The Treble With Men Read online

  The Treble with Men

  Scorned Women Society Series Book #2

  Piper Sheldon

  www.smartypantsromance.com

  Copyright

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, rants, facts, contrivances, and incidents are either the product of the author’s questionable imagination or are used factitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead or undead, events, locales is entirely coincidental if not somewhat disturbing/concerning.

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  Copyright © 2020 by Smartypants Romance; All rights reserved.

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  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, photographed, instagrammed, tweeted, twittered, twatted, tumbled, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without explicit written permission from the author.

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  Made in the United States of America

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  eBook Edition

  Dedication

  To J.R., always

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  And to those who secretly wish she chose the Phantom

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Sneak Peek: Upsy Daisy by Chelsie Edwards

  Other Books by Piper Sheldon

  Other Books by Smartypants Romance

  Chapter 1

  Your vibrato is atrocious. Vibrate the string; don’t wring its neck like it’s a chicken.

  KIM

  A man’s voice stopped me halfway down the stairs.

  “Kim . . .” His rich voice spoke my real name, though the rest of his words were too muffled to make out.

  A chill shuddered down my spine. I smoothed the goosebumps from my arms and tiptoed down the plush carpeted stairs. When the doorbell rang a few minutes ago I had assumed it was one of my parents’ endless stream of guests. The only reason I had left my practicing was to get a snack. Snacks were typically my main motivation to move.

  The guest was talking to my parents about me?

  No matter how I tried to fight my innate curiosity, it always won out. The door to the drawing room was left open so I tucked behind it, hiding from the occupants of the room. The familiar shame at being a guest in my parent’s home pinkened my cheeks. Because that’s how it felt to me being almost thirty and living in my old bedroom. I wasn’t still living at home; I was a guest.

  “She should be here for this conversation.” It was that new voice, deep and rumbling. Gentle, yet forceful.

  “She’s practicing. She takes her schedule very seriously,” my dad stated.

  That was like saying the Pope was pretty religious. Control over my schedule gave me peace of mind. I pressed my face into the crack between the door. The slice revealed my dad on the couch, his back to me. Across from him, I saw biker boots and worn jeans where I had expected dress pants and loafers.

  A familiar thrill shot through my memory: the open air tugging through my hair on the back of the bike and the deep rattling of an engine vibrating through my bones. I clamped down my wayward thoughts.

  “We’ll postpone this conversation until Kim is available,” the man responded.

  “Christine,” my father corrected.

  There was shuffling and then a pause. “What?”

  “She goes by Christine Day now. As you know.”

  The silence in response filled the room more powerfully than anything else could have. Christine Day had been my stage name for over five years now. The change made it easier to distinguish my former self from my present one. Most of Green Valley thought Kim Dae got caught up with Jethro Winston and the Iron Wraiths only to go MIA. It was better to be known as the girl who’d disappeared than the woman who was going nowhere.

  This man’s voice was so familiar and yet completely out of place here. It was intriguing enough to have me reaching for the door. My hand dropped just as four heavy steps shook the floor so hard the china cabinet across the hall rattled. I pressed myself back against the wall as the door was thrown open. Thankfully, my foot stopped me from getting a bloody nose.

  “Forty-eight hours.” He paused in the doorway to announce. “Then the offer goes to the next candidate.” The scent of sun-warmed leather filled the air around me. Even with the door between us, his lush smell drew me in.

  I shivered.

  The stranger didn’t wait for my parents’ response. His heavy work boots thumped down the marbled foyer. My head poked out to find a hulking frame filling out jeans to their maximum capacity across tree-trunk thighs and a sculpted … derrière. He wore a black leather coat, and a dark baseball cap covered thick, onyx hair that fought for freedom and reached almost to his nape. He was absolutely massive. I let out a slow breath.

  This was not how grown women behaved. I should have just walked in the room and demanded that they include me in the conversation. And yet I was here. Behind a door. Creeping on a stranger with a racing heart and the urge to flee. I risked another peek.

  I half expected him to knock out chunks of dry wall as he brushed through the front door, but when he reached the foyer, he stilled. His head shifted ever so slightly, like a predator sensing prey. In profile, his eyebrows furrowed into a frown—now, that was an expression I knew well. His leather coat squeaked as he slowly turned all the way around. His gaze found mine in an instant. He looked directly at me. No—within me.

  I gasped and tucked myself back.

