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Maelie
Maelie pulled her barely working car into a parking stall at work and winced as it stuttered to a noisy stop. The last noise always made her cringe, like glass jars rattling together.
Still, every day it got her to work was a blessing, so she whispered a quiet, “Thank you, Charlie,” and patted the dashboard lovingly. It was their parting ritual.
With a tired sigh, she stepped out into the freezing February air and heaved her giant bag of music and violin out of the back seat. Carefully balancing the load in each hand, she was ready to head inside when her phone buzzed. She swore lightly, transferred the bag of music to her other hand, put her keys in her mouth, and pulled the phone from her pocket. Had she known it was from her father, she wouldn’t have gone to so much trouble.
DAD: NY Phil auditions April 3.
No “Hi, how are you,” no small talk, just down to business. Typical. She didn’t answer, and right before she slid the phone back into her pocket, it buzzed again.
DAD: Spend extra time on the Prokofiev, you’ve always played that one flat.
“Jesus, Dad.” She sunk against her poor car under the weight of his expectations and contemplated chucking the phone across the parking lot.
He would never get it. He would never understand why she wanted to be a teacher when he wanted her to be a performer. Gerard Barre, world-famous violinist, simply couldn’t accept that she didn’t want the same life he had, and anything short of fame was failure in his eyes.
With a sigh, Maelie pushed herself off the side of Charlie, hitched her violin higher on her shoulder, and walked toward the music store with straightened shoulders.
The thing that bothered her the most about her father was her reaction. Why was she still hurt by his distaste? When would that end? Would it ever? She would have thought she’d be resigned to be his biggest disappointment by now. Not so.
Family drama aside, the moment she opened the door to Hanson Music, the dark feeling her father created shrunk to a tiny knot in her stomach. She was always happiest here at Chicago’s largest music store, and proud to be a member of their renowned instrumental teaching staff.
As she walked through the store, she smiled at a set of nervous parents looking over a new trumpet with their excited daughter, held in a giggle at the teenage boy trying to impress his bored girlfriend with “Stairway to Heaven” on a guitar he could never afford, and waved at Mrs. Hanson behind the counter.
The lesson studios were at the back, a warren of rooms that held teachers and musicians playing everything from drums to banjo. It was magical. The jumble of muted musical sounds that swirled around her as she made her way to her room made her smile. This was her home. It didn’t matter what her father said, she would always ...
WHAM.
With what felt like a baseball to the forehead, Maelie found herself reeling backward from a door that had definitely not been open a millisecond ago.
“Oh, dear.” She heard Mr. Hanson’s voice through the sharp pain and shooting stars. “Oh my goodness, Miss Barre, are you all right?”
She shook her head a little, reeling backward a couple of steps, trying to make sense of what happened. “I think so,” she managed to get out, leaning against the wall. Everything was spinning a bit.
“This is all my fault,” a different voice offered, and she could just make out someone else in front of her peering into her face with a frown. She felt like a zoo exhibit. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
Focus, Mae, she told herself, and after a few seconds, she was able to fix her eyes on the man in front of her. She blinked. Holy shit. How hard had she hit her head? Because no man, no real man, had eyes that green and a face that perfectly chiseled.
“Really, I’m so sorry,” this beautiful human continued, his voice dripping with genuine concern. “I should have been paying attention.” He put out a hand that she didn’t know what to do with. “Let me help you.”
“Oh, Miss Barre.” Mr. Hanson drew her attenion with his clear worry.. His round face was so red, she was worried he might need medical attention. He was twisting his chubby fingers together with worry. “Should I call someone? Do you need to go to the hospital?”
“No.” She shook her head, happy she could form actual words. “I’m fine.” She smiled and pushed herself off the wall, ignoring Mr. Too-Perfect-To-Be-Real’s hand. “See?”
Neither of her attendants seemed to be satisfied, especially when she swayed a little. In a flash, the tall handsome one steadied her with both hands on her shoulders, but it had the unintended effect of making her knees wobble. Jesus, he couldn’t be real. Could he?
He held her steady until he was satisfied she had her bearings. Only then did his large hands slip from her shoulders. He offered a single one for her to shake. “Sebastian Adams.” He punctuated it with a smirk that made her heart pound. “It’s good to meet you, although I’m sorry it was in this way.”
he simply let him shake her hand up and down for a few seconds while shestared.
“Mr. Adams is our new tenor saxophone instructor,” Mr. Hanson announced loudly from behind him, his face changing quickly from concern to relief. “He’s a celebrity; can you believe it? Mr. Adams plays for the Jazzmen.” He said the last word with such solemn amazement, it was as if he were talking about the Pope.
A celebrity? The Jazzmen? She couldn’t process anything that was happening. Not with her head pounding and the living statue of David standing in front of her. “Maelie Barre,” she finally let go of his hand in an awkward gesture. “Violin.”
“I would have guessed.” He nodded toward the instrument hanging off her shoulder with a heart-stopping grin.
“Miss Barre is the daughter of Gerard Barre,” Mr. Hanson interjected importantly. Maelie had an urge to kick him in the shin.
Sebastian’s eyes lit up with recognition. “The violin guy, right? With the hair?” He made a motion around his head that indicated her father’s well-known head of lush, shoulder-length, highly sculpted hair.
