nice person, granted. Like she’d said, she’d probably just been making herself breakfast—I’d
told her last night that anything in the apartment that she wanted to use, eat,
or etc., she could—and since she’s so thoughtful, she’d figured I might like
something to eat, too. It was probably
that easy of an explanation. She was
making breakfast for herself and made some extra for me. Case closed.
I twirled my mother’s ring around
my finger and stared at the plate mounded with eggs, cottage cheese and
toast. But I wasn’t seeing the
plate. I was seeing her sarcastic smile
as she teased me about once liking Britney Spears enough to keep this t-shirt
for nostalgia’s sake, and her long-fingered hands shoved deep in those dark
jeans pockets over her tightly toned ass.
I leaned back on my hands and let
out of a very long sigh, the sunshine filtering through the window and streaming
over me with as much heat as my blush.
Was she sending me signals, or was
she just a really nice person?
Either way, I couldn’t come on to
my bodyguard.
Could I?
I groaned in frustration and stared
at the plate of food again. I scooped
up a few of the eggs on a piece of bread and gave them a taste.
They were practically perfect.
Chapter 7: Knock ‘em Dead
“I’m going to chew off every
fingernail. There’ll be nothing left,”
Tracy groaned, holding out her left hand to me. Violinists have to keep our fingernails short anyway because our
fingertips need to press down perfectly on the strings, but Tracy’s nails were pretty drastically short…and really did look like they’d been chewed
on. Her manicure—a glittery red nail
polish—had almost been ruined.
“Don’t be nervous,” I told her
soothingly. “We’re going to do all
right.”
“Yeah, exactly as we did in
rehearsal,” she muttered, one eyebrow up as she massaged her temples and
groaned a little under her breath.
We were partaking of our
pre-concert ritual, which consisted in the both of us getting coffees at the
sweet little coffee shop, “Thanks a Latte,” that was located around the corner
from the fine arts museum. Layne was
sitting a few booths down from us, talking to my father on her cell phone about
“the incident,” which was how she was referring to last night’s
being-held-at-gunpoint.
I tugged at the ends of my
pure-white sleeves. We were going a tiny bit casual this evening in our concert, which was, for me, wearing a
buttoned dress shirt, and a black pencil skirt with black tights and mary
janes. Tracy wore the same white shirt,
but was in a pair of black slacks. Her
curly hair was swept up in a sophisticated bun with tendrils dangling prettily
around her ears—mine was in a simple, high ponytail that I kept tugging at
because I was nervous.
Tracy pressed her iced coffee to
her forehead with a slight groan and sighed. “I really shouldn’t have had so much to drink last night, and I really shouldn’t have gone to the dentist this morning. He filled two cavities. I mean, really, what was I thinking?”
I chuckled and shook my head with a
shrug, trying to keep it light. Since
our concert was so soon, and I didn’t want to throw either one of us off
our game, I’d decided not to discuss “the incident” with Tracy, because I
didn’t want to worry her. And, I mean
really—how do you bring up that sort of thing? You’ll never guess what happened last night—we were held at gunpoint! I fiddled with the ring on my finger and
cleared my throat.
“Layne made me breakfast in bed
this morning,” is what I finally settled on telling her. Tracy set her drink down on the table
between us and raised both of her eyebrows, her hangover momentarily forgotten
as a slow smile spread across her face.
“No way! Breakfast in bed, seriously ? So was this after a night of wild and passionate—”
“Seriously, mind, get the heck
told her last night that anything in the apartment that she wanted to use, eat,
or etc., she could—and since she’s so thoughtful, she’d figured I might like
something to eat, too. It was probably
that easy of an explanation. She was
making breakfast for herself and made some extra for me. Case closed.
I twirled my mother’s ring around
my finger and stared at the plate mounded with eggs, cottage cheese and
toast. But I wasn’t seeing the
plate. I was seeing her sarcastic smile
as she teased me about once liking Britney Spears enough to keep this t-shirt
for nostalgia’s sake, and her long-fingered hands shoved deep in those dark
jeans pockets over her tightly toned ass.
I leaned back on my hands and let
out of a very long sigh, the sunshine filtering through the window and streaming
over me with as much heat as my blush.
Was she sending me signals, or was
she just a really nice person?
Either way, I couldn’t come on to
my bodyguard.
Could I?
I groaned in frustration and stared
at the plate of food again. I scooped
up a few of the eggs on a piece of bread and gave them a taste.
They were practically perfect.
Chapter 7: Knock ‘em Dead
“I’m going to chew off every
fingernail. There’ll be nothing left,”
Tracy groaned, holding out her left hand to me. Violinists have to keep our fingernails short anyway because our
fingertips need to press down perfectly on the strings, but Tracy’s nails were pretty drastically short…and really did look like they’d been chewed
on. Her manicure—a glittery red nail
polish—had almost been ruined.
“Don’t be nervous,” I told her
soothingly. “We’re going to do all
right.”
“Yeah, exactly as we did in
rehearsal,” she muttered, one eyebrow up as she massaged her temples and
groaned a little under her breath.
We were partaking of our
pre-concert ritual, which consisted in the both of us getting coffees at the
sweet little coffee shop, “Thanks a Latte,” that was located around the corner
from the fine arts museum. Layne was
sitting a few booths down from us, talking to my father on her cell phone about
“the incident,” which was how she was referring to last night’s
being-held-at-gunpoint.
I tugged at the ends of my
pure-white sleeves. We were going a tiny bit casual this evening in our concert, which was, for me, wearing a
buttoned dress shirt, and a black pencil skirt with black tights and mary
janes. Tracy wore the same white shirt,
but was in a pair of black slacks. Her
curly hair was swept up in a sophisticated bun with tendrils dangling prettily
around her ears—mine was in a simple, high ponytail that I kept tugging at
because I was nervous.
Tracy pressed her iced coffee to
her forehead with a slight groan and sighed. “I really shouldn’t have had so much to drink last night, and I really shouldn’t have gone to the dentist this morning. He filled two cavities. I mean, really, what was I thinking?”
I chuckled and shook my head with a
shrug, trying to keep it light. Since
our concert was so soon, and I didn’t want to throw either one of us off
our game, I’d decided not to discuss “the incident” with Tracy, because I
didn’t want to worry her. And, I mean
really—how do you bring up that sort of thing? You’ll never guess what happened last night—we were held at gunpoint! I fiddled with the ring on my finger and
cleared my throat.
“Layne made me breakfast in bed
this morning,” is what I finally settled on telling her. Tracy set her drink down on the table
between us and raised both of her eyebrows, her hangover momentarily forgotten
as a slow smile spread across her face.
“No way! Breakfast in bed, seriously ? So was this after a night of wild and passionate—”
“Seriously, mind, get the heck
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