25. Montana
25
Montana
“ I need to hear the tempo more articulated. Again.”
Conductor Hopkins waves his hands before us, beads of sweat dripping down his forehead as his salt and pepper hair glistens beneath the bright lights of the auditorium. The French horns repeat their eight count as I casually peer over at the gentleman to my left, with his cello resting against his shoulder.
We hear an audible mistake, and the man rolls his eyes.
“Stop!” Conductor Hopkins interrupts. “You are late on the count. Again.”
We repeat this cycle over and over again before the issue is finally resolved. Chief Conductor Hopkins has an ear for perfection, yet he somehow still has the ability to remain patient with his orchestra. He could easily go off the edge, screaming and throwing music stands or flipping chairs at the idiot who couldn’t keep up with the counts, but he doesn’t. He never does.
It astonishes me. His calm demeanor amidst the frustrations and uncertainty clearly water down to the rest of the members, keeping their composure tight and their confidence flowing. I keep waiting for the break, for the signs and signals, but with every practice and every interaction I’ve studied with Conductor Hopkins and his crew, it appears he’s outstanding at keeping his presence intact.
“Brass section together now! At the start of the eight.”
They continue perfecting their part as the rest of us sit and wait in silence. My eyes drift to the man next to me again. There’s no denying Aleksander Romanski is handsome. With his thick black hair slicked back and dusting his neck, and an exquisite jawline that demands attention, he’s a man worth lusting after. The slope of his perfectly straight nose, his pressed suit, and the rich fragrance of citrusy cologne have him looking like some sort of Italian mobster turned musician.
I quickly divert my gaze as the entire brass section completes the count.
“One last time,” Conductor Hopkins yells, raising his hands again.
Italian mobster musician hottie sighs, and I see him face toward me from the corner of my eye. I glance over at him, and he shakes his head.
“Amateurs,” he comments to me, and I stifle a chuckle.
A few hours later, after practice ends and the rest of the members disperse, I pack up my instrument in the hallway behind the auditorium, getting ready to leave the Institute for the day.
“How old are you?” A confident voice asks from behind me.
Turning from my bag, I see Alek leaning against the opposite wall with his legs crossed at the ankle, his designer cello bag across his chest, and his hands relaxed in his pockets.
“How old am I?” I reiterate his question, placing the strap of my bag over my chest as well, mimicking his stance. “Why do you ask?”
His mouth pulls up in the corner, a faint smile dusting his lips.
“Just curious. You are clearly much younger than most of the musicians here, new, and it’s expected that you’d be slightly squeaky or out of place when replacing an honorary member and joining a well-established orchestra. And yet, I’ve not once had to worry about Conductor Hopkins wearing our fingers to the bone in strings.”
“So you assumed my age would threaten the state of the skin on your fingers?”
His full brows lift, two dimples form on both cheeks as his grin deepens. The look is not only adorable, but it enhances his sexual appeal. He rubs his five o’clock shadow with one hand, clearly taken aback by my forwardness.
“Maybe I did.”
I roll my lips together and nod before saying, “I feel like numbers are irrelevant when talent is at hand.”
He tucks his hands back in his pockets, his eyes settling on my raised chin.
“I mean, you’re old enough for a driver’s license, correct?” he asks, still grinning.
I shoot him a bored look. “Clearly.”
“So why do I see this musical talent hop on the bus every night after practice to make her way home?”
“Not only am I a musical prodigy, I’m also an environmentalist. Among my many astonishing qualities, I also happen to care about the excess of carbon dioxide I push out into this world.”
“Is that so?” he questions, moving in closer, intrigued.
“No.” I shake my head, my eyes trailing from his crisp button-up to his designer loafers. “My piece of shit car broke down over a week ago, and I’ve yet to get it fixed.”
“I see.” A wide grin grows at my humor, and he nods.
I reel him in with my eyes, the tension between us sizzling with every step he takes closer, like a sucker fish following bait.
I wait for him to offer, but he doesn’t, so I slide him one last sultry grin before turning and pushing through the door to the main hallway. A few steps later, I hear those fancy loafers against the granite floors catching up to me.
He inhales as if he’s about to say something, then doesn’t. I try to contain my smile as my feet continue to guide me toward the exit. He gets to the door before I do, pushing it open before me.
“Thank you…” I trail.
