For Love or Money Page 10

  His words bring back something I hadn’t thought of ever. “My father made a band up one summer. He had an open agency call for talent in Detroit. He was looking for something very specific. The first guy that caught Dad’s ear was named Jimmy. He was like Elvis. I was twelve and I still remember the first time I ever watched him perform. It was amazing. He had it all. But male performers typically do better with a group so Dad formed a group around Jimmy from the applicants who tried out.”

  “Jesus! You don’t mean Sweat?”

  I nod. “Yeah. Jimmy Sweat and the guys.”

  “You were there the day they were formed?”

  It hits me that my life is remarkable. I just didn’t know it. It still makes me shrug though. “Yeah. I was pissed because I wanted to go somewhere cool for my summer break and we wasted six weeks in Detroit.”

  He rolls his eyes. “You were watching stars be born. That’s cool.”

  He makes me laugh. “Yeah, but I didn’t know it was cool. I remember though, they hadn’t ever played together and an R&B group has to be able to harmonize better because they don't have instruments. Dad never forced songs on them. He told me that they did better when they had fun with the music. They sang because they loved it, and no amount of practice would ever compete with love.”

  “You’re giving me chills, Lana.”

  A smile crosses my lips again. “Yeah. I know, right? I just never knew how awesome it all was.” I point up at the guys. “See the way Brandon hangs off of everything James says and does? For him this is amazing—beyond amazing. He’ll work hard because he wants to be here. Simon loves music. You can tell by the way he moves with the bass when he plays. He closes his eyes and sways. And Nick knows this is going to get him epically laid, more than he already is, and it’s a way to disobey his father’s wishes. I think they’re pissed at each other.”

  Mr. Sherman meets my smile with concern. I laugh. “Trust me, that’s better motivation than anything I could say or do. Kids like him have been controlled their whole lives. We just freed him by giving him the means to disobey in a completely legal way.”

  He nods. “What about James?”

  “I got James covered. He has some serious incentive.”

  “You aren’t dating, are you? I thought I heard him say that.”

  I cough. “God no. He was kidding. We have a special blend of mutual hate mixing with an end goal we both need.”

  The concern doesn’t leave his gaze but he seems content to leave it at that.

  James shouts back, “We want to play something, but we need you to play a violin.”

  My spine tenses. I look at Mr. Sherman, hoping to God he’s talking to him and not me. But Mr. Sherman just stares back at me. “You play?”

  My cheeks redden. I look up at James, wondering how the shit he knows that.

  He grins like he won the war, but he doesn’t see it was just a battle and the success is going to cost him dearly if he pushes this. “I don’t have a violin here.”

  His eyes widen, feigning sarcasm and surprise blended perfectly. “Oh man. I forgot to tell you. I have one.” He reaches into his oversized guitar case, producing a smaller one making my stomach harden, like the time I ate at a roadside vendor in Thailand.

  I twitch a no with my head. “I haven’t played in years and it’s probably out of tune.”

  “Nope. I play fiddle style with it all the time. It’s perfectly tuned. Now get on up here.” His stare hardens. “I insist.”

  I hate him.

  How the hell does he know? No one but my dad and the man who taught me know.

  Shit.

  I leave my purse and shove my protesting, nearly frozen body off of the chair. My legs feel like jelly.

  Not just because I hate performing, but also because I suspect this has been his ace in the hole the whole time. He’s had this up his sleeve, waiting for the moment to pluck it out. He must know this will hurt me more than any other thing in the world.

  He must know about the stage fright. He’s such scum. We’re both scum but I’m more disappointed in him.

  I drag my hands up and down my shirt, trying desperately to get the sweat off of them.

  He pulls the violin from the case and tightens the bow.

  Oh God, even worse. It’s my old violin. I gag a little, fighting back nausea and agony.

  The silver stars my mom put on the violin when it was new are peeling off with age. She gave it to me in the hospital, just before she died. Told me it was bigger than the one I was using and I could grow into it, and the stickers were so that when she was gone I would know she was watching me from the sky.

