Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 91635 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91635 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
“Almost. I’m struggling with the closing lines, but it’s not due for another week.” Amani unfolded himself and rose like a lily unfurling, tossing his hair back as he reached for his coat and the handle of his cello case. “I’ll see you Wednesday, Mr. Newcomb. There’s no need to tip me this time, since you’re doubling my fee.”
“Hey.” Vic started forward, then stopped, trying to keep a respectful distance. “Stay a little longer? If you don’t have other obligations, anyway.”
Amani cast him a wary sidelong look. “Why?”
“Just because.” Working his fingers until his knuckles popped, Vic tried a smile. “I’m being weird again, eh?”
“Just a little—stop that, you’ll stiffen your joints.” While Vic froze, fingers splayed, Amani assessed him for several moments longer, steady gaze measuring, tawny eyes cool and inscrutable—before he draped himself down against the sofa again, falling in a smooth flow of muslin and tumbling hair. “I can stay a bit longer.”
“Good. I…would you like something to drink?”
“Only non-alcoholic.”
Vic raised his brows. “You don’t drink?”
“I was raised Muslim.” Amani propped his temple against curled fingers, watching Vic almost expectantly. “I consider myself non-practicing, but…call it a matter of respect that I choose not to drink anyway. Plus I’m a year shy of legal age, remember?”
Vic glanced toward the kitchen, running through a mental catalogue of everything in the fridge. “Citrus sparkling water, then?”
Amani inclined his head, an amused smile playing about his lips. “That’s fine.”
Vic climbed the shallow steps to the central kitchen island and flicked on the hanging overhead lights, casting dim golden radiance over the raised dais—and dropping the rest of the apartment into further shadow. They’d been talking by starlight and citylight, and even in those long minutes while Vic had struggled with himself, they’d sat together in muted shadows made not so very dark by the brilliance of New York City spilling through every pane of glass around them. It felt…intimate, somehow.
Maybe that was why Vic had been reluctant to break it.
He retrieved two tall crystal glasses from the cupboard and a large glass bottle of sparkling mineral water that had been infused with fresh citrus fruits. He might as well skip drinking himself, especially if he might just end up making a tit out of himself in front of Amani if he let himself get even halfway tipsy. The man just threw him every which way, and if he got any more awkward he’d be lucky if Amani would even speak to him again, let alone continue teaching him anything.
If he could call making him sit without even touching a cello for nearly an hour anything like teaching.
So he wasn’t sure why, as he poured, he opened his mouth and asked, “May I ask you something very personal?”
Amani’s sultry laughter drifted across the room from the couch, picking up an echo of sighs in the massive space. He kicked his sandals off and pulled his feet up on the couch, shifting to face Vic as he wrapped his arms around his bent legs and rested his chin on his knees. “At this point, I can’t see why not. I can’t promise I’ll answer, though.”
“What made you afraid to play again? Was it because you were injured before?”
Amani’s eyes widened briefly, before darting away; his lashes lowered as he turned his head to gaze out the windows instead, resting his cheek to his knee. The silence held for long moments, moments in which Vic feared he’d stuck his foot in his mouth again, stomach sinking—and when Amani finally spoke it was in low tones, so quiet they barely carried to the kitchen.
“It’s because I was too young to know my own limits, and too angry at my body for failing me to respect what it needed,” he murmured. “You can’t have carpal tunnel surgery and then dive back in as if nothing happened, but…I tried. I tried because I couldn’t stand failing, couldn’t stand giving up, and I almost ruined my own recovery.” He stretched one arm out, gold bangles on his wrists chiming in soft melody as he bent his hand at the wrist, flexing it back and forth as if, from the pensive look on his graceful features, reminding himself that it still worked. “I was supposed to give a comeback performance at the music school my mother sent me to when I was young. This grand gala for their favorite little underdog story, this scholarship savant who’d become the best in his school. All the glittering rich people who loved to smile and dote on their little cello virtuoso, because somehow my hard work made them feel good about themselves.” The bitterness in his voice was clear, clear enough to make Vic ache, as was a loathing not entirely directed outward. “They all watched me sit there on that stage and fall apart when my hands locked up and I couldn’t even hold the bow. It wasn’t a performance. It was a disaster.” Each word thickened his voice, dropping lower and lower, until Vic had to move closer to hear him, picking up the glasses and stepping down from the kitchen island. “And the worst part was the pity in their eyes, in their voices, when they said ‘oh, that poor thing’ like I was ruined and really would never play again.”