Watched By Hawk (Steel Rebels MC #11)
Chapter One
Amelia
A sudden hush falls over the rehearsal room the moment I step in.
Musicians who had been tuning their instruments and warming up for the day’s practice session are now staring, and I’m left with the familiar feeling that I was the subject of many a conversation before I arrived.
The abrupt silence is so profound that it brings me up short.
Slowly, conversation resumes, but in the quiet room, even muttered words sound like a yell. I hear “…her grandfather…” and it pierces right through me. I thought I’d guarded my heart more strongly against the opinions of others, but it seems I’m not completely invulnerable.
I clutch the bow of my violin tightly as the memories run through me.
My grandfather was a musical genius, and the man who inspired me to work hard for the spot in the Chicago Philharmonic Orchestra that I now hold.
He’s been gone for two years now, but his encouragement stays with me, as does his fame as a violinist.
Thanks to my grandfather, I’ve played violin since I was a young child, but when my colleagues in the orchestra look for ways to explain my position, they don’t see the years of dedicated practice. They see my famous grandfather, and the “connections” he surely bought for me before his death.
The man inspired me, and I’m grateful for every time he forced me to practice violin right after dinner instead of watching TV, but it’s not his connections that got me where I am today.
“Chin up, Minnie,” I mutter under my breath, using the nickname my grandfather bestowed upon me after our trip to Disney World when I was six years old.
I move forward with renewed confidence, but a palpable sense of unease prickles my skin as I approach the sign-up board and it takes everything in me not to turn around and run.
“I can’t believe they’re letting just anyone audition for the first-chair spot,” says a familiar grating voice.
I don’t need to turn around to know the words are directed at me.
“Some nobody who didn’t even attend a prestigious conservatory like the rest of us doesn’t deserve a spot in the orchestra. ”
“It’s probably nepotism.”
“Is it still nepotism if her grandfather’s dead?”
Giggles follow the insensitive comment, piercing through my defenses.
I hate the tears that cloud my eyes, blurring the announcement on the board.
I want to turn around and run, hide as I often do whenever Darla and her waspish friends come out to play.
Their barbs are often sharp, and they know just how deep to pierce to draw blood.
God, this is how rumors start and spread in the industry. It doesn’t matter that I can outplay all of them; others will always think of me as the girl who got in because of her family connections.
Chin up, Minnie. My grandfather’s words echo in my mind. Let your talent speak for itself.
Isn’t that what I’ve been trying to do for three years? It only seems to draw more hatred to my side.
“Ladies,” a male voice cuts through the chatter. I grin and allow myself to turn around. It’s rare to see Darla and her friends flustered, but George, the first chair cellist, always manages to do just that.
“G-George, oh, um…hi?” I blink at the soft tone Darla uses on the man, greatly contrasting her earlier sneer. I watch in amazement as she twirls her hair around a finger. “I…I didn’t see you there.”
It’s quite comical, really, how my bullies turn into shy school girls in the presence of the popular cellist. George is an older man who has been playing longer than we’ve been alive, and is well-respected for both his talent and charm.
He’s happily married to Derek, our stage manager, but for some reason he always seems to have some kind of power over most of the women in the orchestra.
He nods toward Darla and her little crowd, the frown on his face softening into a smooth smile, and I can almost hear the women swoon.
In all fairness, I can hardly blame them for finding the cellist attractive.
He’s got a classic look with perfectly symmetrical features and kind eyes.
His hair is always perfectly styled and he has a wardrobe full of colorful, well-fitting, and expensive clothes.
Despite the man being classically handsome, George is just a little too polished and put together for my tastes.
My rugged neighbor, on the other hand…
“Amelia,” George says in a warm voice, stepping up to the board next to me.
He slides his hands into his dark slacks like a model stepping straight out of a GQ magazine.
He flashes me a dimpled smile before turning to look up at the pinned notice welcoming everyone to audition for the orchestra’s first-chair violin spot.
“You’re going to audition for the position, aren’t you? ”
I shrug, feeling the weight of Darla’s glare on my shoulders. “I haven’t decided yet.”
