37. Montana
37
Montana
I stare at my phone, my fingers hovering over the notifications. I don't want to do it. I don't want to open them. I don't want to respond. I don't want to find ways to lie anymore.
I simply want to fall back in my bed and stare at this ceiling, pretending I'm someone else again.
After leaving the Macrae Mansion, Shane and I rode home in complete silence. He wouldn’t answer any more questions, and whatever we’d started faded fast. He didn’t seem interested in even touching me after feeling how deliriously wet I was. The sexual tension between us dissipated like a quick gust of wind, as if it was never there in the first place. Whatever realization Shane had come to, it’d changed his energy entirely. He dropped me off at the house and tore off down the street on his motorcycle. I hadn’t seen or heard from him since.
I scan all the missed messages, noting none from Markie. I fight the urge to get mad at her, then question if something is actually wrong. I shoot her another quick text.
Money Shot: I miss you. I don’t know what happened between us. We’ve never not talked this long, but please, just text me back when you can.
I grab my bag from the nightstand, searching for it ; the three-inch guitar keychain. Rubbing my thumb over the emblem of the Alternative Rock group where we met, I smile to myself, remembering when Markie first sent it to me. She’d mailed it with a note: Ya know, in case Mr. Dobson tries to get in your pants again.
I flip the tip as the two-inch thin shank slides up and out of the body of the Fender; a baby switchblade. My heart warms. I could really use my friend and her witty remarks right about now.
I drop the keychain and my phone to the bed beside me, hating the desperation I feel, then stare at the ceiling as a feeling of total loneliness overtakes me. I need to call Wesley back, but considering the final messages he sent me late last night, accusing me of looking pathetic for actually leaving the party with my fucked-in-the-head stepbrother, I lack the desire to iron out that kink. Our inevitable breakup is sure to come, and honestly, his role is somewhat played out, anyway.
After getting out of the shower and changing into some cutoff jean shorts and a Slipknot crop top, I throw on some chucks and sling my bag over my shoulder. Tossing my hair over my other shoulder, I grab my phone off the bed just as it pings with a new text. My heart surges, hoping it’s Markie, then drops when I see who it is.
Phil.
It intrigues me simply because it's unusual.
Phil: Family dinner tomorrow night at 6. I expect you and Shane to be there.
I can say fuck to hell with his expectations, but I can't lie to myself. The idea of seeing Shane again after last night almost makes me look forward to it.
I make myself some coffee in the kitchen, then sit on the couch in the living room, enjoying the stillness of the morning as I always do here, when I hear the clicking of nails against the tile.
“Hey buddy,” I say, patting my lap as Rocco makes his way to my seat.
He flops his big butt on the floor, practically sitting on my feet as his shoulders lean into my legs and his head rests on my lap.
Licking my hand, he rests his chin on me, his big brown eyes staring into mine.
“You actually won me over, mutt.”
I smile, shaking my head in disbelief as I pet between his large pointy ears. I can't even help it. When he leans into me like he needs me and gives me that look with his sweet little face, I can't help but love him. I never thought dogs to be such loyal, selfless companions. Better than humans, I’m discovering.
It brings me back to thoughts of my mother. Maybe Shane was right to put her in there. She never would’ve stopped. Never could’ve even begun attempting to right herself of her dependencies. And yet, with the clarity she now had from going through her withdrawals alone in prison, she was still working to enable me as her savior.
I sigh as I gently stroke Rocco’s velvety fur, my mind tracing back to Shane again. What was it about our moments at the Macrae Mansion that set him off? The dynamic between us is so chaotic. It’s messy, built on lies and a foundation of mistrust, yet when we’re together, something deeper within ourselves seems to stir in our souls—restless if not with each other, riotous when we are.
He doesn’t understand that not only did he pine for me for years online, but my sick and distorted psyche now craves his obsession. Without it, I’m lost. I find myself feeling entirely discarded in a way that brings me to the core of my past. Used, not wanted. Everything I fought for so long to become online. I had power there, in those chat rooms. I had control over my body and what I gave. Now, here before him, I seek his approval like a child to an abusive parent. It’s disruptive to my being.
T he walk to the bus stop is scalding, and the sun is cooking me to a burnt crisp today. Once the bus arrives, I make my way to a middle seat, smiling kindly at an older woman with a large straw bonnet practically hiding her entire face. I peer to the back, noting a few other passengers before I sit down.
After a quick ride, I hop off at my stop, gripping my bag a little tighter in my hand as I make my way up the street. Pulling out my phone, I quickly recheck the address before finally spotting Wardenheim’s Music.
It’s a secondhand musical instrument store I found online that listed the possibility of an available cello in-store. Making my way inside the place, the door chimes with Beethoven’s 5th Symphony.
