53. Montana
53
Montana
A fter spending the entire afternoon in and out of Shane’s bed, just as he hoped we would, I’d finally built up the nerve to head to my meeting. I couldn’t deny I was grateful for the distraction, and spending countless hours collecting orgasms from my stepbrother was by far the best way to do it.
The hallways are empty when I finally arrive at the Institute. Conductor Hopkins told me to meet him after hours, something teachers and instructors usually frown upon. However, he was doing the underdog a favor, as he so adequately described it, and I was ready to cash in.
I make my way into one of the music rooms and write my name on the board next to the door so he knows which space I’ve entered. I flip on the lights and survey the scene, finding a suitable seat and dropping my bag into a chair in the corner, positioning it in the direction of the music stand near the center of the room.
The Isle of the Dead lays before me on the black metal music stand, and I rest my cello on the pin. Taking a deep breath, I inhale the scent of old oak and the dated chalkboard dust that still lingers. Musical notes line the board on a pre-drawn staff, the evidence of another musician working through the tough riffs of this precise song earlier today.
I prepare my bow, readying to ease into a couple of quick scales, when I hear a rap on the door.
My hands shake, and my palms feel slippery as I work to calm my erratic pulse.
“Come in,” I answer.
The door twists open, and Conductor Hopkins rushes through. He’s dressed in his normal work attire: brown slacks, a button-up shirt with a cable cardigan overtop, and a pair of his signature suede Nomad shoes. His bulbous body swerves around various music stands, making his way toward the front of the room, near the chalkboard. He grips the eraser, and I sit silently, watching while he removes the notes from the board, only to replace them with new ones.
I watch as the sequence of notes piles together to form a melody. He drops the chalk, dusting his hands off before approaching me and placing them on his hips. His expression is unreadable, as is his intention.
He points to the board. “Please.”
I take that as my cue to play the notes. Positioning myself on the edge of the chair, I straighten my back and draw my bow. I complete the scale, ending with a rich-sounding vibrato. I hear it as well as he does—the tune is just off; the cheap instrument can’t forcefully conduct the sound I require, no matter how skilled I am or who plays it.
Conductor Hopkins pulls out a chair beside me and takes a seat. He leans his elbow on the edge of the metal backing, appearing casual and unassuming.
“Set the instrument aside, if you would. Let's have a chat.”
I comply, placing the cello back in its case. As I’m setting it down and pressing it into the velvet interior of the casing, I begin to wonder if Wesley told him anything about the other night. Were the police actually called? Was the house searched? Who knows what?
Crossing one leg over the other, he eyes me with an unreadable expression. “For obvious reasons, I cannot let you continue to be a member of the Montgomery Fine Orchestra while playing this instrument. It’s not up to par with the Institute’s standards, as noted in the handbook that was required for membership. As you are well aware, I expect precision, perfection, and the pursuit of exactitude from my members.”
“Yes, sir. I am aware.” I hang my head.
He regards me in a way that makes me question his decisiveness. A bit of empathy, maybe a snippet of concern, flashes at me in unassuming brown eyes.
“I was made aware of what happened,” he states, steering the conversation.
My chest seizes, and I work to play innocent, steadying my expression as my erratic breaths beg for freedom from my restrained lungs. I wait for him to continue.
“Wesley told me.”
My lips twitch, and I roll them together, my teeth clamping down on them before letting up.
“He told you,” I whisper, more of a statement rather than a question.
He drops his crossed leg and leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. Taking a deep breath, he puffs his cheeks and exhales, like he’s searching for the right words to not embarrass me with the information he’s obtained.
“Your stepbrother burned your cello in a bonfire, and you were forced to find a new instrument at the last minute.”
My lungs feel stuck together. I’m not sure where he's going with this, but implicating Shane wasn't a part of the plan.
“Listen, Montana,” he begins, “I know I shouldn’t get involved. I shouldn’t know what happened or how it happened, but I do. I don’t want you to naturally assume I’m going around inquiring about you to my son. I’m not.”
He runs a hand down his face, rubbing over the salt and pepper scruff covering his round cheeks and jaw, appearing torn about something.
“But I just can’t help but to get involved. You’re an exceptional musician, talented beyond all measure, but life hasn’t set you up to succeed. Despite that, you’ve found a way to do it because you fight. You’re tenacious by nature, and something about that calls to me.”
All these years, the endless pursuit, the hours upon hours of practice, the money I spent on instruments, the research, the conniving, the lies, the manipulation…it’s all come down to this moment. Retribution for her.
Conductor Hopkins reaches out and places a hand on my knee. My instinct is to pull away, but the moment requires I don’t. Memories quickly flood me, and I’m back in my room again, the dealer leaving my mother with enough to get her knocked, just long enough for him to play. She needs to be sleeping, so she can’t hear my screams. He touches the inside of my leg while reassuring me it will only hurt for a little bit. You might bleed, but then you'll love it.
