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Violent, vile, dangerous lusts. After I said goodbye to them, I walked home and took the elevator straight up to The Gallery’s floor. It was busy in the multi-level dungeon. There were indeed several subs I had experience playing with, and their eyes followed me as I skulked around the club’s perimeter.I could tie Catherine up there. I could fuck Sarah there. I could use that whip on Bailey and make her scream.
But I wasn’t in the mood, and there were too many people around when I didn’t feel like being social. I ended up leaving twenty minutes after I arrived, wondering if my sex life was over forever, or just until Alice moved out of my place.
Chapter Eight: Alice
Iwalked along19th Street, watching for the Fierro Violins storefront. I’d been there before—I knew exactly what block it was on—but it always seemed like a surprise to stumble across it, because it was hidden among much larger businesses.
Not that Fierro Violins was a small place. When I walked into the lobby, I took in the familiar high walls, the stone fireplace, and the deep, heavy club chairs that welcomed clients to sit. I knew there was a warren of workshops in the back, and dozens of artisans who worked for the family.
“Good morning. Can I help you?”
The polite receptionist stood and approached me, at the same time Milo appeared in the doorway at the back. His eyes met mine, and I was struck, as always, by how handsome he was, even in a worn, stained, leather apron.
“You made it,” he said as I crossed to him. God, that smile.
I ducked under his arm as he held the door for me. “I said I would come.”
“You were fast asleep when I left. Snoring.”
I rolled my eyes. “Musicians sleep in on Mondays. Well, except for you.” We walked down the hall, which was quieter than you’d expect a music-based workplace to be. I mentioned this to Milo and he raised his brows.
“You don’t make a violin with hammers and power tools. What you hear is the silence of concentration.”
I gave him a look, and he smiled again. It felt like a personal victory whenever he smiled at me, because he wasn’t the smiley type. He led me down the corridor to the last workshop on the left, a wood-paneled cocoon of violin parts and instruments in process. The still, cool air smelled like varnish and cut wood. There were so many tools, so many pieces and molds, and raw slabs of wood.
He took one of them in his hand and turned to me. “This is going to be the back of your violin. It’s the only piece I have so far, but it’s perfect.”
I took the oblong piece of wood. It was heavier than I thought, and sanded smooth. I held it to my cheek. “It’s magnificent, Milo.”
“It’s from an old-growth maple on the north side of a mountain in the Caucasus. It was cut decades ago, but it’s been drying. I think it’s just right.”
I rubbed my cheek against the dull-colored slab from halfway across the world, and thought how random it was, that this tree had been planted maybe two hundred years ago, and now it had come to me, to make beautiful music. It would be cut and shaped and varnished a rich auburn color. “Is it drier wood than my last violin?” I asked.
Milo shrugged. “Probably about the same. We don’t use crap wood at Fierro.” But his eyes were bright. He was excited. It was probably a really special cut of wood. I wondered how much he’d paid for it. He’d never give me a straight answer, so I didn’t bother to ask.
“Thank you,” I said instead. “I really can’t thank you enough for doing this.”
He took the wood back, placed it on one of the workshop’s nearest counters, and walked to another counter to pick up a completed violin. “I wanted you to play for me while you were here. This is a prototype, for taking measurements, so I can really nail the specifications.”
“Oh. Sure.” I tipped the violin onto my shoulder, nestling it beneath my chin. “What should I play?”
“Nothing yet.” He drew out a battered measuring tape and measured the space between my chin and the end of the instrument, as well as the chin rest. He measured the length of my forearm, and waited patiently for me to compose myself when I giggled and ducked away. “It tickles. I’m sorry.”
“No worries.”
He took a few more measurements, and then I started playing some Vivaldi. He didn’t film me, or take photos, but I’d never been so closely scrutinized in my life. His dark eyes seemed to blaze at me from a couple feet away. I tried to play normally, without any reservations, and I was careful not to turn my head, even when he circled me with that intense stare.
“You’re going to make such a tone on this new violin,” he said, when I finished a short gavotte. “Play something slower now.”
It was an order, delivered in his rough, sexy voice. My fingers shook as perverse thoughts filled my brain, to the point where it was hard to concentrate. I could smell him, feel him beside me. He was checking out my angles while I refocused on musicality, because, by God, I wanted to impress him. I played one of my favorite meditative songs, Barber’sAdagio for Strings. After a while, I knew Milo wasn’t collecting specs anymore; he was listening.
I flicked a glance over at him, catching his gaze. “Is that enough?” I asked. “Or do you want me to keep going?”
“Keep going.”
I ended the Barber and began an allegro piece, one Milo used to play during lessons with my father. I wondered if he’d remember, but then he smiled, and I played faster because I was flirting. Milo was a temptation I couldn’t shake. He’d made it clear we were going to keep things friendly, especially while I was living at his apartment, but that only made me want him more.
I looked at the wall beyond his shoulder as I plied the strings, but I could still feel his eyes on me. I could feel them tracing over the lines of my jaw, and the lines of the violin as my bow arced between us. Then he picked up a violin from the rack above his work counter, as well as a bow. He joined the piece mid-phrase, angling his body so our violins sang together.
