Ever wondered how our innocent Carla got a man like Johannes hooked around her fingers? Here is J's POV of how they first met.
Enjoy!
Johannes Antonio Villaruiz Haelsmeberger
I hate my name.
I hate my family and its long history of music and the expectations and responsibilities that come along with the name.
I hate that everyone knows me, and my father, and my sister, and my grandpa. I hate it so much that the moment I found the chance to leave my homeland, I snatched it and left without looking back. To a place where no one has heard of me and will probably not care if I use a pseudonym when I play.
New York, New York
Or at least, that's what I thought.
The moment I step into the halls of Juilliard on my first year, people whose faces I've never seen before start calling me by my Christian name, like we are old friends of sorts. Friends. When I tell them to jump, they ask how high. I do not believe friendship works that way. Oh, right. My grandpa is a professor emeritus here.
The guys hang out with me to the bars and concertos, sometimes they stay at my bachelor pad to throw parties that usually left me reeling the next morning. They ohh and ahh at my brand new sports car, my glass-encased Stradivarius and white grand piano shipped from a master maker in Sicily.
The girls ask me to be their escorts to opera performances, to take them out on expensive dinners, or maybe to help them write and tune their musical pieces with my perfect pitch.
I hate them. Hate them fiercely, but this is my life, and I have long got used to it.
"No smoking, please," a brunette frowns at me as I lean against the door to the director's office of Bloomingdale School of Music. Grandpa asked me to watch over the delivery of the three pianos that he donated. I am done with the errand. I am just about to leave when I notice the nice looking stained glass windows of the chapel. I find myself basking at the colored sunlight that filters through the windows of the wood-paneled dome.
"Excuse me?"
She is a pretty little thing, with dark eyes and long lashes and brown hair tied in an artsy, messy knot.
"I said, no smoking please. There are kids in this building, not to mention it's bad for your health," she says simply.
I let the ashes fall on the ground and crush the rest of the stick under my hand-stitched Italian leather shoes. "Happy?"
Her mouth quirks into a frown, and like the douche bag I'm known for, I laugh as I stomp away from the nosy woman. Who does she think she is?
Minutes later, as I am about to climb over my Benz, a hand clamps around my wrist, effectively stopping me. I turn around and find myself facing a familiar smiling face.
"You forgot these," the brunette coos sweetly.
She hands me a piece of dirty rag and a plastic bag holding ashes and a broken stick of cigarette.
Satisfied to see my gaping face, she sashays her way back to the building. My stomach feels weird as I stare at her retreating back.
My last thought as I leave the school premises is about that lovely woman with a nice, tight ass.
Grandpa gives me an ultimatum. Either I go back home to Austria or I am disinherited by the proud family of Haelsmebergers. I highly doubt they can disown me. I am the prodigy son, the one who can play music by the ear, who has a perfect pitch that everyone in the music world envies. Even if they do remove me from my inheritance, what do I lose? A few million pounds? A billion dollars?
Hell if I care. I have my own savings. I can sell my luxurious place for a cheaper apartment. I can be a private tutor to some rich brat somewhere. Trust fund or not, I can survive even if they do ban me from having a musical career.
Just to spite them, I enlist myself to a Master of Music scholarship in Juilliard. I did earn a few dirty looks from the poorer candidates who knew me, but I shrug them off, pass the requirements and put my name for the auditions
Hah. I will probably breeze through it with one eye closed.
I stretch my legs, lazily sitting in one corner of the backstage room when Mr. Thomas enters the room. "Number 12, you're up next."
No one rises.
"Is Number 12 here?" he asks. Obviously not, Einstein. I roll my eyes, and continue to play Tap Tap on my phone. He exits in a rush, and later ushers a nervous looking woman with a violin case. As she saunters towards the middle of the room, my eyes fall to the wonderful butt she's sporting under that simple white dress.
A handful of men lustfully check out the sexy package that just entered. This makes me annoyed. I stand up and go to her before the others can act on their urges.
"You look like you're ready to pass out," I comment, and she jumps away like I just electrocuted her. I reach out to steady her. Hmm, she smells good enough to eat. I wonder what perfume she's using.
She faces me, and I see a familiar pair of dark eyes. Okay. I think I've met her eons ago.
"I feel like puking," she says.
I can't recall where I've seen such a pretty face. "You're not from Juilliard are you?" There. A safe enough question to ask without me sounding like a whacko.
"Bloomingdale," she answers softly, and a spark hits my memory. Ah, I smirk at the image. Fancy seeing my cigarette girl again.
"Tough competition. A lot of us here are from inside."
She gives me a look that says, 'so what?' "Thank you for pointing that out, Mr. Obvious."
Fiery. I like that.
"I like that about myself too," she frowns. Oops, did I say that out loud? "Now, can you please back off?"
Back off? Me? She wants me to back off? Doesn't she remember me? Or at least, recognize me? "Why? Don't you want to socialize?" I flash my signature smile, the one that melts women into puddles of goo. "I'm from a family of musicians," That has to get her thinking.
She shrinks away like I disgust her. "I'm not here to mingle. I'm here to feel music."
"Feel?" Odd. You hear music. You don't feel music. Maybe she has a loose screw in the head or something.
Oh. Wait! I know what she's doing! This woman is trying to seduce me by picking my interest! Reining me in like prey. Fine. I'll play along.
I tilt my head in feigned curiosity. "Not to score that free slot of making a big name?"
Her hand twitches, and her eyebrows shot up in anger and disbelief. Is she going to slap me? Me, and this handsome face? She's got to be kidding me.
"You are the most – "
Gorgeous? Sexy? What? But the ever punctual Mr. Thomas comes in at that exact moment and calls her out to perform.
I watch Number 12's small, tight ass as she hurries off the stage.
I smirk. With that attitude, she's sure to spice things up. If I get lucky, I might get to celebrate my sure acceptance with a pretty little violinist.
YOU ARE READING
Best Friends
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