Page 48 of Requiem

Jeremy 16

When the glass hits the wall, it splinters into a million tiny shards and leaves a waterfall of beer streaming onto the floor. I’d never give those assholes at the Philharmonic the satisfaction of seeing me frustrated. But, now that I am in the privacy of my own home, I give in to the anger. I’m so furious that I can hardly see straight.

Within half an hour of walking through the front door of my little house on Chester Street, I have thrown over a bookcase, smashed half of my dishes, and I am seriously considering pushing my air conditioner out of the window onto the neighbor’s car below. Yes, that might just make me feel a little better. Then I can beat the shit out of the nosy prick when he comes over to complain.

Glenn advised me to take the deal, saying that nothing good could come out of me staying there, unwanted. He explained I would eventually be fired anyway, and with the added expense and nuisance of a prolonged lawsuit. Normally that kind of shit doesn’t faze me. But the guy made a good point when he said my reputation would be in tatters by the time it was over, even if I won the case. He was also quick to mention that the bill for his fees at the end of it could climb into the six figures. Fucking shyster.

I hear the squeak of the mail slot in my front door, followed by a smack as my correspondence hits the hardwood floor. I walk around the foamy lake of glass tidbits to the hallway, where a few pieces of mail are waiting for me. I pick them up and head into the kitchen to pour myself another beer. Most of the glasses are broken at this point, so I take a seat at the table and have a long swig right from the bottle, just the way my father drinks his beer. Correction. Drank his beer. The thought of him clawing at his throat, gasping for air makes me smile.

As I start to flip through the bills and junk mail and takeout menus, one item catches my eye. It’s a cream-colored linen envelope, embossed with the seal of the Kreisler International Music Competition. Maybe the idiots have finally come to their senses and are going to reinstate my concert tour and recording contract. I slip my finger under the flap and tear a jagged opening across the top of the thick envelope. I pull out what looks like a wedding invitation, all raised gold lettering on vellum.

‘You are cordially invited to attend the recording release celebration for Kreisler International Music Competition winner Julia James Ayers, to be held the evening of Saturday, October Twentieth at the Beau-Radcliff Gallery, New York, New York.

Recital program at seven o’clock, followed by a cocktail reception and CD signing by Mrs. James Ayers.

Black tie. RSVP.’

Holy fucking shit. This is not happening. What stupid ass thought it was a good idea to put my name on the guest list for this thing? And since when is Julia considered the Kreisler International Music Competition winner? Last time I checked, I was the one with the gold medal.

I’m about to toss the invitation in the trash when I notice something stuck inside the envelope. Julia’s ‘Plain Jane’ freckled face is staring back at me from a glossy color postcard. She’s sitting, cello between her knees, bow in hand, as she looks off into the distance. Ornate script lettering reads ‘The Sound of Silver: Julia James Ayers, cello.’

No, this is just Too. Fucking. Much.

I should be looking at a picture of me and my horn. The goddam sound of gold is what the album should be. I throw the thing down on the table in disgust and stand up to pace the kitchen, raking my hand through my hair. This is insane. This is not how it was supposed to be. I planned this perfectly, and there is absolutely no acceptable reason for me to be in this position. Orchestras should be fighting over me. My recordings should be flying off the shelves, and I should be packing concert halls all over the world. So, what the fuck happened?

Julia is what happened. Julia and Matthew. They ruined my reputation and tanked my career before it even started. Now, I can’t even keep a gig at an orchestra without a cloud of suspicion hanging over my head. I mean, sure, I arranged for the kid to take Jennifer’s horn. But I wouldn’t have had to do that if orchestra management had just given me the principal horn spot, which I won fair and square. That is, once I managed to get myself onto the audition list that I would have been on anyway, had Matthew and Julia not started a campaign accusing me of killing Cal Burridge. Like Cal was ever going to amount to anything anyway!

Why do these imbeciles keep getting in my way? If they’d just mind their own goddam business and do what they’re supposed to do, everyone’s life would be so much easier. So much more pleasant. I like pleasant. But I have absolutely no problem embracing the unpleasant when necessary. And it’s been very necessary in the last couple of years.

The house is starting to feel small and stuffy to me, so I grab another bottle of beer and go out back to sit on the steps overlooking my little patch of lawn. In the fresh air I can feel my head clearing. My mind drifts back to the day I had that drink with Brett. He didn’t even bat an eyelash when I called him out for choosing Julia over me, over his own brother. After everything I’ve done for him over the years.

My brother seems to be under the impression that he can have whatever he wants. But the truth is that I can take anything of his. His fiancée, his job. His life. I can find a way to make any of those things go away. Anytime, anywhere. Instead of showing gratitude and loyalty, the stupid fuck chose everyone else over me... even Mom. He could have stood up for me, and forced her to give me my share of the inheritance. But no, he has to be a pussy little mama’s boy.

I’m jolted from my thoughts by the sound of the front doorbell. Who the hell is here? I go inside and through the house to pull open the wood paneled door. Standing on my front porch is Lisa, looking miserable, as she damn well should be looking. I’m tempted to kick her ass to the curb, but I have a better idea. Time to burn off a little steam.

“My bedroom,” I bark at her, holding the door open. “I want you naked and kneeling by the bed when I get in there.”

She opens her mouth to protest, but seems to think better of it. “Okay, Jeremy …”

“That’s Yes. Sir. Get it wrong again and you won’t be able to sit for a week.”

Her eyes grow wide, but she nods and scurries down the hall without another word.

****

Lisa was born to be a sub. When I walk into my bedroom, I find her naked and kneeling at the side of my bed, eyes cast down to the floor. I’m furious that I’m being forced to resign from the Philharmonic. I’m still fuming over this morning’s meeting and the idea of displacing a little of that rage is very appealing. Hardcore BDSM isn’t my thing, but I think I know enough to keep us both entertained for a few hours.

“Stand up so I can get a good look at you.”

She obeys immediately, jumping up to a standing position, still not meeting my eyes. I walk around to the back of her and place my hands on either side of her shoulders. She jumps slightly with the sudden contact.

“Be still!”

“Yes, Sir.”

My hands run the length of her arms, feeling the silky smoothness of her skin. I come up again from underneath her arms, feeling my way from her slim waist, past the ribcage and finally around to her breasts. I take a step closer to her, cupping them and stroking her nipples. I can hear her breath hitch, but she doesn’t move. Another step closer and her bare ass is pressed right up against my hard-on. My mouth finds its way to her ear.

“Do you feel that?” I murmur softly.