Violinist (CENTURIES series: Book #4)

2

Someone clearly pissed in his drink tonight. I wasn't even gonna go near him. An angry Carlos was unpredictable, and I liked my job.

Returning to what I was doing, I served the customers their drinks and my charm. The band kept playing and Carlos put on a smiling face for the crowd every time he stepped up on the stage to present the next artist. The show must go on, as they said. Even if something was wrong.

"Hey, Mona," I quickly stopped one of the other waitresses as she was heading back out on the floor with a tray full of drinks. "Why is Carlos on edge tonight? Did something happen?"

"Haven't you noticed?" She replied and rose a brow. "We're missing our violinist."

"Did he get sick?"

"No. The Lounge got burglarized last night after we closed up. All they grabbed was the violin," Mona told, flicking her eyes up to Carlos who now took the stage and introduced the next act. "He's been keeping it on the down-low because he's pissed that someone got in. I imagine it's an ego thing."

"Whoa, wait, someone broke in last night and only stole the violin?" I asked and rose a skeptical brow. "Has he reported it to the police?"

Mona shrugged. "Don't know, don't care. That's his business."

"True, alright. Thanks, hon."

"No probs."

Mona returned to the floor while I stayed by the bar, waiting for the second bartender to whip up the drink orders. My heel absentmindedly tapped to the rhythm of the band, my fingers tickling across the counter.

They only stole a violin...

I wondered... that vagabond from yesterday with the keen ear for the violin, he wouldn't happen to know anything about the robbery now, would he?

Definitely worth investigating.

"Order's up!" The bartender called and placed the last drink on my tray.

I instantly picked it up and headed out onto the floor again.

How hard could it be to find a stolen violin on the streets of New York?

~~~

I didn't get off from work until 3am. By then my feet were killing me and my arms were busted from catering drinks all night long. You'd think you'd get used to it over time, but apart from the thicker skin on my feet, it stayed the same. Exhaustion was exhaustion and I was exhausted.

Still, my mind hadn't been able to let go of the violin theft. What were truly the chances that that vagabond hadn't stolen it? He had clearly been upset about our violinist (apparently) playing it badly, and what if it had bothered him so much he had flat out stolen the violin to stop the crowd from suffering any further? I was sure a violin could earn good money on the street. In the worst case, he could probably use it as firewood.

I was walking down to the subway, trying not to step in the vomit of someone who hadn't been able to make it to the trashcan three feet away, when I heard it.

No fucking way. Nuh-uh. The world just wasn't that small.

My mind froze, but my body followed the sound of what sounded like squeaking. These were no ordinary squeaks. They weren't the kind from a rusty bike or a broken valve, and in the underground echo from the subway, it sounded almost torturous. Like someone was dragging their nails across a blackboard. It made my heart pace as I came closer and closer, rounding a corner to get my suspicion confirmed.

There weren't any people. Just one man who was sitting up against the tiled wall with a small suitcase and a wooden instrument in his hands.

A violin.

Well, that was easy.

He paid no attention to me as I walked over to him. Only when I stopped up in front of him and cast an accusatory shadow over his body did his eyes flicker up and pin hard on me.

Every word fled my mind.

Oceans. Deep, blue, pacific oceans were what met me and had my mouth falling open until they abruptly looked away and had me blinking.

The hell.

I continued standing there, paralyzed. For some reason, I didn't move. He kept fiddling with the violin in front of me, turning on the screws to tune it, seemingly indifferent about the fact that I was there. I knew I should stop him. That's why I walked over here. Not to stare like some awestricken fool, but the way his hands worked was what had me staring without interrupting him like I was supposed to. The violin wasn't his. It was stolen property. He could break it, and yet I didn't stop him.

Maybe, it was because it was so late and I was exhausted, simply too tired to function right or give a care.

Or maybe... it was because of the way he slowly brought the violin to his chin and raised it to just the right arch with what seemed like practiced hands. When he brought the bow to the strings, I knew I should've stopped him, but I didn't. Instead, I stood still and waited like an audience at the opera.

And therefore... he played.

• • •

Next chapter will be... intense.