Chapter 12 Micah
TWELVE
MICAH
I don’t think I can do it.
I stare out over the restaurant, where people are chatting and enjoying their dinners in peace.
All I can think about is the fact that I’m about to interrupt them with my playing that sounds like caterwauling.
No matter how many times Ilya has tried to reassure me that my playing is good, I don’t know that I believe him.
I know he’s here, but I don’t see him, and that both makes me more confident and less.
Trembling, I lower my head and take my bow to the cello, the opening notes to a piece I’ve been practicing diligently starting to sound in the restaurant.
I’m aware of it when people start to turn their heads to look at me, and I will myself not to mess up. I can’t disappoint Ilya.
I still need to get close to him, and letting him fuck me isn’t going to get him to tell me anything important. The only thing I know about his crimes is that he went to prison for beating up his father.
It’s something I have a hard time blaming him for.
If he was only trying to protect his mother…
But then, what if he was to beat up Adam, claiming it was to protect me?
That’s different.
Isn’t it?
As the bow glides across the strings, I dare to look up. People have stopped talking as much, but no one looks annoyed by the interruption to their meals. If anything, they seem to be interested in the background music, which is a relief.
I’m only supposed to play a few pieces to start, quiet and nondescript, but it’s something. It’s a start, and Ilya is paying well.
Too well.
Maybe I wouldn’t have noticed just how well if it hadn’t been for my awareness that he’s engaging in something illegal, but I’m not that naive. I know that as an amateur musician, I’m not worth the money I’m making — minimum wage six times over — but he’d insisted the diners would appreciate it.
He’d kept insisting that it might even be a draw once people learn he has live music.
I don’t know if I can believe that, but I’m so desperate for the money that I didn’t argue as much as I probably should have.
After the piece comes to a close, the diners applaud quietly, and self-doubt instantly seizes me again. What if they’re only being polite? What if they’re waiting to launch their complaints as soon as they’re finished with their meals?
I’d told Ilya I’d play one piece and see how it went, and I need a moment to gather myself.
I take a short break, not wanting to inundate them with my music in case they really aren’t interested in it, and wander to the back to get something to drink.
“Hey there,” a server in a neat white button-up shirt and a pair of black pants greets me. Her dark braids are pulled back, out of her face. “I’m Cat. You’re Micah, right? Mr. Zima said you’d be around today.”
I blush. “Yeah,” I say, swallowing back some of the anxiety I feel. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“You’re really good,” she says. “Are you going to keep playing?”
I nod to her. “As long as no one makes complaints or anything,” I say, unable to keep the self-deprecating words from escaping me.
Her brow furrows. “Why would anyone complain?”
My blush deepens, and my shoulder jerks in a half-shrug. “If it was too distracting or whatever.”
She smiles at me. “It was lovely. Do you need anything?”
“Oh, you’re working. It’s fine,” I hurry to tell her. “I was just looking for something to drink.”
“What’s your poison?” she asks me.
I blink at her. “Water?” I ask more than say. “Water’s fine. But you’re working—”
“I’m on break,” she assures me. “And before you try to argue, I don’t mind. I was trying to distract Harvey, but he’s worried Mr. Zima’s going to show up and catch him goofing off. Here, let me grab you a glass of water.”
She leads me over to the drink machine, and ice clinks into a glass before she fills it with water.
“There you go,” she tells me. “Now, tell me all about yourself.”
Panic races through me. I haven’t come up with a good story about why I’m there, about who I am, yet.
The worst part is that I can’t even tell the truth because I’ve started to understand that I don’t know who I am anymore. My identity had revolved so thoroughly around my family business for a long time, then around Charles, then around Adam…
And now it revolves around Ilya, except Ilya had been eager to let me out of the condo to have something to do. Under his protection, he’d said, and I hadn’t missed the significance of the word even though I think anyone else would’ve dismissed the nuance.
It had been one step closer to him confiding something real.
I think.
I take a sip of my water to stall.
She must take pity on me because she says, “You don’t have to tell me anything!
I’m just nosy, that’s all. This is the first time Mr. Zima’s had someone play music here, and I was curious about you.
He’s very protective of you. He told us not to be mean to you.
” She laughs, and I recognize the nervous edge to it.
“He was… pretty intimidating about that.”
I wince. “I’m sorry,” I reply. “He’s protective of me.”
