Then she flicked her hair—which she had spent almost twenty minutes straightening—off her shoulder. For the past few weeks she’d kept her hair loose instead of braiding it. All guys liked long hair. Everyone knew that. Well, maybe everyone except JoJo.
Braids were for little girls. It could be completely annoying when her hair got in her face while she was playing, but that was something she would have to deal with. Maybe bangs was the answer.
“Chill out, Gloria Steinem. I would do the same for any kid. Boy or girl.”
Kid. That hurt. It also made her feel stupid wearing her bra. “You know, you’re only three years older than me.” When they’d first met, she had said she was almost fifteen, which she was—only in January that turning point had been further away than it was now.
“Three years and three lifetimes, Sophie.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He looked at his sneakers. For rehearsal, this maestro wasn’t concerned about what they wore, unlike other conductors who insisted the musicians rehearse in formal dress to better prepare for the performance.
Bay was so hot in his well-worn jeans and brown sweater that Sophie actually came to understand how the word mouthwatering related to boys.
“It means I’m eighteen and you’re fifteen and we’re just...friends.”
Sophie felt another rush of humiliation, which she immediately countered with sarcasm. “Uh...yeah. What did you think we were?”
He glanced briefly at her overflowing breasts, which were nearly busting out of her shirt. It was a silent message. He was letting her know he understood what she was trying to do with her clothes and her Victoria’s Secret bra. She wanted to fall through the floor. She wanted to cover her breasts with her arms.
Instead she raised her hand to bite her fingernails.
“You’re not supposed to do—”
“I know,” she snapped. “Any other words of wisdom?”
“Sophie—”
“Hey, Sophie!”
Sophie turned at the sound of her name. Mark was walking down the aisle. “What’s he doing here?”
“You never cut him any slack, do you?”
“You don’t know anything about my relationship with him.” Again she lashed out, still in pain from the rejection.
Bay didn’t flinch. “I know he’s all you’ve got now. I know he’s here all the time trying to talk to you but you act like he’s a total jerk. He’s trying, Sophie. When are you going to try back?”
“I thought you said we were friends. Friends have each other’s back.”
“Sophie—”
“But hey, I’m just a kid, so what do I know?”
* * *
MARK CLIMBED THE steps to the stage, where everyone was milling about. He’d arrived during a break, which was great so he could talk to Sophie, but was disappointing, too, because he wouldn’t hear her play today. Nothing moved him like listening to his daughter. Nothing made him more proud and, conversely, more guilty for having missed so much of her amazing life.
They hadn’t been able to move her grand piano from her grandparents’ house into his apartment. As spacious as his place was, it couldn’t accommodate a piece of furniture that size. Instead he’d rented studio space where she could practice independently. She spent two hours there every morning before heading to the Kimmel for rehearsal. The performances would soon begin, but other than attending those, the only time he heard her play was when she messed with the electric keyboard in her bedroom.
This would have been a pre-performance treat. Maybe if the break was short, he could linger. She had informed him that she didn’t care to be watched, which seemed odd since she was used to playing in front of thousands of people. Once, when she’d forgotten her purse, he came to drop off money for her lunch. She had curtly thanked him, then dismissed him. Evidently he was the only person she didn’t want watching her.
Things were changing, he told himself. Ever so slowly, they were. He had to hold on to that.
Gone now were any rules Sophie had laid down about when he could see her. That had changed the moment he received that note. Someone made a threat against him and used his daughter to do it. If he wasn’t watching her carefully, it would be someone else. Someone he would have to trust in a hurry.
Mark approached his daughter, who was talking to Bay, the violinist. Mark had met the boy before. A nice kid who had a path to success similar to Sophie’s. He thought it was a great thing for her to have someone like Bay around with experience performing at this level at such a young age.
At least he had thought it was good until he saw his daughter wearing ridiculously tight black jeans and a shirt that showed her...gulp...breasts.
Holy jeezus, his daughter had breasts!
And they were totally out there.
“What in the hell are you—” Mark stopped when he saw her face. Tight, flushed. Ready for him to drop the hammer and call her out for wearing something so overtly and inappropriately sexual. Call her out in front of Bay, who was handsome and a friend who she talked about constantly.
“Uh, rehearsing here today?” he finished lamely. “Yeah. I figured I would stop by for a preview of the show.”
“We’re working the concerto,” she said, her arms now fully wrapped around her thin body, her shoulders sunken in as far as she could. “You wouldn’t know the composer. It’s not the guy you like.”
“Beethoven.” Mark smiled at Bay. “I like Beethoven. I didn’t know who did all that sad stuff, but it’s him every time.”
“Beethoven is great,” Bay agreed. “Sophie does the ‘Moonlight’ like nobody else.”
Mark smiled and as he did so felt his facial muscles contract. Was this kid flirting with his daughter? “You know, come to think of it, Bay, I don’t know that I ever asked you how old you are.”
He could feel Sophie shoot him the evil look of death, but after living with her for the past few months he was mostly immune to it. Her death look now brought no more than a mild sting.
“Eighteen, sir.”
“Eighteen,” Mark repeated, probably too loudly. “How about that. You’re legal now. It’s official. An adult. Not a kid anymore.”
Bay smiled and nodded as if he understood Mark’s implied message. “Yes, sir. Look, I’ll leave you two alone. It was good to see you again, Mr. Sharpe.”
“Hey, call me Mark. After all, we’re two grown men. Two men should call each other by their first names. Don’t you agree, Bay?”
“Uh. Sure. Mark.” He waved and walked to the string section, where the performers were starting to regroup.
“How
