Page 59 of Serving the Maestro

“This is a very generous bonus,” Stephen said, dropping a heavy hand on my shoulder and squeezing.

“Yes, thank you,” I said, parroting what seemed to be an acceptable phrase.

“You are a musical genius.” Lincoln Mayes clapped his hands together and rubbed them, looking more like a cartoon villain than anything else, especially with the gleeful smile on his face. “I can’t wait to—well, never mind. We’ll talk about that later on.”

“Talk about what?” Stephen asked.

“Nothing we can mention right now.” Frank Gotti gave his friend a narrow look. “Ignore Lincoln. He has a big mouth. We might be giving you a call soon, though.”

Moving to the second-floor studio window, I looked outside, eyes moving to the iconic sign up in the hills, lingering on the H, while my mind drifted even further away.

What was Jazz doing now?

Did she miss me even half as much as I missed her?

* * *

“We’re going out.”

Instead of dropping me at my place, Stephen dismissed the driver and followed me into my condo. In the kitchen, there were empty beer bottles lining one counter.

After checking my nearly empty fridge he glanced over his shoulder at me. “Collecting glass?”

“Waiting for recycling day.” I sat on the couch and put my feet on the coffee table, unlocking my phone.

“That was yesterday.”

“Was it? Oh.” I scowled, then shrugged. “Okay, I’m waiting for the next recycling day.”

Stephen leaned over the back of the couch and snagged my phone. “We’re going out,” he said again. “You need to celebrate. And you need to stop pouting like this. It’s not like you, man.”

“I’m not pouting.” Shoving upright, I shot him a glare.

Stephen gave me a sympathetic look. “Then what’s going on?”

“I...” Sucking in a breath, a hundred angry words trapped in my throat, I tried to find the right answer. What was going on?

Jazz hadn’t called, hadn’t responded to the one text I’d sent her—the one where I’d laid myself out bare—except to say she was glad I’d made it home safe.

Glad I’d made it home?

What the fuck kind of response was that?

Throat tight, I glared at Stephen. “I don’t fucking know.”

“Alright. When you do, we can talk. But for now? I’m dragging you out of here, putting food in your belly, and taking you to the club.” He paused, then said, “Got it?”

I almost told him to get lost.

But then I realized if I didn’t go out with him, I’d just spend another night alone. Thinking about Jazz and all the miles between us. Thinking of the things I’d left unsaid, wondering if I shouldn’t have tried to say more.

Throat knotting up on me, I nodded, “Fine. Whatever.”

“Good.” Relief showed up in Stephen’s eyes. “Now go take a fucking shower, and shave, damn it. You look like you’ve been living under a bridge for a week.”

* * *

The restaurant hadn’t been bad.

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