Page 100 of Some Sort of Love (Happy Crazy Love 3)
I remembered being so enamored with him those first few years. Back then I was just out of the conservatory and he was the best piano teacher in San Francisco, so of course I sought him out. I wanted to win the newly established Menuhin competition and he was considered the best person to prepare me. The competition was how I was going to prove to my parents that I could succeed as a musician. It wasn’t the money I was interested in, but the opportunity it would allow. The winner of this competition would have a hundred doors opened to them. Secretly I hoped it would allow me to teach. Even though I had a few students, mostly kids, winning the competition would give me respect and attention in the classical world. I would be able to take on students like Mark took on me. And charge them the same exorbitant fees. Because I would be worth it. And I would be able to keep my current students at their current cost. But I was getting ahead of myself. I had to win the competition first.
My palms began to sweat just thinking about it, the skin on the back of my neck prickled. I had made it through the first few rounds of smaller performances, but each time had to cope with the panic attacks. I hated it, but besides small coping mechanisms and tricks to keep me from passing out before I got on stage, there wasn’t much I else I could do to battle them. It didn’t help that Mark insisted it was all in my mind and that if I just tried harder, I could be over them.
Was there anything more pathetic then a concert pianist who was terrified of performing? If so, I’d love to find out so I could feel slightly less like an enormous loser who had chosen the worst possible career path for herself. But I loved classical music and I loved the piano. I didn’t know how to do anything else. Even so, I was getting to the point if I didn’t win this competition—if I couldn’t prove to my parents, to Mark, to myself that I could make a living through my playing—then I would have to seriously reconsider what I was doing with my life. Either I’d conquer my panic attacks, or they’d conquer me. I had made it through the first few rounds of the competition and I wasn’t ready to admit defeat just yet.
Mark had cared about the music just as much as I did. It wasn’t his fault that we hadn’t worked out romantically. As he had explained, I was just too young. And undisciplined. And unfocused.
His talent had definitely been the thing that attracted him to me in the first place, though he was quite handsome as well. Tall and blonde, with classic good looks, he was known throughout San Francisco for his legions of female fans, as well as his talent as an instructor. “Greek statue” was his nickname, though I was starting to wonder if it was more in reference to his stoic personality rather than his attractive face.
Even though he was nearly ten years older than I was, we had connected over our love of music, and I had moved into his place soon after we started working together. But I had felt a strange relief when I ended things. I had found his touches and kisses enjoyable, but it always felt like there was something missing. Perhaps it was me. Mark certainly thought so and made sure to tell me that our age difference—namely my immaturity—was the real reason I couldn’t handle a relationship with him. Apparently my lack of sensuality in the bedroom was the reason it never would have worked out anyway. That wasn’t a surprise. It had been at the root of all my other break-ups. I was starting to believe that part of me was defective. Along with all the other defective parts of me. Too bad I didn’t come with a warranty. My libido would hardly be the only thing I would send back to be replaced.
But then I thought about one of my neighbors that we had passed on our way in. Tall and lean, he had been wearing a torn shirt and five o’clock shadow. Dark hair, thick and mussed like he had just rolled out of bed, and well-muscled arms that were decorated with tattoos. Normally I preferred my men clean-cut, with clothes that didn’t look like they had survived a natural disaster, but my entire body had gone hot at the sight of him. His brown eyes had caught mine for just a second and I was pretty sure that everything below my waist had melted in that moment. It was a startling sensation, but not entirely unpleasant. One that I definitely wasn’t too familiar with.
“Uh, Ella?” Mark said, bringing me out of my red-hot memory. I felt myself blush as if Mark could read my mind. He wouldn’t approve. “I’m going to leave now.”
“Oh, yes,” I said, shaking my head. “Thanks so much for your help, Mark.”
“Well, just repay me by getting the fifth stanza right next time,” the Greek statue said and left.
As the door closed behind him, I was suddenly aware of how quiet it was. Back at Mark’s place or at my parents’ house, there would be music—jazz or classical—emanating from every nook and cranny, whether it was my father listening to his favorite records in preparation for his class on music theory, or my mother blasting the latest album she had been sent to review, or my sister, Nina, playing the horn in her own room. It had never been silent.
I flopped down on my mattress that was shoved into the corner closest to the kitchen that I was sure I was never going to use. Cans of Campbell’s chicken noodle soup were what I lived off of. All I needed to survive was a can opener and microwave. Unless my life depended on me locating the box I had packed it in. Then I was a goner.
I surveyed my apartment. It was small, but it was mine. I got a thrill. I was on my own, truly on my own. And it was quiet.
Even though the thing I wanted to do the most at the moment was play, I knew that there was a good chance I’d get lost in it and lose track of time. I really needed to unpack, so that I wouldn’t be scrambling to look for my clothes and toothbrush and other necessary items in the morning. I also needed to figure out which bus I needed to take to get to the location for the upcoming round of the competition next week since I was so used to coming across the Bay from my parents’ place near Berkeley.
