Total pages in book: 39
Estimated words: 36768 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 184(@200wpm)___ 147(@250wpm)___ 123(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 36768 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 184(@200wpm)___ 147(@250wpm)___ 123(@300wpm)
“If you’re up for something really daring, then we should talk.”
Bastard. Now it’s confirmed and I want to take a cold shower and wash myself clean of his lustful glances. Gross.
“By daring I meant Tchaikovsky, opus six, number six.” I snap making it clear what daring means in this context.
He looks mildly annoyed. And that annoys me, because Op. 6, No. 6 is magic, and all this jerk can think about is nookie. “What a shame,” Markham says.
Is it? I’m not so sure. There’s something about him that just screams antibiotic-resistant chlamydia.
“See you next week, Dr. Markham,” I say. And then slowly, gracefully, stand up from my chair and make my way to the back door. When I’m sure the coast is clear, I karate kick it open with my foot and stomp through the back exit.
Sam is waiting for me, taking a delicate drag on a delicate little French cigarette. “Queen. Calm. Now.”
“I hate him,” I seethe, shoving a handful of pretzels and M&Ms into my mouth. I’m mad enough that I don’t even mind that a few M&Ms land on the hot asphalt. “Genuinely,” I sputter.
“I hate him. Gross, gross, grooooooooosssssss.”
Sam carefully stubs out his cigarette on the brick wall and places it back in his antique case. He only smokes a tiny bit at a time. A pack lasts him six months. “What do you say we walk down to Chilis, get an onion blossom, two burgers, and get shitfaced on a huge wine-a-rita in a fishbowl glass?”
That sounds amazing. But I grip my violin case to my chest. “I can’t.”
Sam pouts. “I’m not receiving you, girl.”
I can’t help but smile and my mood starts to lighten just being around him. He always says that. When he doesn’t like something, or won’t hear of it, he says, “I’m not receiving you.” He learned about it on Tik Tok. It’s very empowering.
“I’m eighteen as of two weeks ago. And you’re eighteen as of right now. And the great state of North Carolina, in its questionable wisdom, will let us both drink wine and beer tonight. So?”
I tip the last of the M&Ms into my mouth from their paper packet, thinking it over and savoring the crackle of the candy-coating shattering against my teeth. There is exactly zero chance I am ready to go home. It’s my birthday, and it’s time to celebrate. “Can we get the seasoned fries?”
“Yes, we fucking can, girl!” Sam says.
I nod and inhale, and then pull out my phone. Even though my parents are parked on the other side of the building, I call them instead of going out to the car. I don’t like lying and especially not directly to their faces. But this is a very special occasion. As the dial tone whirrs in my ears, I whisper to Sam, “Think your dad would let me stay the night?”
“Pffft. Let you stay? He’d like you to live with us, Queen.”
Oh geez. A hazy image of Mike in boxers drinking coffee in the kitchen every morning pops into my head. His dark hair with a hint of silver speckle coming through. He’s successful and does things his own way. Never brags or acts pretentious but I know just from being around, he’s got to be close to being a billionaire but he doesn’t act like it. He’s big like a protective bear and I bet his thighs are like marble and in that split-second, I realize I’ve never seen him in shorts, or a bathing suit…but the idea of thin, wet, nylon fabric clinging to his--
My mom’s voice, sharp and annoyed, fills my left ear. “Yes, honey?”
“Hi. I’m going to stay late to practice, and so is Sam. We are going to really knuckle down for a couple more hours. Then, tonight we’d like to practice more, help each other. He knows the Paganini and his critiques are brutal.” I say watching Sam nod on a silent laugh. “Then, I’ll just stay over at his house.”
Mom sighs. I know she’s going to say yes; Mike and Sam’s is the only place I’m allowed to stay. She knows Sam won’t put the moves on me, because I’m not Sam’s flavor of ice cream. And Mike, even though she thinks he’s irritatingly rough around the edges, is like a member of our family. Sort of. Or he was, until I started admiring those veins in his forearms. “I suppose. But make sure you practice but also sleep.”
“I will, Mom. Love you.”
“Love you, too, and sweetie?”
My heart swells. Here it comes. She’s remembered. She’s remembered today is my birthday. “Yes?”
“Make sure you don’t get into all their junk food. You know they have some very poor eating habits.”
My heart plummets and a stinging of sadness fills my nose. “Yes, Mom,” I say, and end the call.
Three hours later and I’ve got a tummy full of buffalo chicken sandwich and seasoned fries and an onion blossom, and dining room at Chili’s seems…wobbly. I smack my lips around the straw that sits in the almost-finished wine-a-rita. “Are you sure it’s just wine in here?”