing something so overtly and inappropriately sexual. Call her out in front of Bay, who was handsome and a friend who she talked about constantly.

  “Uh, rehearsing here today?” he finished lamely. “Yeah. I figured I would stop by for a preview of the show.”

  “We’re working the concerto,” she said, her arms now fully wrapped around her thin body, her shoulders sunken in as far as she could. “You wouldn’t know the composer. It’s not the guy you like.”

  “Beethoven.” Mark smiled at Bay. “I like Beethoven. I didn’t know who did all that sad stuff, but it’s him every time.”

  “Beethoven is great,” Bay agreed. “Sophie does the ‘Moonlight’ like nobody else.”

  Mark smiled and as he did so felt his facial muscles contract. Was this kid flirting with his daughter? “You know, come to think of it, Bay, I don’t know that I ever asked you how old you are.”

  He could feel Sophie shoot him the evil look of death, but after living with her for the past few months he was mostly immune to it. Her death look now brought no more than a mild sting.

  “Eighteen, sir.”

  “Eighteen,” Mark repeated, probably too loudly. “How about that. You’re legal now. It’s official. An adult. Not a kid anymore.”

  Bay smiled and nodded as if he understood Mark’s implied message. “Yes, sir. Look, I’ll leave you two alone. It was good to see you again, Mr. Sharpe.”

  “Hey, call me Mark. After all, we’re two grown men. Two men should call each other by their first names. Don’t you agree, Bay?”

  “Uh. Sure. Mark.” He waved and walked to the string section, where the performers were starting to regroup.

  “How could you?”

  Mark fixed a fairly stern glare on Sophie. “Nuh-uh. Not this time. This time—” he looked pointedly at her chest “—it’s on you. How could you? We’re not going to talk about this here. I know this is your place of work—I respect that even if you are only fourteen. So we’ll discuss this at home.”

  “Stop calling it home. It’s not a home. It’s an apartment.”

  “Fine. Then we’ll discuss it at the apartment.”

  “Whatever. Why are you here anyway?”

  “I told you, I had some time. I wanted to listen to you play.”

  Actually he wanted to check in on her. While she knew about the existence of the note, Mark was fairly sure she didn’t understand its significance. To her it was some meaningless prank. To him it meant trouble. It was okay with him if she was oblivious to that—the girl had enough on her hands getting ready for opening night.

  “You can do that Friday night. I told you before I really don’t like to be interrupted when I’m working. I’m sorry if that sounds like diva city, but you have to respect that, too.”

  It wasn’t said with any real heat, probably because she wasn’t really mad at him. Instead, she was suffering from embarrassment and maybe a little bit of heartbreak. Fourteen and stuck smack in the middle of her first crush. And if Mark’s instincts were correct, her first rejection.

  Which really sucked. For her and for him.

  It was easy to think that because she had just come into his life they would have all this time to get to know each other, to come to love each other, and be what a father and daughter were supposed to be to one another. Yet she was growing up—fifteen in two months. Yes, she was still young, but she wasn’t exactly a kid anymore. He had to respect that her feelings were real and they had taken a hard jab that went to their soft, gooey core.

  “Okay. Listen, though. Do me a favor and call me when rehearsal is over. I’ll pick you up.”

  “Why? I usually take a cab home with some of the others.”

  “I know, but humor me.”

  “Is this about the note?”

  His daughter was too damn bright for her own good. Which meant it didn’t make sense to lie to her. “Yeah. This is about the note. Someone sends me a note like that and I worry.”

  “It was so stupid, though. It didn’t say anythi
ng. I mean, lose me how? It’s not like I’ve seen some creepy villain lurking offstage waiting to grab me.”

  He imagined someone making a grab for Sophie. He could see the fight she would put up. His girl wasn’t the quiet or shy type. But a teenage girl didn’t know what kind of evil there was in the world.

  He did. He knew too much of it.

  “Humor me. Call me. It will save you cab fare.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Fine. I’ve got to go.”

  He watched the orchestra come together onstage and took the stairs to the auditorium. She’d already told him this conductor was particularly difficult to work for. Pushing her to five, sometimes six, hours of rehearsal a day when three hours was the norm. Apparently Romnasky was a perfectionist.

  Mark lingered in the dark shadows, where he knew she couldn’t see him. She would probably know he was still there because the main doors hadn’t opened and closed.

  “Come, come, Sophie. This time perfect, yes?”

  She settled on her bench and Mark held his breath as the conductor lifted his baton above his head and the music began to play.

  You’re going to lose her.

  Words of advice from a conductor who had been working with his daughter for the past few weeks and had observed her behavior?

  Mark spotted Bay in front of the row of strings, his violin tucked under his chin. Or maybe a warning from someone she considered more than a friend?

  It didn’t matter. In time Mark would know who sent the note because gathering information and finding answers was what he did best.

  When it came to doing that for Sophie, nothing would stop him.

  *

  “HEY.”

  Mark stopped at the door to his office. Behind his desk sat JoJo, looking rather at home. She wore all black today. Some tights that made her legs look impossibly thin, with a wide top that should have made her seem witchy but instead showed off her impish face. A thin red belt held all the material together at her tiny waist. An elf witch. A magical fairy elf witch. With tattoos.

  When he moved around the desk he saw that the Gothic ensemble was highlighted with red shoes, which transformed her style from angsty teenager to sophisticated woman.