“Alek,” he finishes for me. “Aleksander Romanski, but you can call me Alek.”
As if I came unprepared.
“Thank you, Alek.”
I continue walking down the stone stairway of the Institute, and when my feet hit the sidewalk, he says, “Montana Rowe.”
I turn to face him.
“Your name,” he explains.
It’s almost too easy sometimes. Walk away, disengage, and the need for attention drives them to conquer the unconquerable.
“That it is.” I smile, then turn on my toes.
“Please,” he urges, causing me to pause. Turning to face him again, he stands about three yards from me, gesturing toward the parking lot. “Can I give you a ride?”
Hook, line, sinker…
“I’m not sure I can trust someone who so easily assumed my skill set meant his demise.”
He drops his head back with a smile, his straight teeth are yet another feature I find immensely attractive.
“Vague assumptions due to a childhood of nothing but the greatest expectations. Please, forgive me.”
Money, wealth, and expectations. What a trifecta.
We unload our instruments into the back of his Lincoln before he pops the address to my current residence into his GPS. I don’t miss the way his brows lower when he realizes what part of town we are heading to. I quickly text Markie.
Money Shot: You wouldn’t believe the ass on my new ride. Ass so tight it might even turn Markie straight.
“So, are you enjoying being a part of the Montgomery Fine Orchestra?” he asks, making small talk.
“I am,” I say, settling back into the plush seat. “I was a tad worried Conductor Hopkins would be somewhat of a dickwad drill sergeant, but to be honest, he’s shown me an entirely new side.”
Alek chuckles. “I’ve been with this company for about seven years now, and I assure you, he never changes. I’ve yet to see him blow a gasket like some of the other conductors are rumored to have. He’s a great man. An accomplished artist in his craft who’s earned his respect amongst the rest of his colleagues and the community.”
Interesting assessment.
“Oh, I agree. I mean, he took a chance on me, even though I’m dating his son.”
Alek freezes for a second, his shoulders stiffening as he drives.
“His son? You mean Wesley Hopkins?” He looks over at me, his forehead wrinkling. “You’re dating Wesley Hopkins? Chief Conductor Hopkins’ son, Wesley Hopkins?”
I quickly explain to him how I got my chance to audition for the orchestra by no means of cheating my way through the system. Clearly, Alek has seen me in action, so there’s no denying my abilities at this point, which was the idea. Show them my talents before they assume anything else.
“I’m not going to get in trouble for giving you a ride, am I?” He half-jokes, semi-panics. His eyes dance over my pantsuit before trailing up to my eyes.
He’s worried because clearly he was envisioning sex with a woman many years his minor, felt the tension between us I put there, and now feels guilty as hell.
“Why would you?” I smile innocently. “Besides, it’s nice to actually have a friend in the orchestra. I’ve felt like an outsider most of my life, but especially in this environment.”
Cue the need to protect and capitalize on a young woman’s loneliness.
“Well, consider us friends, then.” He smiles amicably.
Pulling up to the chain-link fence, the neighbor’s dogs bark, and Alek peers around me at the old busted-down door at the front of the house before settling back in his seat.
“This is you?”
I sigh. “Only for the time being. I moved here so quickly, I had to find something close enough to the Institute.”
He helps me by grabbing my cello case from the trunk and carrying it toward the house. I hide my smile when I hear his keys lock the Lincoln from the fence. He’s not wrong to assume things might happen to an SUV that costs more than the houses in this neighborhood.
I take the cello case from him and place it inside the kitchen, closing the side door again before Rocco makes his presence known.
“Thank you,” I begin, tucking my hair behind my ear as I face him. “That was very kind of you to offer me a ride.”
He stands there momentarily, hands finding his pockets again as he assesses me and the crumbling home behind me.
“Are you hungry?”
There it is again. The phrase that affects me. The one that weakens me into the little girl in need of someone to care for her.
“I-I mean, I don’t want to impose, clearly, but I was about to head to this cafe closer to town, and I guess, now that we’re friends and all,” he chuckles, his hand reaching to rub the show of whiskers on his face, “maybe you’d want to…maybe y-you’re hungry?”
I inhale a large breath, looking behind me at the house. Through the door, I hear footsteps approaching the kitchen.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t assume you’re hungry, I didn’t mean to — ”
“Alek,” I interrupt and place my hand over his, insisting he stop. “I’d love to.”