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“Unconventional?” Mark rolled his eyes. “He’s asking us to play that modern shit that has no musical quality whatsoever. There is no melody. There is no... nothing. It’s noise.” He ran his hand through his hair. “Did you hear what he did to the Dvorák?”
“People like new sounds.”
Mark snorted. “Drunk people.”
Sam sighed. “The members look up to you. If you disrespect Maestro, they will, too.”
“He doesn’t deserve respect.”
“Maestro Pavolini recommended him.”
“Maybe he’s getting old.” He winced as he insulted his mentor and his tone softened. “I don’t understand why he made the recommendation.”
“Have you asked?”
“No.” Mark glanced back at the spot where the woman had disappeared from. “Do you know anyone on security here?”
Sam frowned. “What? Why? Did someone insult you or do you want a copy of your performance for your ego?”
Mark shot him a withering look.
“Okay, okay. I’ll ask around.” Sam put his hands up in the air.
Mark crouched down to carefully pack away his violin, picking up the few bills that had been tossed into the empty case. “Give this to the school, will ya?” He secured his precious violin in place, thinking about the woman with the big brown eyes.
He shook his head. She was just some random passerby he happened to make eye contact with. He had a date tonight with the wife of a donor to the DCSO. Why was he fixated on some random woman?
“Never mind about the video, Sam.” He stood, violin case in hand. Women were a dime a dozen to him. Why worry about one who walked away?
He and Sam headed outside and he sighed as the sun warmed his skin.
“Please reconsider your actions tomorrow,” Sam said, his eyes full of desperation. “I hate it when Stacey calls me.”
“She calls you often?” Mark arched a brow.
“She has lately.”
“This is the first time I’ve ever walked out of a rehearsal.”
“She was calling me every day of the last month of your tour, making sure you were still committed and would be at the extra rehearsals this week. They have a big ad campaign planned with—”
Mark narrowed his eyes when Sam didn’t continue. “What? Spit it out.”
“With you and Novak.”
“Are you serious?”
Sam nodded. “There’s a photo session next week.”
“You didn’t think to tell me?”
“It’s on your calendar.”
“I don’t look that far ahead.”
“Not my problem. It’s there.”
“You didn’t point it out because you knew I’d be pissed.”
