“Pianist.” He shuddered. “I’m a virtuoso pianist. Not a keyboardist.”
“Potato, po-tah-to,” she said with a smirk. “You know your way around a keyboard, you’re here, and you owe me.”
“If you think I’m going to tarnish my reputation by playing in a rock band—”
“You didn’t mind tarnishing your reputation last night.”
“In case you didn’t notice, I was a little inebriated last night.” As his pounding head continued to remind him.
“There’s something you should know about Lenny,” Jane said.
“Yeah? What’s that?”
“Well, he’s not a virtuoso pianist like you are, obviously. He’s self-taught, on his grandmother’s old upright. He plays by ear. Pretty amazing, really, considering he dropped out of school in eleventh grade to help his mother pay the bills. This break was as much for Lenny as it was for me. For Becca and Fernando too. None of us has had it easy, Chandler. We’ve worked hard to get where we are. We deserve better, and you’re going to make sure we get it.”
“Look, I’m sorry about Lanny—”
“Lenny.”
He sighed, massaging his aching temple. “Whatever. I’m sure he’s a great guy, but I can’t play with your band. It’s not my kind of music.”
“You did just fine last night, as you know.” The muscles in Jane’s beautiful face tensed. “Must be tough
, huh? To have everything you ever wanted handed to you? The best schools, the best instruments? I bet you play on a Steinway at home, don’t you?”
He did, but he wasn’t going to admit that to her. So his family had money. Why did people constantly want him to apologize for that?
“I’ve always wondered where I might be today if I’d had an education like that.” Her voice softened, and her eyes glazed over. “At least I was able to finish high school. But like Lenny, I’m self-taught. My aunt gave me a used guitar for my tenth birthday. I picked out chords on my own. When I couldn’t figure anything else out, I bought instruction books at a secondhand music store and taught myself.” She looked intently at him, her brown eyes slightly sunken.
What was he supposed to say to that? Again, he refused to apologize for his good fortune. Besides, his money couldn’t buy everything. Disappointment still existed for Chandler Hamilton the third. A fact that had been drummed into his brain recently.
She didn’t wait for an answer. “I envy you. I really do. I wish I had had your opportunities. Who knows where I’d be today? Platinum albums, maybe a Grammy or two. I could buy my mom a house, a car…” Her eyes misted.
God, please don’t cry. He didn’t think he could take that.
“Well, my problems aren’t yours.” She wiped the edge of one eye with her finger and took a solid stance as she flipped the switch on the coffee maker to “on.” “Except for this one. You’re my keyboardist tomorrow night. And you’re not going to let me down.”
He closed his eyes. He had to. The misty torment in her dark smoky eyes haunted him. Then there was his dick…hard as steel, pulsing against jeans that seemed tighter by the second. His arms longed to hold her, his hands to caress her skin soft as suede, his cock to breach her tight passage and make love to her.
He could give her the comfort she craved, the comfort he craved as well. God, he wanted to, wanted to embrace her, kiss away those tears that seemed likely to fall at any moment, make her forget all the hell that had put that forlorn look on her beautiful face.
He inhaled and opened his eyes. Had he ever seen a lovelier woman? Not in this lifetime. Without responding to her or waiting for the coffee she’d promised, he walked silently to the door and left.
* * *
Thank God she and Ryan had exchanged cell phone numbers. The next day, Jane stood outside Chandler’s private piano studio, address provided by Ryan. She’d spent a sleepless night worrying about Lenny, not to mention the audition for Lisa Taylor, which was mere hours away now. The few times she drifted off to sleep, she’d awakened in a sweat, images of Chandler Hamilton haunting her. He’d left so abruptly the day before and she hadn’t had the chance to get his contact information.
His friend Ryan was nice, much nicer than Chandler. “He’ll most likely be at his studio practicing,” he’d said.
“He has his own studio?” she’d asked, before realizing what a stupid question it was. Of course he had his own studio. He was Chandler Hamilton the third.
Nothing about the small studio screamed out the Hamilton name, however. It was a modest little building in a secluded part of town bordering on rural. She’d tried calling Chandler first, number also provided by Ryan, but he hadn’t answered. She’d left a voicemail, but couldn’t rely on him to call back. So here she stood outside the little studio. She breathed in and knocked on the door.
No response.
If he was rehearsing, he no doubt wouldn’t hear the knock anyway. Boldly she turned the knob. To her surprise, and to her relief, the door opened. She entered a small reception area. No one sat at the mahogany desk or on the adjacent sofa and chairs. A coffee pot and paper cups sat on a little table next to the desk. Brown liquid filled the pot, but there was no brisk aroma of fresh brew. She touched the glass. Cold.
“For God’s sake, this is ridiculous,” she said aloud. Did he never empty the pot? It would grow mold for sure. She picked up the pot and wandered down the small hallway to the right of the reception area. Restroom. That would work. She entered and poured the rancid coffee into the sink, rinsed out the pot, and pushed open the doorway.