  It was only a glimpse, but it was enough to have my heart slamming against my chest and my face heating with embarrassment. A black bandana with a white painted skull covered most of his face, except where two dark eyes peered out at me from under his cap. In just that glance, his gaze burned up the distance between us. My breath was sucked out of my chest.

  The Devil of the Symphony. Known simply as Devlin. One name to rule them all.

  He was the new conductor who had been stirring things up in a big way at the Symphonic Orchestra of Knoxville, a.k.a. the SOOK. My conductor. I hadn’t recognized his voice because he rarely spoke, and certainly never gently. He yelled. Or growled. “The woodwinds need to save some of that hot air for their fortissimo and not for mindless chatter!” or “If I wanted to fall asleep, I’d ask for a lullaby—not allegro!” Everybody knew the Devil of the Symphony came to Knoxville after being fired from several of the biggest symphonies around the world. Nobody knew why he chose the SOOK though.

  My stomach dropped. He’d said he had an offer.

  What would he want with me? I was a nobody in the back. The other cellists probably didn’t even know my name. Christine Day kept herself small a
nd unnoticed for a reason. I hardly made it on anybody’s radar, let alone the Devil’s.

  My skin felt weird and hot and tight.

  The door swung back and broke me from my internal musings. He gently closed the door, separating me from my parents.

  “Christine Day.” Devlin stood in front of me and all around me. His head tilted to the side.

  “Maestro,” I said. “I wasn’t eavesdropping.”

  His eyebrows shot up.

  “I mean, not intentionally,” I clarified.

  “I’ve already spoken with your parents, but I wanted to ask you directly.” He said the words while his eyes bored into me.

  His words were clear, not muffled, despite the barrier. The mask only made his focus all the more flustering. There was nowhere else to look. All I could do was stare back into those deep, dark eyes.

  My eyes were brown too. Boring brown, like an Ikea side table. They matched my long, brown, stick-straight hair. I was easily forgettable. Tucked away in a corner, most people thought I was a side table. But his eyes were almost black. Where did the pupil end and where did the iris start? And why was I spending so much time thinking about his pupils when he had clearly just said something?

  “What?” I smiled. It was a nervous knee-jerk reaction. It usually gave me enough time to disarm somebody until I thought of what I needed to say.

  “My showcase. I need a cellist to help me work through some issues with my newest composition, Smokey Mountain Suite.”

  “A cellist?”

  “Yes,” he said flatly.

  I wanted to ask, “What about Carla?” The first chair cellist would love that. I was nobody. I was fourth chair. Literally by rights, I was the fourth most qualified person to help him. But my words got stuck. The longer I stalled, the more the tension built around us. With every second that passed without me answering, the little furrow between his brow deepened.

  But what was I supposed to say? Had he even asked me a question?

  “I—I … Are you asking me?” That was definitely not what I should have said.

  I had meant it sincerely, but he obviously took it as snark. The slice of emotion I could see turned downright thunderous. Suddenly the stories of holes punched in walls and flying music stands were believable.

  “Yes,” he growled.

  This was a big decision. I needed more information. I needed to talk to Mom and Dad. So why couldn’t I just say that? I could not decide this right now. Not with him standing there, studying me like that. What did he think my reaction would be to him showing up in my house? I was wearing pink flannel PJ bottoms and a tank top, for crying out loud. I hadn’t even messed with a bra today. I hadn’t expected to leave my suite of the house.

  I crossed my arms over my chest, trying to appear casual, despite feeling anything but.

  “Yes or no.” Without seeing his mouth, I sensed he was scowling. That more-familiar growl was back in his voice. “Forty-eight hours.”

  And as though we had both decided the conversation was over, he turned on a heel and left. Only when the rumbles of his bike were no longer audible did I finally breathe easy.

  I wasn’t sure how long I stood there like a wall-eyed fish out of water. Eventually, my parents came out from the sitting room to find me stupefied in the hallway.

  “I’m so confused. What should I do?” I whispered more to myself.

  “It’s a wonderful opportunity, working with the Maestro every weekend,” my mother said, her voice smooth and calm as always.

  “But you don’t have to do it. If you—” My dad turned to my mother as if a thought had just occurred to him. “How did he know her real name?”

  “Green Valley isn’t that big,” she said. “Most people know Kim. Gossip probably got up to Knoxville somehow.”