  The day she died I played it too hard and too long, even though it was too big and tore one of my shoulders a bit. One of the strings broke. My eyes can’t help but glance down at the tiny silver scar on my hand that has long healed over from where the broken string cut me as I played. I want to run and cry and curl up, but I WILL not give him that satisfaction.

  He is a son of a bitch and I’m going to kill him.

  “I can’t play, James.”

  He nods. “Oh, I know all about can’t, Lana. Like sometimes people do things that you can’t believe they would.” He shoves the violin at me and the bow.

  The smell of the fresh wax on the strings makes me remember a thousand things I have pushed away. The small wooden instrument nestles into my neck where I learned to play it so I could sing with it. It’s like it has never left my arms. It’s a bit small for my body now, but it doesn’t matter—my arms remember every detail of it.

  James turns the page on a songbook he’s brought. I swallow hard.

  I have two options. Play and then throw up, and then tell him to fuck himself. Or I can run out screaming and crying and throw up now.

  I glance down at the songbook as I make my choice to show him he can’t rattle me—even though he has.

  The Lumineers.

  Great.

  I lick my lips, trying not to stare at the guys who are all watching me like cats do a canary.

  I hate him.

  I’m going to murder whoever told him this. I can’t help but wonder if it was my dad. But how? It doesn’t matter how as much as why. James knows the story, and yet he’s blackmailing me to play. I didn't realize he hated me as much as I joked about. In fact, I had kind of thought he sort of liked me. This would be the nail in that coffin.

  I close my eyes and try to gag back the heavy feeling in my throat. It’s so thick I feel like I can’t even get air.

  The music sheets blur and I sense the stage fright starting in on me. My hands are pools, but James puts a hand at the small of back and leans into me. “You okay?”

  I shake my head. I want to stab him in the eye, but I don't want him to know he’s gotten under my skin.

  He sighs. “It’s just a violin, Lana. There is nothing sexier than a girl who plays a violin. I know you can do this. I know you were a prodigy.”

  He doesn't know the rest of the story then?

  I look back, studying his eyes and I know the answer to that question. He truly doesn't. He thinks I just gave up violin because of stage fright.

  He presses a soft kiss into my neck and my body forgets the stage fright, panicking at him touching me. “As much as you believe in me, Lana, I believe in you!” His hand leaves my back and starts picking at the guitar.

  The violin is meant to come in right away, but I miss my cue. My hands are shaking so badly I can’t play yet.

  He plucks in a circle until I push the bow across the strings, making a sound that stands every hair on my body on end.

  They all chuckle but James mutters. “Just relax. Close your eyes and remember how it felt to play. Just imagine we’re alone.”

  I slide the bow again, moving my fingers slowly. When the sound hits right, I open my eyes, fixing on the pages of music.

  “Stubborn Love” is a song that features the violin all the way through. Of course he has to pick that one.

  “Back at the
top now.”

  We all circle back to the beginning and James starts singing with his guitar. His voice distracts me from the feeling of stage fright and paralysis. The guys all sing together, like we’re in a bar jamming away.

  They’re having fun. But I can’t look away from the pages. My body is playing like it knows this song better than any, but there is still a panic inside of me.

  He shouts the chorus with everyone. I can see Simon hopping with the song in my peripheral.

  We end the song and something tingles all through me. It’s James’ voice. The soft end to the song makes me relax a little. It’s over. It’s over and I made it through.

  “Hot damn, Lana. I didn’t know you played so well. That’s amazing. You play both ways? Violin and fiddle?”

  I nod weakly at Mr. Sherman.

  “Apparently, there are things about Miss Webber we don’t know.”

  I turn and give Nick a smug look, trying desperately to get a grip on myself. “Not everything about me is in the papers, and what’s there is hardly ever true.”

  Mr. Sherman claps. “Brava.”

  James comes back over to me. “Guess we found the fifth member of our band.”

  My heart stops, I swear it does, and my mouth gets thick. I can’t even argue because I’m going to throw up.

