Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 91635 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91635 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
If he played that cello for Victor Newcomb, if he tried to teach him how to find that resonant voice and make it sing with a life of its own…
That arrogant, presumptuous man would pay his tuition.
Amani only had to swallow his pride.
Swallow his pride, face the trembling scars of fear and pain and failure that made even touching that cello so terrible, so humiliating…and pretend he didn’t hate every moment of it.
He picked his phone up from the nightstand and scrolled through to the text from Ash. Victor Newcomb’s number stared at him, underlined in blue and that little call icon telling him how easy it would be. He wouldn’t even have to copy the number into the dialer; just tap right from the text and he could sell his soul to have what he wanted.
Is it really selling your soul, though?
Or is it just playing the game the way it has to be played to survive?
So he’d be taking this rich man’s money. In a year, two years, three, Newcomb would have forgotten his existence, and Amani would be close to graduating. He’d have his degree fully paid off, have a life ahead of him, a career that might not be glamorous, might not be what he used to think he’d do with himself, but it would still let him be connected to the music in that way he craved while being able to take care of himself. And once he could take care of himself…
He could take care of his mother, too, and she could finally retire to enjoy her old age after struggling so long to raise him on her own.
With a resigned sigh, he closed his eyes, steeled himself, and tapped the little link to initiate the call.
He listened to the ringtone for three short rings, before that calm, collected voice came coolly over the line, sounding nothing like the flustered man he’d met in the parlor. “Victor Newcomb.”
“Mr. Newcomb?” Amani tried to force his voice to some semblance of pleasantry, but what came out was that waxy Stepford customer service voice he used at work. “It’s Amani Idrissi.”
“O-oh. Amani? I…ah…”
There was the puppy. Was he like this with everyone, or did he just fall apart around Amani? Why? He pinched the bridge of his nose and just forged on, even if every word felt like defeat. “All right,” he said without preamble. The fewer words, the better. “I’ll teach you.”
That fumbling broke off in a long silence, before Newcomb said carefully, “But you don’t want to. The idea upsets you.”
“I still have bills to pay. So.”
“I’m sorry,” Newcomb said quickly. “I didn’t mean to treat you like a charity case. I don’t know why I didn’t think before speaking, I’m not normally that impulsive—”
“Stop. Please,” Amani said. “We don’t have to talk about it. Just…I have evening classes Tuesdays and Thursdays, morning classes otherwise. If you’re on a standard nine to five, I can meet with you Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. After five PM. We can start tomorrow.”
“Could we make it eight?” Newcomb asked tentatively. “I tend to burn the midnight oil, but I’ll check out as early as I can.”
“Fine. I’ll do my homework beforehand, then. The rate is a thousand per session, one hour each.”
He’d thought Newcomb would scoff at that number, retract his offer, hang up. Instead there was only another of those considering silences, before he asked softly, “Will that be enough?”
“After a few weeks of sessions, if we meet three times a week, I’ll be caught up on my tuition. The first session will let me make enough of a partial payment to stay enrolled.”
“I could pay you all of it in adva—”
“Stop,” Amani said firmly. “Stop right there. Don’t make this worse.”
A soft, ragged breath exhaled through the phone. “…Amani. You really don’t have to do this if it will disrupt your life, or upset you.”
“Yes, I do,” Amani said bitterly. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Eight PM. Text me where to meet.”
Then he hung up the phone before Newcomb could respond, and just stared at the blank screen, wondering what the hell he thought he was doing.
Especially when something about Victor Newcomb got under his skin. Something about the way he turned into a mess around Amani; the way he went from well-dressed corporate heir to an obedient little pup the second Amani gave him a command. Victor Newcomb wasn’t who he appeared on the surface, any more than Amani himself was.
But Amani didn’t want to delve into what hid beneath that hard-muscled exterior, when this was already closer to Newcomb than he ever wanted to be.
CHAPTER THREE
VIC DIDN’T KNOW WHY HE was so nervous.
He paced the floor of his penthouse apartment, high in its glass-walled tower with a stunning view of the glittering New York City skyline. The jewels of the night sky, both man-made and natural, reflected from the glossy, pure black tiles of the floor, volcanic obsidian polished to a mirror shine and inlaid with gold between the tiles. Right now those black-mirror tiles shone his own reflection back up at him, his face agitated and tight, his eyes dark.