“I want to help you. And maybe by helping you, you can help me?”
My vision clears and I’m back in the present, focusing on Conductor Hopkins’ words. My toes curl inside of my shoes, and my fingers twist in my lap. Straight panic zips up my spine, but I breathe through it, diminishing its power over me.
“I want you to know that whatever happens in these rooms, it stays right here. Between us, okay?” he asks, brows raised. “Just between us.”
The room shifts on its axis as I wait for him to suggest the inevitable. That a broke girl like me with a promising future in this orchestra can only maintain her seat by doing what people of good wealth and fortune never have to do—use her body for a sick man’s pleasure.
I’m the perfect victim, just as Shane described. Poor, young, and naive, with nothing but opportunities for success before me.
“I hope to have earned your trust as a conductor, but more importantly as your aide, your ally, and dare I say…as your friend.”
Friend.
Just like the friend I’d made in a hopeless environment who was brutally murdered at your hands. The hands that are about to caress my body. The mouth that planted its dirty trail along her bleeding flesh. The penis that forced its way into her dead and lifeless body again and again, raping her corpse and after, caressing and holding what you knew you could never have in reality…
It all led back to the song and the words Ella left me with. He’s a man grown tired of one destiny, claiming sanity owned that life. He just wants a chance at the other path before it dissipates. Dreary, fluid, and vibrant in all the worst ways, he requested a song this time—music that bleeds from one life into another—a harmonious transition, as he described it.
The Isle of the Dead.
The song that was inspired by the painting. The painting Conductor Hopkins not only had on display at his home, but also at the Macrae Mansion, the scene of the crime. It exemplifies a story of death and mourning, of one traveler's journey to deliver the restless soul of the deceased to the secluded island after their departure. The painting inspired the original symphony, which Conductor Hopkins added to his repertoire post-sabbatical. The symbolism of that coincidence screams to be recognized.
It was always his plan to seduce and murder the one he couldn't keep. His darkness bled into reality the moment he discovered CyprusX. The site made illegal activity easy, being that it was a part of the dark web and regulations ceased to exist. The sabbatical, his need to view the painting in person, it was his way of coping with what he’d done to Ella. He’d metaphorically taken her to his own island, attempting to release the soul that still haunts him night after night as he performs the piece before his audience.
Swallowing, I nod, looking down at my fingers and then at his palm still cupping the edge of my bare knee.
“I’ve got an opportunity for you. A cello that you could keep in order to maintain your status as a member of this orchestra. I don’t want you assuming I do these favors often, because I don’t. For anyone. But you’re a special girl—woman,” he corrects himself, looking bashful. “You’re a special woman, Montana, and I want nothing more than to see you thrive.”
“That’s so kind. I-I would be so honored and completely appreciative of the chance to reclaim my seat.”
A tight-lipped smile slides across his round face, his cheeks and nose reddening. He licks his lips, then straightens in his chair. I study his every move, my body still frozen in fear yet on high alert.
“I assume this is the part where I need to help you?” I ask timidly.
He licks his teeth as he assesses me, almost as if he’s still contemplating this little agreement.
“This would be that part.” He nods.
I wait for him to move, to stand, to reach out and grab my hair, and force me to wrap my young, naive mouth around his genitals, but he doesn’t. He just sits there.
“What is it that I can do for you, Conductor Hopkins?” I ask, sensuality delicately lacing my innocent tone.
He hesitates, and I get it now. He isn’t the type to make the first move. Maybe he’s one of those who needs that little push to get them going. Requiring someone else to enable the behavior he’s so sure to display, hence the reason for being an active member of an online site where you can pay to watch and engage.
I slink down from my seat, tucking my hair behind my ears as I get onto my knees, the cold tile like ice against my bones. Slowly, I crawl across the floor, closing the space between us. He watches as I kneel before him, my hands casually resting on my lap, awaiting his command.
“Just tell me what you like?” I whisper, twisting my fingers into knots again.
He tips his head, deep divots wrinkling his forehead and his eyes narrowing. His hand reaches out, and two fingers slide beneath my chin.
This is it. No going back now…
“Montana,” he whispers. “No.”
He's having second thoughts. My face falls, and my shoulders slump.
“What did you think this was?” he says, his head dipping down to level our gazes.
My stomach plummets to the ground beneath me, and my back steels, straightening.
“What?”
“I’m so sorry dear, I never meant for you to assume…” He sucks in a fearful breath, shaking his head. “Oh, dear. No.”
Running a hand through his hair, he fingers the ends of his curly locks as his mouth drops open, appalled. He immediately stands, reaching out his hand to help me up.
“I’m so sorry, you’ve got it all wrong. I could never…I would never…”
“Oh,” I comment, the room whirling around me now. “I just thought that’s what you meant by helping you out.”
