Dawn shook her head. “I don’t need printed scores. I know my set list by heart.” Including the less familiar concertos someone had selected for her to play.
Dawn crossed the stage, her worn tennis shoes silent on the floorboards, and took a seat on the bench. She put her feet on the pedals and squirmed around—a luxury she wouldn’t have when the crowd had congregated—until she found a comfortable position. She scooted the bench over to the right and back a few inches and tested the comfort again. Satisfied with the position of the bench, she lifted the fallboard. She played a few scales, paying attention to the way her wrists, elbows, and shoulders felt. Her set list was long and the pieces challenging. She didn’t want to wind up with kinks in her muscles halfway through her performance. She’d been in that position more than once and had ended her set list in agony. She repositioned the bench yet again, and took several deep breaths. Starting with her first piece for the evening—from Chopin’s Piano Concerto no. 1—she played the stirring excerpt from beginning to end. She didn’t miss a note, but didn’t feel settled enough into her zone—damn her real-life issues, anyway—so she started over and played it again. About halfway through her second attempt, she found her stride. Every thought melted from her mind. She wasn’t even thinking about the music anymore. It poured from her soul as if glad to finally be free from its cage inside her. Without more than a few seconds pause, she segued into her second piece of the evening—Chopin’s Nocturne 20—one of her all-time favorites. By the time she concluded her entire set list an hour later, she felt rejuvenated, free, and grateful to Chopin for writing music that touched, inspired, and evoked so many moods.
No, she would not be giving up her performances to become a full-time composer. Composing was frustrating. It took long hours, and while the final product did give her that rush she craved, it might take months to get to that point. She needed to perform to get her musician’s high. And while playing alone on a near-dark stage fulfilled a need within her, she knew it in no way compared to have an entire audience holding their breath, least the sound of their own airflow interfere with their enjoyment of her playing.
“Play ‘Freebird’!” a familiar voice called from the dark stage-left wing.
“Wes?” She squinted toward the wings, and her agent emerged from the shadows, clapping as he approached her bench.
“Phenomenal as always,” he said.
“What are you doing here?” Attending one of her overseas performances was not normal behavior for him.
“I’m supposed to put the squeeze on you. Steinberg and Everlong want an answer.”
“I’m still not ready to give it,” she said.
“Are you going to let this opportunity pass you by? Isn’t it what you’ve always wanted? I don’t understand your hesitation. Talk to me, kiddo.”
Dawn pushed her fingers into her hair, shifting the heavy mass of curls from her shoulders, and sighed. “I still want to perform. I need it in my life.”
“Okay. And that’s fine. There is no conflict of interest in that. But that can’t be the reason you’re hesitating. We already know you can handle both.”
She cringed. He’d never seen her try to write before. Never witnessed the turmoil. The anxiety. The frustration. He never had to sit on a hard piano bench for hours on end and hear nothing, feel nothing, but silence. Wes just got the end product as if it magically fell out of her ass or something.
“I don’t want to go to Venice,” she said, hoping that was enough of a reason to put them off.
“I thought you loved Venice.”
“I do, but I’m not prepared to pack up my life and move to a foreign city for months on end.”
Wes cocked a brow at her. It was hard to read his expression in the dim light, but she read it as confused.
“What are you talking about? The trip to Venice is for a week. Then you’ll spend a week in the studio in Los Angeles. Only if Pierre and Everlong are still blocked do they plan to go to Rome after that.”
“So since I’m not blocked, I can skip Venice?” Though she could tolerate a week away from Kellen. Maybe. She knew he was struggling with the band breakup, no matter how calm he claimed to be about it.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea. Traveling with them will give you the chance to get to know your co-writers in a less formal setting. And come on, kiddo—it’s freaking Venice. You love Venice.”
But she loved Kellen more, and she was very concerned for him. She’d already arranged her flight out of Prague for a day earlier; she’d be leaving for Houston in the morning. She’d tried for a flight directly to Austin, but couldn’t find an empty seat to any airport closer than Houston. Her crazy travel plans probably weren’t the best for avoiding the jetlag that was sure to knock her on her ass, but even though Kellen had insisted he didn’t need her and that he was fine, she wanted to be there for him. Needed to be there for him.
“Can I go to Venice for just the final three days of their trip? Do you think they’ll compromise?”
“Kiddo, I’m sure they’ll compromise. They’re trying to play it cool, but it’s not normal for them to hound a new star’s poor agent ten times a day, and it’s really not normal for them to send him to Prague to encourage her to sign their contract. You tell me what you want, and I’m sure I can get it. Dream big, kiddo. Let’s make it happen.”
She hugged him. He’d been her champion from the beginning, learning how to represent a classical artist because he’d always been more of an agent for popstars and rappers and the occasional rock band. She’d never understand how she got so lucky to have someone as keen as she was on making her dreams come true. Of course, the ten percent commission he earned from her had to be one of his motivations, but his dedication was more than that. Her success was his success.
“Okay,” she said breathlessly. Just admitting that she wanted to go forward with the deal added a new twist to the knot that had been churning in her gut all day.
“I’m going to go make a call and tell them you’re willing to negotiate but want some provisions. We’ll work on the specifics after your performance.”
He squeezed her hand and patted her back.
The nervousness that had vanished while she’d been practicing began to bubble up inside her again. Her hands were shaking. She couldn’t perform with shaking hands.
Wes rubbed her back. “Why don’t you go through your set list again? It’ll calm you down.”
“So I look as freaked out as I feel?” Perhaps her face wasn’t obscured in shadows as his was.
“You’re trembling.” He squeezed her hand again. “You got this, kid.”
Dawn smiled, not sure if he could see her gratitude. “Thanks. I do need to hear that on occasion.”
“I’ll try to remember that. It’s hard when someone blows you away every time you see them work.”
“Quit,” she said, giving him a playful shove.
“See you later.”
He climbed from the bench, and she played him off the stage with her classically inspired version of “Freebird.”