Total pages in book: 134
Estimated words: 124135 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 621(@200wpm)___ 497(@250wpm)___ 414(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 124135 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 621(@200wpm)___ 497(@250wpm)___ 414(@300wpm)
He swung his legs off the bed. “We’re going to a bar tonight. And this time you’re not getting out of it. Jet lag’s gone. You’ve been miserable long enough. Now you’re just being an unsociable bastard. And I can’t have that. I have a reputation to protect.”
“If there are girls there, I’m in.” I couldn’t believe that I’d actually agreed. But I kept seeing Bonnie in my head, and I knew I needed her gone. I needed to get laid. That’s what all this was. Why she was getting to me so much.
“Finally!” Easton said and clapped me on the back. “I knew I liked you for a reason.” He threw the ball across the room into a basket. “Just bring your fake ID. You’ll be the perfect wingman.” He rubbed his hands together. “I’m gonna see the maestro at work. Been waiting for you to show me the way.”
“Not sure you need my help.”
Easton pretended to consider it. “Sure as hell don’t, but you and me, bro. We’re gonna be on another level with the chicks here.”
I moved to my closet, took out a clean T-shirt, and raked my hands through my unruly hair.
Tonight, I’d dip my wick, get plastered, and forget about the world.
It was too bad that, for the rest of the night, wide brown eyes and the sound of a single violin kept nagging at my brain.
Chapter Seven
Bonnie
“Bonnie, Cromwell, I need to see you after class.” My head lifted from my notes as Lewis spoke. I glanced back at Cromwell.
He hadn’t so much as looked at me since last week at the coffee shop. In fact, he seemed to be outright avoiding me. However, now he even avoided my stare. He leaned back on his chair, not even acknowledging that the professor had spoken.
Class was dismissed and I gathered my things. “You okay?” Bryce asked, casting an accusing glance back at Cromwell.
“Yeah.” I knew it must have been about the piece we had to compose. Even I knew when I submitted it that it was weak. I gave Bryce a tight smile and a hug. “I’ll see you later, okay?” He eyed Cromwell again. “I’ll be fine,” I insisted.
“Mr. McCarthy, this is a private chat,” Lewis said.
Bryce nodded at Lewis and left the room. I walked down to the professor’s table, where two seats waited. I sat down on one. I heard Cromwell’s heavy footsteps slowly walking down the stairs. A minute later, he slumped into the seat beside me. His cologne sailed into my nose.
It was deep, infused with a strong hint of spice.
This was the first time I’d had a close chat with the professor. Our private sessions wouldn’t start for another week. Lewis took out the outline I’d submitted and laid it on the table before us. “I just wanted to talk to you both about your potential composition.” I swallowed, nerves swarming in my stomach. “The premise is good. The outline is well written.” He looked at me, clearly knowing I was the one who wrote it. “But the whole thing just lacked…for want of a better word, feeling.” I took in a long, sharp breath as Lewis delivered that blow. I didn’t look at Cromwell. It was the same line I had delivered about his music in Brighton.
Lewis dragged a hand down his face and turned to Cromwell. He was staring at the floor. Anger built inside me. This boy never seemed to care about anything. How he was picked to come here, with his current attitude to music, and study under Lewis was beyond me.
“Vivaldi’s most famous work was The Four Seasons.” He read some of the proposal. “I want my students to be original. I want you to explore self-expression in your creations. I don’t want a re-creation of another artist’s work.” He leaned forward, and I could see the passion for the subject reflected in his eyes. “I want this to be your work. From your heart. Put into music what makes you tick. Trials and tribulations you’ve faced.” He sat back. “Tell me who you are. Put everything you are into the piece.”
“We’ll do better,” I said. “Right, Cromwell?” When he didn’t say anything in response, I felt like screaming in frustration.
Lewis got up from his seat. “Take the room. There’s no one in it until this afternoon. See if you can come up with anything else.”
Lewis left, and the room plunged into a deafening silence. I dropped my face into my hands and took a deep breath. It did nothing to calm me down. But when I looked up at Cromwell and his zero-shits attitude, my heart broke for the musician I’d thought he was. The one who apparently no longer lived within him. “Do you really not care?” I whispered.
He met my eyes. His seemed lifeless. Cold. “Not really, no.” His accent made his reply feel mocking and patronizing.