My excitement dipped as nervousness rose in my chest, squeezing my heart painfully. No, no, no. The last thing I needed right now was a panic attack. Taking a deep breath, I reminded myself that the next round of the competition wasn’t for another week. I had plenty of time to practice. And now I could practice on my own, without Mark or my parents interrupting to tell me what I was doing wrong. This move was a good thing, I told myself. It was going to help.
I set about distracting myself with my unpacking. I hadn’t brought much—unlike my sister with her closet overflowing with colorful clothes, I had a rather small, extremely versatile wardrobe. Black went with everything, after all. After I had hung everything up, I was pleased to see that I still had plenty of room in my closet. Despite not having anything else I needed to put in there, it was still nice to know I had space if I needed it.
The closet door had a full-length mirror, making it hard to avoid my reflection when it was closed. My hair had come loose during my unpacking, so I quickly smoothed it back into its usual bun—the most efficient way to style my long black hair. I also didn’t mind the way it made my eyes look bigger, though my dad always joked that I couldn’t change that no matter what.
“You look like one of the things in the Gremlins movies,” he would always say. “But the cute one.”
In the mirror, I noticed that my loose black shirt was covered in dirt, which I brushed away, making sure none had gotten on my black pants. Getting dressed was easy when everything matched, which was good, since I had a tendency to hit snooze on my alarm more than I should. My quick and easy morning routine was the only thing that kept me from being late for rehearsal every day.
There was a small dresser in the closet where I put my few foldable items, mostly pajamas and lingerie. It was the one piece of my wardrobe that had any color. I was a fan of pretty lacy things, just not of showing them off. Even when I had been with Mark, I had only shown him my more conservative bras and panties. Somehow, I had sensed that he wouldn’t have approved of the more…interesting items I had. Those, the thigh-high stockings, push-up bras, and silken thongs, were carefully arranged in my top drawer. It was a part of myself that I never felt like sharing. But a part that I really liked indulging. I had a hard time passing up La Perla or Agent Provocateur lingerie. My unofficial motto was: when in doubt, buy panties. I seemed to be buying a lot of panties these days.
I unloaded the box that held my meager collection of electronics—my phone charger, which I immediately plugged in right next to my bed to charge my phone, and my second-hand laptop, which I mostly used to watch classical performances. Next I took out the bedding, placed the extra set in the closet and made my bed, which at the moment consisted only of a mattress on the floor. There was no way a bedframe could possibly fit in this apartment. But I didn’t mind. I liked how cozy it all was. And how it was all mine. And if I wanted to sleep on a mattress on the floor, well, then I was going to sleep on a mattress on the floor.
The sun was beginning to set, so I took my first shower in my new apartment and was thrilled to find that the water pressure was strong and the water was steadily hot. The city outside was still awake, lights on in every house on the block across from mine, but I found I liked the darkness of my apartment—it made it feel even cozier. I put on my favorite silk cami and short set—a recent splurge—and sat down at my piano. The first notes echoed beautifully in the room and I soon lost myself in the music.
Keep reading for a special sneak peek at the opening chapters of PLAY ME by Katie McCoy!
Chapter 2
Jake
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Beer, bed, babes. Beer, bed, babes. Beer, bed, babes. That was the chant in my head, each word accompanied by a slightly sloppy step. I had taken care of the first item on my list, and was on a path straight towards the second, but sadly, I didn’t think I was going to have any luck with the third. At least not tonight.
It was a damn shame, I thought, the city in a rare state of quiet around me. This was my favorite time of the day—when it was just me and the nighttime and the city lights. The less perfect parts of the world were hidden, cloaked in shadows or barely illuminated by streetlights.
As I reached my building, I didn’t see any lights on in any of the apartments, which made sense since it was after four in the morning. Not many people were up after I finished up at the restaurant, which is why item number three on my list was usually a difficult thing to find these days. Unfortunately, the same thing that kept me away from meeting women in the usual ways—my odd hours as a chef—was also the thing that usually got my adrenaline pumping and on a good night (and tonight had been a gooooooooood night), I usually came home totally riled up and completely horny.
Another night, another cold shower, I thought, gritting my teeth as I climbed the stairs. Not that I had any problems finding women to go home with me, but my hours didn’t allow for the traditional dinner and movie dates that started at seven p.m. Since I was seventeen, I had done pretty well for myself in that department. Women liked me and I liked them. I liked everything about them—the curve of their ass, the bounce of their breasts, the sway of their hips. But lately, I just hadn’t had the time, and one-night stands didn’t have the same appeal they used to. No, the most important thing right now was work, and a lot of women didn’t understand that.
