Page 14 of Diamonds (Aces Underground #2)

MADDOX

G oing three days without Alissa was like being stabbed repeatedly with a dull knife. All I could think about was her. Seeing her. Touching her. Fucking her.

No news from Bill, either. He’s taking his sweet-ass time.

I opened the haberdashery Tuesday and Wednesday, operated under normal business hours.

Each night at closing, I remembered when Alissa and I hooked up here, when I fucked her on the counter. How she crouched behind the counter, completely naked, as a customer came in.

How she ran her fingers up my ankle while I was ringing him up. How I wished she could unbuckle my pants, pull them down, and blow me right then and there.

And I’m hard again.

Fuck.

I thought about texting her. Inviting her over for a drink.

But we all know what a drink would lead to.

And as much as I want nothing more than to get back inside her sweet pussy—and maybe even her ass—I wanted to wait until Thursday. Exercise a modicum of restraint so that the payoff would be all the more rewarding.

I’ve even abstained from jerking since Monday. I want to save it all for her.

It’s been hard—no pun intended—because every time I think of her, my dick swells quickly.

It’s not even sexual. I mean, I love the thought of her naked, but just thinking of her laugh, her voice, that accent. That turns me on just as much as the thought of her tits and ass.

Shit, have I got it bad.

Maybe the symphony tonight will give me the courage to express my feelings for her.

If there’s anything I’ve learned from the events of Sunday night, it’s that life is short. Any of us could meet our maker at any time.

We’ve got to make the most with whatever precious time we’re given.

My phone rings from behind the counter of the shop. I race toward it. It could be Alissa. Or news from Bill.

A fucking telemarketer text. Christ.

I block the number and look out the window.

It’s late morning, and a few streams of sunlight are peeking out through the clouds. I’ve had a couple customers so far, made a couple hundred dollars in sales.

Alissa and I have been texting when we can over the last few days, but she’s had late shifts and doesn’t have her phone while she’s working.

Good for the patients, bad for me.

I have a vintage grandfather clock in the shop that sits directly across from the cashier, so I can keep an eye on the time throughout the day.

Each move of the second hand seems to drag as if it’s being pulled through molasses.

Fuck.

* * *

After several endless hours of working in the shop, I’m finally standing outside of Symphony Center on Michigan Avenue.

I decided to go full black tie this evening—my favorite tux, ornamented with a midnight-blue vest and bow tie and gold-plated studs and cufflinks.

I opted out of a hat tonight—it’s not black-tie appropriate.

I parked in the usual spot, the parking garage near Aces, and walked about fifteen minutes to the concert hall’s exterior.

It’s a warm evening for the middle of February, so I skipped the overcoat.

It’s pretty unassuming. Three large domed windows at its front, and lines of regular-sized windows up and down the building.

The only indication that this isn’t just another regular office building is the huge banner on its facade with a headshot of the long-haired conductor of the orchestra over the words “Symphony Center: Home of the World-Class Chicago Symphony Orchestra.”

My tickets are saved on my phone, so I don’t have to wait at will call with the over-sixty crowd. I texted Alissa once I got here, but the concert doesn’t begin until seven thirty, and it’s barely ten till the top of the hour.

And then I see her.

My God, she’s ravishing.

She’s in a silver gown lined with golden sequins that catch the light of the nearly full moon. It’s like she’s a moonbeam come to life.

The gown exposes her creamy shoulders, and her hair has been brushed out and styled into an elegant updo.

I’d love to strip her down and fuck her silly right in the middle of the busiest street in Chicago.

I walk to her, grab her hand, and kiss her on the cheek. “Alissa, you look beautiful tonight.”

She blushes. “Thanks. I decided to pull a Maddox Hathaway and skip the jacket. Make the right kind of entrance.”

“Did you drive here?”

She shakes her head. “I called an Uber. Cheaper than parking in this area.”

I chuckle. “Probably true. I would have done the same if I didn’t have the spot in the Aces garage.”

She frowns. “Should you still be parking there? If Rouge finds out what we know… And it’s not as if your car is exactly inconspicuous…”

I caress her cheek. “Baby, don’t worry about any of that tonight. Tonight is about us…and our good friend Dmitri Shostakovich.”

She smiles. “Okay, but one last thing before I drop the matter. Any news from Bill?”

“Not a word. So all we can do for tonight is enjoy the symphony.”

“I should like nothing more, Maddox.” She glances toward the entryway where ushers are scanning tickets. “Shall we go inside?”

I offer her my arm. “Absolutely, my moonbeam.”

I escort her in and pull up the tickets on my phone with my free hand. The usher scans them and gestures us into the foyer.

“Where are we sitting?” Alissa asks.

“The main floor. About halfway up.”

She drops her jaw. “Those tickets must have been expensive.” She points upward. “I’m normally sitting in the nosebleeds when I’m here.”

I flash her a smile. “No woman of mine will be sitting in the cheap seats.”

She bites her lip. “So I’m your woman now?”

“I didn’t hear any protests when I referred to you as my girlfriend the other day.”

She grins. “There’s no arm I’d rather be on than yours, Maddox.”

We walk into the main floor and take our seats.

Stage lights flood the performance space, which is filled with black chairs, music stands, and a grand piano just right of center.

Several instrumentalists are already onstage, looking through their sheet music or playing licks of the upcoming performance.

I look down at my program. “Looks like it’s not just the Shostakovich symphony tonight. They’re starting the evening off with Beethoven’s fifth piano concerto.”

