“Hmm,” I said.
“Want me to ask her about it? It’s not that far from where Alice works.”
“It’s probably not available anymore.”
“I’ll text Ella.”
I put a hand over his before he could get out his phone. “No. Like I said, I don’t want her to feel pressured to leave. Anyway, she’s still processing what happened, so I think it’s better for her to be around someone who can look after her. It was a hard loss. Especially the violin. Let me get this,” I said, as the waiter brought the bill.
Neither one tried to stop me. I owed them, for acting like a jackass. We had our codes.
“It’s nice of you to make her a new Fierro,” Devin said. “Have you started it?”
“I’ve got the wood.” It was a relief to talk about something besides hurting Alice. “This violin has to be perfect, you know? I got all the wood pieces from Eastern Europe, which has the best quality and density. I’ve got a contact I trust.”
“She’s lucky,” said Fort. “I think she’s going to get a really special instrument.”
“I hope so. Anyway, thanks for meeting up tonight. I needed it. Sorry I behaved like a prick.”
“You’re always a prick with the scotch,” joked Devin. “No worries.”
“No, seriously, I’ll find my way through this. I don’t want to lose my closest friends in the process.”
“We’ve been through shit before,” said Fort. “Everything will turn out okay.”
I nodded, wishing I shared his positive outlook. Dev gave me a nudge. “So, not sure if this is a good time to ask, but are you going to The Gallery tonight?”
“Not sure. You guys?”
I knew even before they made their excuses that they probably weren’t going to go. In a weird way, I felt like I shouldn’t go because of Alice, even though she’d be at work for another hour, playing with the orchestra. Maybe she’d want to go to a movie afterward, something to take her mind off things. Maybe I could catch the end of her performance.
Maybe I should go to The Gallery to take care of my urges so I’m not fantasizing about her every time she walks by me.
“I might go,” I said. “I should go there and play hard with someone, and really work things out.”
“Lucky woman,” laughed Fort. “I can think of a few regulars who’d volunteer for the privilege of slaking your violent lusts.”
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
I walked along 19th 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’s Adagio for Strings. After a while, I knew Milo wasn’t collecting specs anymore; he was listening.