“Hello there!” a chipper man says, appearing from around the desk. “Welcome to Wardenheim’s!”
I smile amicably at the man, who introduces himself as Leon. He asks what brings me in today, excitedly assisting me in finding the strings section as I tell him what I’m looking for.
“Ideally, I need a hand-finished piece. Something with a tight consistency in the grain across the surface…ideally a craftsman cello if it’s available.”
“You were the one who called earlier?” he questions, pausing in place.
“Uh, no, but I emailed a few days ago and was told you may have had the craftsman available for resale? A Davide Pizzolato?
“Oh.” His face drops, confusion wracking him. “I’m so sorry, dear. Someone stopped by just this morning and placed a hold on the Pizzolato.”
“Just this morning?”
He nods, his pained expression telling me this never usually happens.
“Trust me, I wish I had another. The quality is outstanding. Unfortunately, I only have one other for resale. Come along, I’ll show you.”
I follow him into the showroom, where he pulls out the only available cello, a four-hundred-dollar starter Cecilio, and I resist the urge to grab it by the neck and send it into the wall before trashing the entire music store. This will never work.
It may not be the best quality, like the seven thousand dollar Antonio Strad burnt to ash in the backyard firepit, but I’ll have to make do. There’s no way Conductor Hopkins won’t notice a cheap Cecilio playing within his orchestra—the horrific hollow-sounding tone will surely turn heads—but at this point, I don’t have much choice.
“So, are you trying out a new hobby? Playing for the school orchestra?” Leon asks, bringing the cello to the studio area so I can test it out.
I position myself at the edge of the chair, my back straight, posture perfect as can be. He hands me the bow, and I stabilize the body of the instrument on the endpin, adjusting the height so the bottom peg is at my ear. The cello rests at my chest plate as I raise the bow and begin.
I move my fingers delicately yet precisely as the very music flows from me, playing through Bach Cello Suite No. 1. Once I finish the intro, I reassess the instrument. Leon claps slowly, his mouth agape. If only it was the sound quality that had him speechless.
“You are an exceptional cellist!” He applauds. “I actually know a guy—”
The doorbell chimes with that Beethoven tune again, interrupting him.
“As a matter of fact, I think that’s him now,” he says with a smile. “One moment, dear.”
My stomach plummets and tension tightens my back. I can only imagine his dear old friend is none other than Conductor Hopkins at the door. Of course he knows him. It must be him.
I hear some chatter, light laughter, and quick conversation, before a familiar face comes into view.
“I heard there was some young musical prodigy toying around back here,” he says, his voice silky, like melted caramel.
Aleksander Romanski.
A grin slides across my face, and comfort floods me.
“Alek, good to see you, as always.”
“Leon told me that you nearly dusted his wig off with that Suite No. 1.”
Leon nods, his eyes widening in pure astonishment. “Truly incredible.”
I glance down at my outfit, the attire definitely not suiting someone who rehearses the classics on demand, then look back at them. “I’m the unassuming musical vixen, I suppose.” I smirk.
“That you are,” Alek answers, his grin matching mine.
The bell chimes again as another customer arrives.
“I’ll leave you two to it,” Leon says, nodding as he heads back toward the front of the store.
I smile at him as he departs, then focus my attention back on Alek. He looks dapper as ever in some relaxed cotton pants and a white short-sleeve button-up that showcases his toned pecs beneath. His dark, thick locks are slicked back to perfection, with a few pieces hanging before his handsome eyes. His wealth and good looks don’t take a day off, it seems.
“What brings Miss Montana to this side of town on this beautiful Sunday? Just can’t stay away from the gospel that is music, eh?” He leans against the wall, his hands resting casually in his pockets.
“It's official,” I declare, resting the ready bow at my thigh. “I've been indoctrinated to the gospel of Bach long ago.”
He chuckles bashfully, looking down at his crossed ankles before peering back up at me. His eyes light with a playful, flirtatious glimmer. He enjoys my company, that much is certain.
“Nah, truthfully, I'm just here to prove to Leon that these cheap instruments can actually hold a tune. Plus, I can always use the extra practice.”
He moves in closer, inspecting the instrument. Stepping around me, he taps the underside of my arms, nudging me into position. I angle the bow and readjust my fingers on the stem.
“Well, as a famous musician once said, don't only practice your art…”
A gentle hand presses on the area where my shoulders meet my neck, dropping them down. Fingers span down my spine, and my face flushes with heat. He finds my middle and presses firmly. My breasts jut out as I sit in proper position, straight with an elongated neck.
“...but force your way into its secrets.”
He tosses me his panty-dropping grin as he circles back around me.
“Your posture is all off when you really dig into arpeggios. Just something I noticed.”
My heart flutters in my chest, not nerves, but something else.