“Oh, I could tell,” Cat says. “Is he your boyfriend?”
Mortified, I look down at the glass instead of at her.
“Hey, it’s okay,” she tells me. “He didn’t just hire you because of that, if you’re wondering. You’re genuinely good. It’s about time someone takes advantage of that little stage area.”
I don’t know whether I should believe her. Wouldn’t she say the same thing regardless of whether I was good or not to avoid upsetting her boss’s… boyfriend?
Is that what I am to Ilya? Is that what he thinks I am to him?
Guilt gnaws at me.
“Thanks.” I feel even more awkward instead of less. “I should go back out there.”
“Sure,” she says. “I should get back anyway. But thanks for breaking up the monotony some. We think you’re great.”
So they’re all talking about me.
Wonderful.
I go back and forth about whether I want to play another piece, but finally, I think of Cat’s praise and decide to do it again. Instead of backing out, I return to the area with my cello.
I take up the bow again, positioning the cello before starting in on another piece. I’m not brave enough to play one of the ones I’d composed, but I have plenty of others in my repertoire that I’ve practiced over and over again.
Like the first one, this one is gentle, relaxing, providing ambient sound instead of anything like I’d played at the bar. It’s not that there’s no heart or soul to it, but it’s different.
When that piece is over, I glance up to see Ilya watching me with a strange smile on his lips. I don’t know if that’s good or bad, but I set down the instrument and head over to him.
“Hey,” I say, licking my dry lips. “I… I hope that was okay. I probably should’ve had you sign off on the pieces I wanted to play.”
“You were good,” Ilya says, patting me on the head. “The music created atmosphere.” He motions out to the restaurant. Most of the diners are dressed up nicely, with the soft lighting providing an intimate ambiance.
It’s nicer than the place Adam took me to.
No wonder Ilya was so quick to pay my bill, though. He knows what the restaurant business is like.
“They’ll remember the music when they think of their dates here.” Ilya laughs, and I wonder what the joke is. He doesn’t explain further though, and I don’t want to embarrass myself by asking.
“I hope they remember it in a good way,” I say, resisting the urge to edge closer to him even though I want nothing more than for him to wrap a strong arm around me.
“If it was a good date, yes.” Ilya smiles down at me. “Are you enjoying yourself?”
I’m surprised to realize that now that the initial stress of playing in public has faded, I am.
I nod. “Thank you for giving me this chance,” I tell him.
“I’m not taking a break for long, I promise.
I only want to ease up from time to time so I don’t distract everyone.
” I nibble on my bottom lip. “I hope that’s okay. ”
“You are not distracting,” Ilya says firmly. “But take your time.” His phone buzzes, and he pulls it out to check the text he received.
It’s in Russian, again.
Ilya sighs. “I need to take care of this. Keep playing, Mishka.” He walks toward the back, where I know his office is.
How am I supposed to find anything out when everything is in Russian? This feels hopeless, but part of me doesn’t mind because it means I get to stay out here longer. I get to pretend to be someone with an identity, even if I don’t know what that means for me.
I return to playing, but this time I focus on the audience. For the most part, they’re not paying attention to me, though a few look over at me with smiles. It’s not the reaction I would’ve expected, but it’s welcome all the same.
I turn my attention back in full to playing, and this time, I slip from one piece to the next.
I stop only when I’m too exhausted to play more. My stamina is decent from the number of hours I spend playing, but this environment is different enough to where it isn’t the same.
This time, I put the cello back into its case and carry it to the break room to wait for Ilya to finish dealing with the business that had taken him from the restaurant floor.
One of the other servers finds me a few minutes later. He’s a tall Asian guy, with his hair in a neat side part.
“Oh, good. We thought you’d left already,” the guy says. He stops in front of me and holds out an envelope. “Here.”
Surprised, I take it from him, peering into it to see cash inside of it. “What?” I ask dumbly. “What’s this for?”
He grins at me. “Tips, of course! Some of the patrons asked us to give this to you. No one wanted to interrupt you to give it to you directly.”
“But I wasn’t doing anything special. You and the others should take it and split it,” I tell him, trying to push the envelope back to him.
He steps out of the way. “Nope. That was your hard-earned money. Take it.”
I can’t deny that I want the money, so I don’t fight him. “I… Thank you.”
“No problem.” The server waves.