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The murmurings grew as more music was handed out.
“What the hell is this?” He glared at the maestro. “What did you do?”
Novak smiled, his eyes dancing with delight. “I changed the parts around.” He nodded toward the cello section. “They now play the first violin part. The basses are the French horns. The seconds are now the cellos.” His eyes lit up like a little boy sharing his artwork with his mother.
A sour taste filled Mark’s mouth as he studied his new part. He narrowed his eyes. “The violas?” he snapped. “You’re having the first violins play the viola part?” Mark clenched his jaw.
The first viola, Chad, grinned at him and Mark frowned.
Mark glared at Maestro Novak. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” he growled.
“Is your ego too fragile to play the viola part?” Maestro asked, raising his eyebrows and tilting his head, a challenge in his eyes.
Mark jutted his jaw and said nothing.
Maestro smiled. Mark turned away, frowning, and studied the other musicians’ expressions. Some of them grinned and spoke excitedly to others in their section. Others stared at their music, a look of sheer terror in their eyes.
“All right, let us try it, shall we?” Maestro lifted his hands into the air, eyes closed, hands moving oh-so-slightly, hearing the music2in his mind. He opened his eyes and counted off.
Though Mark hadn’t played this particular piece as many times as the rest of the orchestra, he had played it several times over the course of his career. He was used to waiting to play, so to begin as the violas normally did was... odd. Disconcerting. There was a comfort in playing the same piece of music, in the same way, every time. Knowing what would happen. When it would happen. But this cacophony...
Strange sounds were coming from everywhere. It didn’t sound right. He wasn’t playing the notes he was used to playing. Phrases that were supposed to come from the oboe, now came from the trumpets. He was playing the viola part, for God’s sake. The red-headed-step-child of the orchestra. What kind of hell was this?
He couldn’t take his eyes off the page to see how the others were doing. He stared and sightread the music before him. He knew the piece and yet he didn’t. It sounded strange.
Wrong.
Horrible.
He gritted his teeth, his bow flying over his violin. He’d never made so many mistakes in his life on a stage. He didn’t have the breath to curse under. The music kept going and going.
What had he gotten himself into?
He growled and threw a maddening glare at Maestro before storming off the stage. The musicians didn’t stop and he was glad. He didn’t want to cause a scene, but he couldn’t stand the cacophony of flawed sounds in his ears.
Five
Emily woketo the sound of the shower water groaning through the pipes. She rolled to her back and pulled the sheets over her body, staring up at the cracked plaster ceiling.
Geoffrey could be a gentle lover when he wanted to be. Or wanted something. But last night was not about that. It was about submerging her into her memories and enjoying the messy results.
She felt raw this morning. Not just her body, but her emotions, too. The music in her mind was loud. Her fingers moved with the notes. Her heart soared with the melody.
Most days she managed to push the music aside and ignore it. She had become adept at ignoring the longing in her heart to play again.
Except when Geoffrey did what he did.
She curled her legs into her chest and rolled so her shins were pressed into the mattress, her face buried in her knees. She grasped hold of her hair and tightened her fists as the music grew louder in her mind. The pieces she’d poured her heart and soul into as a teenager—pieces she’d pushed to the back of her mind so many years ago... The notes fought their way into her conscious, intent on keeping her heart soft and malleable.
Why did Geoffrey enjoy tormenting her so much?
‘Cuz he’s a sadistic evil bastard, remember?
The door to the bathroom opened and Emily rolled to her side, forcing her body to relax.
Geoffrey emerged in a cloud of steam, a raggedy white towel wrapped around his trim hips. His olive skin hinted at some Mediterranean ancestry and his muscular stature screamed a daily fitness routine.
He stood in the doorway, his blue gaze a contrast to his tan skin. “I think I used all the hot water.”