“That’s the one.” She tried not to roll her eyes when he looked proud of himself. She hated that hair. After the violin, her father’s hair was his most prized possession. Maelie wasn’t even sure she was on a list of things he liked.
“Looks like you two are studio neighbors,” Mr. Hanson continued helpfully. “You’ll probably be seeing a lot of each other, I would imagine. As soon as word gets out that Sebastian Adams is teaching here, there will be a flood of new students.” He rubbed his hands together, clearly pleased beyond his capacity to hide it. “Well,” he went on after a beat, “I’ll leave you two be. It was nice meeting you, Mr. Adams. Miss Barre, have a wonderful evening, and again, I’m sorry for the ...” He pointed to her forehead and trailed off.
“It’s fine, really.”
“Thank you,” Sebastian said at the same time.
After Mr. Hanson made his way down the hall,she looked at Sebastian, and he shrugged. “I’m not really a celebrity,” he offered. “I think Mr. Hanson is a little excitable.”
Again, how could he be real? He was tall, clearly built, and painfully beautiful. The most exquisite color tattoos wound their way up his arms and under the folded sleeves of his shirt. What the actual fuck was he doing at Hanson Music? “Well, you heard him”—she shrugged—“I’m no celebrity either.”
He let out a laugh and rocked back on his heels. “You probably get that a lot. About your dad.”
“More than you know,” she confirmed and rubbed at her forehead. It really was pounding.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” he asked, touching lightly at her forehead. Concern returned to his eyes. “There’s quite a lump. Is there someone I can call? I could take you to the ER.”
The feel of his fingers on her skin stole her breath and sent a long single shiver down her spine. “I’m fine.” Her words came out breathy. “But thank you for the offer.”
“Of course.” He straightened up. “I just hope it doesn’t hurt too terribly.”
“No, no, it’s fine.” But her eyes widened slightly when she ran her own fingers over the egg-sized lump and realized how ridiculous she must look.
Die. She wanted to die. Right now, if possible.
“Plus,” she added awkwardly, hating the way she couldn’t seem to stop talking whenever she was nervous, “you know, I’m sure it makes me look edgy and cool.”
The low vibrations of his laugh made her feel strangely warm. “All right, well, if you’re sure you’re fine.”
“I’m sure.” Her words came out quickly and slightly clipped. She didn’t know why but she suddenly felt very desperate to get away from his intense green gaze. Everything about him was overwhelming, and her head was truly throbbing. “It was nice to meet you, I guess, Mr. Adams.”
“You can call me Seb.” And with a half-smile, he added, “It was nice to meet you too.”
“Okay.” She ducked her chin as she did when she was embarrassed, and then suddenly blurted out, “Bye.”
He looked a little surprised but laughed and stepped out of her way.
Once safely inside her studio, she set her things down and buried her face in her hands.
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Sebastian
Seb rubbed his jaw when he finally sank into the leather seat of his car. He was so damn tired of smiling.
It seemed so much harder lately, painful even, to hold back everything he was really feeling. The only smile that had been real all day was the last one he gave the cute blonde violinist that he’d whacked in the forehead like an asshole. Something about her razor-sharp gaze and self-deprecating humor had made him feel oddly warm amidst a shit storm of disappointment.
He shouldn’t complain. Mr. Hanson was a lovely man, and the studio was as good as he could have hoped for, but, fuck, it was the last thing he wanted. All he wanted was to be back on the road, touring with the Jazzmen as he was meant to be.
He wasn’t built to be trapped inside a tiny studio, teaching children how to count rhythms and form a good embouchure. He was meant for airplanes, hot cars, and fast women.
He only had one of those things left, and as he eased that hot car into traffic, he blasted the most recent Jazzmen album and sped off toward his apartment at a speed his mother would call “suicidal.”
He sighed at the thought of his mother and how he had disappointed her. That was the hardest part to live with—the fact that he caused her any extra worry. He was used to disappointing himself by making irresponsible decisions when it came to drinking, women, and money—he’d done that his whole life—but he had tried very hard to protect everyone else. There was no fucking hiding now.
As his therapist, Phil, was very keen to point out, being open and truthful with everyone in his life was key in his recovery.
Jesus. He had a therapist. How had that happened? Not that he had anything against therapy, he’d just never seen himself as someone who needed help. He had been wrong.
A few too many drinks and a few insanely stupid moments on stage in Amsterdam, and here he was, grounded until he was clean. Jerry, the bandleader, had essentially sent him to his room until he could clean up his act. No more alcohol. No more partying.
He had been furious at first, raging at anyone that would listen to him and a few who wouldn’t. And then he went through stages of grief, as if losing the band was equivalent to losing a family member. It was weeks before he figured out that Jerry was right and his brothers Mason and Dom were right. He did have a problem.
So now he had a therapist. And a job he didn’t want. And a nagging terror that he would never make it back to where he had been.
As he listened to the notes of the music expertly weaving around one another, he got that familiar thrill he’d always felt when he played those songs on stage. No matter what, he had to get it back; he had to make good on his promise to Jerry.
Putting up with Mr. Hanson’s fawning, his wrinkled khakis, and Charlie Brown face was just going to have to be the price he paid.
But Dear God, it was going to be hard.