Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 129432 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 647(@200wpm)___ 518(@250wpm)___ 431(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 129432 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 647(@200wpm)___ 518(@250wpm)___ 431(@300wpm)
But I prefer to hear it from her. “Answer the question.”
“I can’t. Please.”
That’s all it takes. The seductive sound of her begging in one breathy syllable and she owns every nerve in my body. I want to hear that sound as she kneels to me, releases me from my pants, and guides me toward her mouth.
Get a grip, asshole.
It’s clear she won’t tell me who’s taking advantage of her, but I’ll find out.
“All right.” I flick a hand toward the piano. “Play for me.”
She adjusts the bench, slides off her tattered shoes, and positions her toes on the pedals. With her palms on her knees, she gives me her attention. “Baroque? Classical? Jazz?”
“Surprise me.”
Eyes on the keyboard, she steadies her breathing. A current of serenity seems to float through her as her posture loosens and her face softens. Then her hands lift, her head bows over the keys, and fucking hell, her fingers fly. The concerto she chose is pure insanity, a high tempo complexity of too many notes. Balakirev’s Islamey is one of the most challenging cadenzas in the whole classical piano repertoire, and she plays it like an expert.
She’s a tornado of whipping wrists, violent fingers, and rocking hips. Her chin sways, head jerking on the hard-hitting beats, her expression a picture of intense focus. But my critical ear doesn’t miss the slips when she hits the chords with too much force, speeds up too fast, and plays all the sixteenth notes like eighth note triplets.
This is why I don’t play the piece. I mastered it in college, but it’s a goddamn nightmare. The difficulty and awkwardness in positioning the fingers, the left hand hopping over the right, and at the end of eight minutes, it leaves me drenched in sweat. Besides, I’m not a fan of classical interpretation, which is ironic since I hold a seat in the Louisiana Symphony Orchestra.
Despite Ivory’s minimal mistakes, she brilliantly manipulates the rhythmic flexibility within the measures while following the rubrics with her own artistic convictions. I find myself exhaling with her at the end of every phrase and bending closer as she falls on strong beats, completely mesmerized by the leap of her hands. She breathes life into the notes, beams, and bar lines, making it the best performance I’ve heard on this piece.
She finishes with a sweep of her arms and releases a silent sigh. Perspiration dots along her hairline, and her hands tremble in her lap.
A long moment passes before she drags her gaze to mine and clears her throat. “Well?”
“You hit the notes too hard. Your rubato is rough, too fast. Way too many mistakes.”
She nods, her shoulders slumping.
“This is an instrument, Miss Westbrook, not a gun. You’re making music, not shooting notes at the audience.”
“I know,” she says quietly. “Projection is an art, one I’m still…trying to…” Her chin quivers, and tears sheen her eyes before she looks away and whispers under her breath, “Shit.”
If she requires an instructor who gives praise just to balance the criticism, she has the wrong guy. I’m a dick, and like I told her yesterday, I respect constructive feedback. I’m also not finished with my appraisal.
I approach the piano bench and move to sit, forcing her to make room. She scoots to the edge, the seat barely holding the two of us. Our shoulders, hips, and thighs touch, and it’s not accidental. I want her to feel every contact point and learn to trust it. To trust me.
“What did I say about sniveling?”
Her shoulders snap back, and she stares straight ahead, her voice reedy. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I…I got a little overwhelmed there. I guess I wanted you to—”
“Stop talking.”
She presses her lips together.
I shift to face her, and the position pushes the length of my thigh against hers. The heat from her leg seeps into mine, and I fold my hands together in my lap to keep from reaching out and inching up the hem of her dress. “I didn’t develop the skill to even attempt Islamey until college, and I couldn’t play it all the way through until my final year of graduate school.”
Her eyes flash to mine, huge and round and brimmed with moisture.
I cup the delicate curve of her jaw and swipe my thumb to catch a tear. “Very few people can play that piece. In fact, Balakirev admitted there were passages in his composition even he couldn’t manage.”
She leans into my hand, seemingly unaware she’s doing it as she clings to my words.
“Your interpretation is extraordinarily passionate and stunning.” Just like you. “I’m moved.”
Her breaths come faster, heaving her chest. “Oh Jesus, for real? I’m—” More tears fall from her eyes, and she pulls away to wipe her face. “Dammit, I’m not sniveling. I swear.”
“Why did you choose it?”
“Islamey?”
“Yes.”
She gazes up at me with a relieved smile. “The owner of the music store I told you about, the one where I practice? His name is Stogie and—”