“You should audition,” he says, shifting close so our conversation doesn’t carry to the others watching us. “The solo performance is something you want, right?”
More than anything in the world. Becoming the first chair violin in the Chicago Philharmonic has been my dream from the moment I first went to see the orchestra with my grandparents.
And it’s dream my grandfather and I shared. He saw me perform with the orchestra and cheered me on when I first got this job three years ago, but I wanted him to be here to witness me have a solo moment and take the lead.
Now, even with him gone, I still have the same dream.
God, I can almost see myself on the stage, under the bright lights. The feeling of the violin in my hands and the air buzzing with anticipation for me to pull my first note. The expectant hush of the audience slowly building, so tangible it’s both exciting and unnerving.
After so many years of playing, the callouses on my fingertips…that moment would make it all worth it. It would be the highlight of my career, but…
“I don’t know if I would even be considered for the spot,” I say with a shrug. “There are so many great and talented musicians who have a better chance at getting the spot than I do.”
“That should be up to the panel to decide,” he says. “They wouldn’t open the auditions to everyone if they thought a certain group deserved it more than others.”
“I guess you’re right.”
We stand in silence for a moment before he says, “My advice to you, Amelia—don’t let the outside noise stop you from going after what you really want.
I’ve heard you play for three years now and I’ll say, yours is a special talent.
Not the kind you get from attending expensive conservatories but the kind you’re born with. Don’t waste this opportunity on doubt.”
I blink up at him, surprised by the sudden praise. “That’s kind of you to say. Thank you.”
I smile despite myself. It’s not like me to seek validation from other people, but dealing with Darla always leaves me doubting myself.
It’s been this way since I joined the orchestra three years ago.
Darla hated me from the moment she met me and made sure I knew it.
As a fourth-generation violinist with enviable family connections and influence, I quickly became a target for Darla’s specific brand of vitriol, and she dragged her group of friends along for the ride.
Thankfully most of my colleagues in the orchestra are above such petty squabbles, and even though Darla is popular, she hasn’t managed to completely ruin the experience for me. This is still my dream job, and people like George make it worth it.
“I’m rooting for you, Amelia.” George gives me a friendly squeeze on the arm before turning to talk to the others.
Once their attention is off me, I grab the moment of peace to read through the notice and sign up for an audition slot before quietly slipping into my seat and readying myself for rehearsal.
I wasn’t trying to downplay my own talents when I told George that there are many talents in the orchestra more likely to get the spot.
I’m one of the youngest members, and it seems unlikely that I would beat the likes of Darla and other musicians who have been with the orchestra longer than I have.
Still, I know I’ll regret it if I don’t try.
George’s words echo in my head. Yours is a special talent. Not the kind you get from attending expensive conservatories but the kind you’re born with.
I’ve always been conscious of the fact that I didn’t attend elite music programs like most people.
When my grandfather started teaching me how to play violin, it was a way for us to bond after the passing of my mother—his daughter—and then my grandmother shortly after that.
It quickly became apparent that I had a knack for it, or a “gift” as my grandfather would say.
He began to teach me personally, even homeschooling me so I would have as much time as possible to focus on the violin.
When the conductor steps up to the podium to begin the day’s session, I push aside thoughts of auditions and solo performances to focus on the music in front of me, but after rehearsal, as I sit to wait for my bus, I allow myself to daydream of the spotlight and a quiet but eager audience.
My grandfather and I used to talk about it all the time.
I’ve seen photos in black and white of a period in time when he held the same position.
The pride on his face. The awe of it all.
I can almost imagine myself with that same look on my own face.
I sigh, closing my eyes, and it’s not until someone taps my shoulder that I open them again. It takes me a second to make sense of where I am. The bus is in front of me, and the last passenger is getting on.
Oh, crap!
I jump to my feet, straightening my bag and violin case before rushing to the bus. I can feel my face burning red as I rush in and grab an empty seat by the window. This time, I don’t allow myself to daydream lest I miss my stop.