  Chapter Twelve

  The Violin

  James

  I put my guitar away, watching her from the corner of my eyes. Mr. Sherman waves as he leaves. “Thanks for the show, guys!”

  I nod. “See ya round, Pete.”

  Simon looks at his watch. “I have some studying to do for tomorrow so I have to go, but I wanted to thank you guys for letting me be part of this. It’s pretty awesome.” He smiles brightly. He’s a little too excited for my comfort level.

  “See ya tomorrow, man.” I wave.

  Brandon plays it cooler, but I can see the sweat stains and gleam in his eyes as he follows Simon out with a wave. “See you guys tomorrow.” I have a terrible feeling they’re going to gush in the hallway together.

  Nick left first, going on about a hot date but staring at Lana like she was the last chip in the bag. Unfortunately for him, she didn’t see him. My little tactic at fulfilling her father’s wishes has her near comatose. She hasn’t left the chair since I made her play.

  I almost feel bad for making her play, but I’ll be damned if I’m suffering through all this shit alone. Especially when I know she was a prodigy on the violin. She plays better than I imagined. It was like watching a master, she is a master. I know plenty about Lana Webber, and I am enjoying the fact she has no clue, but I didn’t expect her to be as good as she is.

  She’s holding the violin, dumbfounded maybe?

  “You okay?”

  “How?” She shakes her head blankly.

  The grin on my lips is shit eating and cocky but I don’t care. I love the freaked-out look on her face. I feel like Houdini. I’m actually bummed I never did this before now. I could have had years of peace of mind, knowing the unshakeable Lana Webber was a front. A full front. “You sure you want to know?”

  She nods vacantly.

  “When I was sixteen my mom got hurt at work. We didn’t have insurance so I went downtown and started playing on the streets, trying to make a little extra. It’s what us colloquial types call panhandling.”

  She snaps. “I don’t want to hear some bullshit sob story. How did you find out about the violin?”

  She’s a piece of work, and yet I find myself increasingly inclined to torment her like we’re friends, even if I know we’re not. Not even close. “I’m getting to it. Now shut the hell up and let a man finish his story.”

  She rolls her eyes but doesn’t open her lips except to sigh.

  “One day the owner of one of the more popular bars heard me on the street. He asked if I could fill in for his singer. Guess the guy had tonsillitis and couldn’t do the show that was planned. I was over the moon. I skipped soccer practice, which was a big deal to me, and headed for the bar.” I hate the story in some ways, and I hate that I’m sharing it with her, but at the same time I told her dad I would help her, and the good lord knows she needs tons of that. “So when I got to the bar and practiced with the band, they let me in on a secret. That night Lars Webber was coming down to hear the guitarist play. The guy was amazing so it made sense. That’s why the bar owner had been trying to find a lead singer, so the guitarist wouldn’t miss his chance.” Her eyes lift making me nod. “Yeah, your dad came to my first show. It wasn’t my show though, your dad was there for the guitarist. We played our hearts out, I was a great fit for the band. So I’m drinking my soda afterwards and your dad comes and sits down next to me. He hands me a card and says he wants to sign me. My heart was beating out of my chest.”

  She scowls. “My dad tried to sign you?”

  I nod again. “Yeah. Offered me the sun, the moon, and the stars. But I said no.”

  Her jaw drops, with her shoulders. She’s relaxing a bit.

  “I have stunned the infamous Lana Webber. Thought you were beyond being shocked?”

  “So did I. Why’d you turn him down?” She shakes her head.

  “Harvard. They have a sneaky program, or had rather. It was for athletes with the grades to make Harvard but without the finances to go. There are no scholarships for athletics here. I’d been accepted and was praying I would get local scholarships and a student loan. When Harvard offered me a free ride with soccer, I took them up on that.”

  “You’re an idiot. My dad would have you touring the world right now and making millions.”

  A moan escapes my lips at the thought of it. “I know that. But ‘what if’ was all that drove me to decline the offer. What if I got hurt or addicted to drugs or screwed by some celebrity girl who won my heart over? What if I lost the money in a lawsuit and I was back at square one? But if I finished my undergrad I had a shot at making something of myself, even if the music thing didn’t work out.”