She nods. “Yes. Usually at least two pieces are programmed for a concert. The symphony is the main course, but you get a little appetizer first. The piano concerto is fantastic. You’ll love it.”

I wrinkle my forehead. “And what exactly is the difference between a concerto and a symphony?”

Her entire face brightens. “A symphony is a multimovement work for the whole orchestra. Usually it starts off with an exciting first movement, followed by a contrasting slower one. Third movement is dancelike, and the fourth is the finale, which is usually fast paced and exciting like the first movement.”

“And a concerto?”

“A concerto is a piece where a soloist—a pianist or violinist usually, but it could be any instrument—is featured, and the themes of the work are traded off between him and the rest of the orchestra. Concertos— concerti , technically—are usually shorter. Three movements. Fast, slow, fast.”

“And when you say movements…”

“Of course. A movement is a section of the work as a whole. A work within a work. Like a scene in a movie. And this is what’s most important”—she grabs my hands—“you shouldn’t applaud until the piece as a whole is over.”

“Why would I applaud when the piece isn’t over?”

“Because it often sounds like the piece is finished after the first movement. It usually ends with a bang, and it’s very tempting to applaud.

But the conductor, who will stand right there”—she points at an elevated platform in the center of the stage—“will make it very clear when the piece is over. Worst case, just look at me. If I’m clapping, you’re good to go. ”

I chuckle. “Lots of rules for listening to music.”

She shrugs. “It’s about decorum. You should take in the piece as a whole, allow it to settle into your bones, before showing your appreciation to the musicians.”

“What if someone else—some fool in the audience—claps before it’s time?”

“Then they’ll get dirty looks from the more seasoned patrons.” She laughs lightly. “I won’t have that be you, Maddox.”

The rest of the orchestra has filed slowly onto the stage, and the audience lights dim. The chatter dies down quickly, and all eyes are on the stage.

A woman with a violin enters the stage, and everyone in the audience applauds.

“Is she the conductor?” I whisper into Alissa’s ear.

She shakes her head. “The concertmaster. First chair of the violin section. She’ll lead the orchestra in the tuning.”

She goes to the piano at the center of the stage and plunks a note down.

“Normally they tune to the oboe,” Alissa whispers. “But since there’s a piano in this piece, they have to tune to it instead.”

“Got it.”

The rest of the orchestra tunes to the note from the piano, and then the concertmaster takes her seat.

The lights shift again, focusing on the platform at the front.

The same long-haired man I saw on the poster walks out in a full white-tie tux, tails and all. He’s followed by a younger man wearing a charcoal suit over a dark-blue T-shirt.

“The man in the tails is the CSO’s music director,” Alissa explains. “And the guy in the T-shirt will be the soloist for the piano concerto.”

The conductor shakes the concertmaster’s hand and then joins hands with the pianist. They both take a bow, and then the soloist sits down at the piano bench and the conductor takes the podium.

The conductor makes eye contact with every instrumentalist, raises his baton, and begins the concerto.

The concerto’s first movement is majestic and allows the pianist to show off quite a bit before soloist and orchestra together settle into a stately theme reminiscent of an army marching to battle, ending with a big chord.

Thank God Alissa told me not to applaud, because I’d be jumping out of my seat right now.

A few people do start clapping, but quickly stop when they realize that the piece isn’t yet over.

Alissa gives me a side-eye which says aren’t you glad I schooled you in the correct etiquette?

The second movement is more introspective, almost prayer-like, and when the pianist enters, it’s in a dream-like whisper.

It continues to pulse gently, growing quieter and quieter until the composer jolts us into a jubilant and triumphant third movement.

With a final wave of his baton, the conductor cuts the orchestra off, and the audience roars with applause, some of them even hooting and hollering.

I need no cue from Alissa—I jump to my feet immediately with applause.

I’ve never heard music like this before.

I mean, I’ve been listening to the classical station in my car ever since I drove Alissa home that first night we went to Aces.

But to actually hear it performed live, see the violinists and cellists moving their bows in perfect synchrony, watching the woodwinds players taking long breaths before playing into their instruments, seeing the percussionist bang between timpani drums in real time—it’s magnificent.

The conductor and the pianist take several bows along with the orchestra as a whole, returning to the wings several times just to come back for more applause. The clapping goes on for six or seven minutes total before things finally die down and the lights in the concert hall come back on.

“That’s intermission,” Alissa says. “How’d you like the Beethoven?”

I turn to her, my eyes wide. “It was fantastic. I’ve never heard music like that live before. Truly remarkable.”

She smiles, but there’s something distant—yearning, perhaps?—in her eyes. “It’s wonderful, isn’t it? The way it just…breathes life into you.”

I grab her hand. “That’s exactly it. It took me away from everything we’ve dealt with the past few days. Made me realize that life is worth living. That… That…”

That I love you, Alissa.

Those are the words I want to say, but they’re caught in my throat.

I want to say them more desperately than I want my next breath.

When she was explaining the differences between a symphony and a concerto, I saw the light in her eyes. The joy that the simple act of discussing the music brought her.

I’ve seen that light a few times before. Whenever she’s talked about her education at Northwestern. Her two degrees in flute performance.

This woman belongs on the stage of this concert hall, not in the audience.

She’s a musician. Not a nurse, but a woman with music coursing through her veins.

And fuck. I want to live the rest of my life with her.