“Liar,” I say, narrowing my eyes.
I practice a few quick arpeggios, noting that, indeed, I do bend into them. Damn.
He chuckles at my dismay.
“Since we’re on the topic of improvements,” I begin, “you lack emotional expression when perfecting the intricate rhythm in Shostakovich’s Cello Concerto No. 1.”
His brows raise. “Emotional expression?”
“Yes,” I answer with my chin raised. “Try placing yourself into the mind of the composer. What message was he conveying through the notes? What was he feeling as he wrote it?”
“Feeling?” he questions, his face carved with a daring grin.
“Don’t get me wrong, Alek. You’re a phenomenal cellist, one I admire oh so very much.” He nods, crossing his arms over his chest, a lingering smile toying with mine. “But sometimes, you’re just a bit…”
He tips his head, waiting.
“Technical.”
He looks to the floor, chewing on the corner of his lip as if in deep thought.
“Technical,” he reiterates softly.
Finally nodding, he looks up.
“You may have a point.”
My smile grows. Somehow, I get the feeling that Aleksander Romanksi isn’t the type to take constructive criticism from just anyone.
“So honestly, what is a young lady like you doing practicing on one of your only days off? Shouldn't you be watching reruns of your favorite comfort show, binging on junk food, or sipping on root beer floats with your boyfriend?”
I cock a brow. “I could ask you the same, Mr. Romanski. Shouldn't you be picking out wallpaper patterns, moving the lawn, or mapping out perennials with the missus?”
There's that panty-melting smile again.
“Touché, Montana. You got me there.” He peers down at his wedding band, circling it around his finger with his thumb. “The wife is on another all-inclusive excursion funded by her boring musical husband, so I’m here to hang with an old friend.”
He runs a hand through the side of his black locks, a bit of stubble showcasing a gorgeous five o'clock shadow rolling in. I don’t miss the intended input of information or the underlying meaning behind it. Wife is out of town. She thinks my interests are boring. You and I share a passion for music…maybe we can share more.
Men. Too easy.
Looking back toward Leon and the front of the store, he nods.
“Me and Lee go way back. That and he's the only one I trust to touch my instrument for a proper tune-up.”
I scoff. “Figures,” I say beneath my breath.
“I'm sorry, did you say something, Miss Montana?” he jokes.
“Figures a man like you can't be bothered to tune your own instrument.”
“Why would I when I have Lee? I’m sure you have a Lee in your life, right?”
I set down my bow on a nearby music stand, rising from my seat while holding the neck of the cello. “I was obliged to be industrious. Whoever is equally industrious will succeed equally well.”
Alex shakes his head at me. “And then she quotes Johann Sebastian Bach, himself.”
“I’ll take this one, Leon!” I comment around Alek.
He breaks his gaze from me to peer toward Leon and back.
“Wait, why are you buying this? Where’s your Antonio Strad?”
“Perfect!” Leon responds from somewhere near the front desk. “Come on over, I’ll ring you up!”
“Don’t you just hate it when all your plans go up in flames?” I say, thinking of my stepbrother and his creative displays of affection.
Alek’s forehead wrinkles, his full brows pinching together as his eyes flit from me to Leon to the cello and back, working to understand.
I open my wallet to pay, pulling out one hundred and thirty-five dollars in cash. It’s all I have left from my days of portraying vEn0mX to the world. I think about my mother again, alone, locked up, begging for help, and disbelief washes over me as I hand over the remaining money. That advance from the fake porno never hit my account, leaving me empty-handed. I’d have to get back online if I want any hope of actually getting my mom a new lawyer like she asked. I’d given everything I had to save her. Save us. And yet, hundreds of thousands of dollars later, after the drugs, the debt, the gambling, and the various poor financial decisions…I’m still here trying to figure it all out.
I whip out a credit card and pay for the rest of the cello with that. Alek stands nearby, pretending not to oversee, but the hero in him can barely take it anymore. I can feel him cracking.
“Would you like to grab some lunch while I wait for Lee to finish up?” he asks, following me outside to the sidewalk after settling up. “I can drop you off after, so you don’t have to lug this thing around.” He taps the encased cello on my back.
While his kindness and self-interest so often get blurred, I do believe Alek wants nothing more than to see me succeed. If anything, I’d say he might even admire me and my tenacity.
“I appreciate you,” I say, turning on the sidewalk to face him. “I really do, Alek. But I’ll be alright.” I toss him an appreciative nod, and he succumbs to my stubbornness, reciprocating with a nod of his own.
“Industrious, she is indeed,” he says endearingly, nothing but admiration pouring from his tender smile.
Before another word can be said, he turns back toward the store and heads inside, and I make my way to the bus stop, finding myself enjoying the person I’m becoming with Alek.
Even if it is a lie.