  That wasn’t exactly true. Not many people connected Jethro’s ex, Kim Dae, the truant who ruined her chances for Juilliard, with Christine Day, the fourth chair cellist in the SOOK. That was the whole point of the stage name. I had split myself off into a new person.

  Of course my friends in the Scorned Women’s Society, SWS for short, knew; we all had our own baggage in addition to being Jethro’s exes. We took care of each other. No ex left behind.

  My father argued, “He’s got a temper.”

  “He’s an artist,” mom countered.

  “That excuses it? We’re artists. We didn’t throw tantrums and break batons.”

  They stood right in front of me and spoke as though I wasn’t there at all.

  My mother simply stared at my father, who was absolutely a moody artist, known for locking himself away for weeks at a time until he finished a novel.

  “Don’t give me that look, Meredith,” my dad said.

  “I didn’t say anything, Lindsay,” my mother soothed.

  My folks never raised their voices when they fought, they just used names. If ever they get to their full names, it was time to get out.

  “You did. With your eyes. And yes, I could be emotional when I had book-brain. But at least I didn’t throw paint at the doorman.”

  “That was one time,” my mother retorted calmly. “Artists are fickle. We understand that more than most.”

  “He couldn’t even take off that ridiculous hat and mask in our home,” Dad said.

  “You know what they say. He’s … different. Maybe he’s found his face makes people uncomfortable.”

  My father harrumphed. “I still don’t like it.”

  “Just think of the one-on-one instruction she’d receive from such a musical genius.” Mom, in her silk kimono, shifted her attention back to me. Dad wrapped an arm around her in his own matching kimono—because they were exactly that couple. After forty years of marriage they were morphing into the same eccentrically dressed, gender-neutral person. “What do you think, sweetie?” she asked me.

  My toes started to tingle. The room unfocused until only their faces were clear. Distantly, I was aware that my breaths were coming quicker. I was tired of being a passive follower in my life, but I didn’t know how to change. It seemed to come so easily for other people: bravery, boldness, and passion. Nobody would describe me with those words. But I did feel those emotions, hidden deep in my bones. What would this opportunity garner? Would I want it? What damage could this decision set into motion?

  “I—I don’t know.” Images flashed through my mind. A cello solo. An icy lake. Wild nights. Bad choices.

  Devlin came here to ask me to help him with his composition. He was a hulking, leather-clad biker-composer. He wore a mask with a skull and was quick to temper. Everything about him was designed to scare and push people away. He intimidated me, but he didn’t scare me.

  What he wanted from me did.

  Chapter 2

  Always play like you’re first chair, even in the back row.

  KIM

  He wants me. Devlin wants me.

  To play for him. The Devil of the Symphony wanted me to play for him.

  “I don’t think I can do it,” I told Erin.

  She was my clarinet homie in the SOOK. In rehearsal, she sat in my direct line of sight and we often passed the hours sending each other looks—as no phones were allowed—and trying to get the other to laugh with the most ridiculous faces.

  “Why not?” she asked. Her hair was purple today, save her dark roots, and the cut was a sharp bob just above her shoulders. She wore jean overalls over curvaceous hips and a bright green T-shirt. If I was the side table of a room, she was a lava lamp.

  Devlin planned to debut his newest—and supposedly, most amazing—composition at the SOOK fall showcase. The spring/summer season had just begun, but with the arrival of the Devil of the Symphony, the gossip was already focused on the September show. This year, the pièce de résistance was to be Devlin’s crowning achievement. He wanted me to help him perfect the cello solo, and to receive private tutoring sessions.

  Why me?

  Erin and I stood in the corner of the room, huddled together, sipping
crappy free coffee before practice. My two days were almost up. Devlin … Maestro … whoever, would need my decision today. Every time the door to the rehearsal space opened, my heart dropped to my toes thinking he would walk in and ask me in front of God and everyone what I had decided.

  “I’m just not that good,” I said with a glance to the door.

  It was just Barry, second chair cellist, schlepping in on the heels of Carla.

  “Ugh,” Erin groaned. “I hear you play at night when I’m waiting for Mom to finish cleaning. I know you’re so good. You come alive when you think nobody is around.”

  Had I been so obvious? My love for the instrument never diminished over time, even if the person playing it had.

  “You’re so good. You should be first chair,” I said.

  “Thank you. I know. Stop deflecting.” She poked my shoulder teasingly.

  “I just worry about—”

  “Is it because he’s so big and scary? I wouldn’t want to be alone with him.” She shuddered theatrically.