He shoots me a pitiful look.
“I’m so sorry you ever felt that I’d take advantage of this situation like that. I wouldn’t. It goes against my moral grain.”
How can that be possible?
“Is it because of Wesley? Because we’re dating?”
“No, darling.”
What can it be?
“Do you not find me attractive?”
Honestly, I don’t understand. I held his attention online for a period of time before, my body deceptively ruling him into siphoning some of his earnings. So what doesn’t he like about me in reality? What could make this man hold up his moral shield regarding Montana Rowe, the gutter rat from the trenches in need of advancement?
“Come sit.” He pats the seat next to him, and I perch on the edge of the chair, confused as hell. We peer at each other momentarily before he continues, “Don’t you ever sell yourself for anything in life. Not against your will.”
Why is he talking like this?
“The favor I wanted was simply to ask you about Wesley.”
“Wesley?”
“Yes, that’s all,” he states. “Joan Witherton, who lives a few houses down the road, called me the other night. Claims she heard some possible gunfire coming from the rugby house. Rumor has it the police were called, but I’ve yet to hear anything about it. I don’t dare bring it up with Wesley because I know it will only serve to further distance us, but this information truly concerns me.”
How is this possible?
“I know it’s crossing a line, me inquiring about my son to his girlfriend, but I can’t seem to break through to him. He’s at that age, I suppose.”
I almost want to laugh, but I can’t because I’m so entirely perplexed. All my time and effort spent seeking justice…was it truly wasted on my assumptions of him?
“So you were going to give me a new cello, in exchange for me simply giving you some insight on your son?” I say again, in utter disbelief.
I’m aghast, thrown for a goddamn loop. This was so easy. It was a setup for a slam dunk. A man like him should take advantage of a situation thrown into his lap like this, especially with what I know of him. How could I have gotten this all wrong? Everything she told me…the music, the odd requests, his status, the way she came up missing—it was all right there in front of me.
“Yes, he means that much to me, and I’d hate for him to throw his future away messing around with a group of friends who don’t have his best interests at heart.”
Oh, if he only knew.
“I have to say, I’m entirely embarrassed by this situation.” I admit, peering down at my lap again.
His hands grab my shoulders, a feeble attempt to comfort me.
“No. Darling, no. I can’t have you feeling this way. I feel at fault for wrongly juxtaposing this situation. I assure you, this isn’t who I am. I’d never take advantage of a young woman. Never.”
Irony and assumptions rule me, and I work to get out of his grasp.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, pushing away from him. “I may have read this entirely wrong, but whatever you and your son are dealing with, you need to work that out with him. I’m so sorry, but I can’t be involved. I shouldn’t be involved in any of this.”
I stand to leave the room, but he reaches for my hand.
“Montana, please,” he begs, panic protruding from his dark eyes. “I’m not asking you for much. I just want to know that he’s alright.”
I twist my wrist out of his grasp, shaking my head.
“He’s not. He needs proper discipline and a real sense of self-awareness. His entitlement is out of hand, and he’s on a destructive course.”
I quickly reminisce on all the horrible things he’s done to spite Shane, and my face fills with color, my distaste for men as a whole coming to the forefront.
“Clearly, he needs a good talking to,” the conductor responds. “I promise you, I’ll sit down with him. While your relationship may be young and juvenile, maybe it can be salvaged with an intervention.”
I nod, acting hopeful while internally not giving two fucks about Wesley or his future. He was an easy target to advance my mission, nothing more. Conductor Hopkins sighs, getting to his next point.
“I have an acquaintance down at the musical store, Wardenheim’s. You’re familiar?”
I nod, “Yes, of course. That’s where I got my replacement instrument. Leon was wonderful, but the Davide Pizzolato I had emailed about wasn’t available anymore.”
“The Pizzolato isn’t available?” he questions, seemingly shocked.
“No. It’s since been snagged.”
“Well, rest assured, I have plenty of other colleagues with various connections. I’ll make sure we get you a high-quality instrument. But until then, I can’t have you perform. Meaning, you’ll be sitting out for the Midyear Performance Concerto.”
Disappointment floods me. For my current situation. For the concert. For everything that’s unfortunately imploding.
“For what it’s worth, I understand that life has a way of challenging us, pushing us to our limits, and really testing our humanity through our disadvantages.” He places a hand on my shoulder again. “No matter what you've been through on your own, no matter what happens between you and my son, just remember to keep fighting, Montana. Fight to be who you are, for your courage far outweighs mine.”
I hang my head, heavy with frustrations. The truth of who he is may not be the most glorious. He may even be the type to have muddled in the inappropriate conduct of the underworld, but at the end of day, Conductor Hopkins’ hands are clean.
Dread consumes me.
Everything I’d worked for is going up in smoke. Years of work—wasted.
I was so sure…