  She shakes her head. “You’re still an idiot.”

  “I know. But Nashville has some of the best talent in the world. Every bar has a class act, and why they haven’t been picked up yet is a mystery. Some of them have and they’ve blown it, and they’re back working in that same bar for tips. I couldn’t do that.”

  She gives me a look. “The violin—Jesus.”

  A low chuckle slips from my lips. “You’re a pain in the ass. I’m pouring my heart out to you.”

  “You’re only doing it so I will let you out of the deal.”

  She’s smarter than she looks and twice as cold as I thought she might be.

  I almost don’t want to say it. I know it’ll hurt but she needs to know. There is also the dark corner of my heart that wants to hurt her. “Anyway the band asked me to stay on since their singer was out. The next night we were playing again, and your dad came, He said he wanted to hear us sing. It was an amazing compliment. But this time he had this tiny violin case with him. It had pink stickers on it and ponies. It was weird. He came and sat next to me at the bar again, sliding the case over to me. He didn’t look at me, he just sipped his scotch and said, ‘You remind me of a girl I once knew.’ Of course I started laughing. He told me his daughter, Lana, used to play a long time ago. She was amazing but she couldn’t shake the performance anxiety. He said she was a prodigy at music like me, and if she had been able to do it, she could have had an amazing life instead of the one she was shaping up to have. He told me that when I was ready to sign, to come and see him. He said he admired my dedication to my education and would wait for me. He asked me to bring the violin to Harvard. Then he asked me the weirdest thing ever. He asked that I try to meet you and return the violin, and was hopeful that I could get you to play again. Then he wished me well and left. I never saw him again.”

  The silence is heavy and part of it is leaking from her eyes. The glistening tears look silver in the dimly lit room. She is frozen like a crying statue.

  I almost feel bad,
but I think everyone needs to know their parents love them. And I think she needs to know it more than most people. He might have cut her off but he did it because he loves her and I imagine if I was a dad that would have been the hardest gamble ever.

  She stands slowly and leaves the room.

  I close my guitar and walk after her. She took the violin with her, but she also took my case for my violin. Hers is back at my place. I didn't want her to see it and bolt. I run after her, grabbing her arm. She’s a mess. Sobbing hard and heaving.

  I drop the case, doing the last thing on earth I ever imagined I would do, and wrap myself around her. She trembles but I hold her still against me. She feels so tiny suddenly for such a big personality. I feel sick but I think I might have done it. I might have finally cracked the shell of Lana Webber.

  I start suspecting we will be spending the entire night like this, but she finally stops crying and looks up at me. “I won’t ever be able to play on a stage. You can’t make me.”

  I smile. “Yes, I can. Because if you don’t, I won’t. Now stop acting like that’s the part of the story you’re upset about.”

  The sniffles and tears don’t win me over so she lowers her lip. “I’m terrified of performing. My dad tried everything to make me able to do it. I freeze up.”

  I drop one arm, pick my guitar up, and keep my other arm around her small shoulders. “We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. But for practice, you’re in with us or I’m out, and I don’t care who knows about what I’ve done.” It’s a complete bluff but she’s too upset to argue or call me on it.

  She is no longer acting like that spicy bitch I despise, and if she keeps it up I predict it will be increasingly harder for me to avoid the fact she’s the prettiest girl I have ever seen. Her face, although puffy from crying, is still perfect. And without the evil glare or shitty smug smirk, she’s vulnerable and sweet-ish.

  I almost have to slap myself mentally, reminding my eyes not to be fooled by what they see. This is still the throat-slitting ball buster who is blackmailing me.

  My brain has its own balancing act on how things are rolling though. She is blackmailing me to do something I love doing, giving me the opportunity to test run it over the summer with a group of guys who seem alright. She’s giving me a free ride and then paying me for my efforts at the end of the summer. It’s not the worst kind of blackmail ever. Not really.