His lips are against my hair. “You did so well, sweetheart. That was quite fierce, but I think you needed it.”
I’m sinking deeper and deeper against his body, more relaxed than I can remember being in a long time. Laszlo’s presence curls around me like a beloved melody.
“You’re not going to feel nervous tonight. You’re not going to be upset about your career or worry over it, either. You’re a beautiful cello player and no one can take that away from you. We’re going to figure everything out together, all right?”
I take a deep breath and close my eyes. “Thank you, sir.” With that simple word, sir, I know that everything’s going to be all right. If I can get through this then what’s playing for a few hundred people in a concert hall?
He’s holding me so close that my ears are filled with the thundering of his heart, the sound of his breathing. The cologne he always wears envelops me along with the scent that’s just him. Laszlo. Masculine and comforting.
After a minute I notice he’s humming softly, the vibrations deep in his chest rumbling against my cheek. It makes me smile because Laszlo always hums when there’s silence, or taps out a melody on his leg or the kitchen counter or the steering wheel of his car. It was one of the first things I noticed about him. Sometimes I don’t think he’s aware that he’s doing it.
I listen to him for a few minutes, just breathing him in and enjoying his warmth. Then I shift in his lap and look up at him. “Are you always thinking about music?”
He’s surprised by my question and stops humming, and in the silence that follows he seems to realize why I asked. “Always. For as long as I can remember. I thought it was the same for everyone and I was shocked when I realized that wasn’t the case. It used to drive me mad when I was young because I couldn’t stop it. I used to bang my head against the pillow, trying to knock the music out so I could fall asleep. I think that’s why I became a conductor. So I could take control of the music.” His lips brush my forehead. “I like being in control.”
“Does the music still keep you awake?”
He smiles, running his fingers through my hair. “Not anymore. It’s still there, but quieter now because I’m doing what I need to do. The music doesn’t need to be so insistent anymore.”
Laszlo goes back to humming and watching my hair slide through his fingers like silk. He’s never said so but I think he’s always liked my hair.
I recognize the piece he’s humming. “Dvorák’s Ninth. Are we going to perform it on tour?” It’s one of Laszlo’s favorites. It’s one of everyone’s favorites really, sweet and pastoral at times, then piping and happy, then dramatic and strained, all winding up to the most joyful climax in the fourth movement. I don’t need to ask Laszlo to know that he finds it a lot of fun to conduct. I can tell from his energy, the light in his hazel eyes. I love seeing him like that. We played the last movement in the youth orchestra the year I was seventeen and I remember what one of the percussionists said when he announced we’d be performing it. “Is that the one that sounds like Jaws at the beginning?” There were snickers, because the first few bars of the movement are a slow and ominous dah-dunnn, dah-dunnn that is very much like the Jaws theme.
Laszlo looked pained, as if comparing Dvorák’s most famous symphony to the score of a horror film was too much for him. But he just nodded. “Yes, Mr. Baqri. It’s the one that sounds like Jaws at the beginning.”
“In Bangkok,” Laszlo says. “The Seventh, Eighth and Ninth Symphonies. We have to do the Ninth. That’s the big one.”
“Oh, yes. That’s the daddy.” I say it without thinking. I didn’t mean that sort of daddy, I meant it in the way he said, “the big one,” the daddy of all Dvorák pieces. But of course I can’t say daddy to Laszlo without it meaning something very different.
Do you like that, daddy?
I feel a blush creep over my face. He holds my gaze, long and intense, his expression unchanging. “Yes, Isabeau. The daddy.”
I shift a little on his lap, not breaking his gaze. Please can I call you daddy, sir? I still want to, despite everything. It expresses all the complicated feelings I have for him. That I want to submit to him. That I want him sexually. That he makes me feel safe and small and sweet. I want to call him daddy because it’s respectful and submissive and beautifully screwy at the same time. When I was eighteen I hadn’t thought about it particularly hard, I just knew that it was something you might call an older man in bed, to inflame, to tease, to make him put his hands on you with a little more tender roughness than he normally might. And because he always made me feel safe and secure and loved, like a father would. Almost, but not quite. Because I don’t love him as a father, I love him as a man. As my mentor. As whatever he is now. I think he might be my dom but I’m not sure and I’m afraid to ask. If we put a label on this it might be too much, and I’m frightened I’ll scare Laszlo away. I don’t think he likes being reminded of the fact that he’s known me since I was a child. I think he’s decided to compartmentalize me into Isabeau then and Isabeau now and the only reason he’s able to separate the two is because we spent three years apart.