Composing Sins

Composing Sins

J.F. Lowe

Published by J.F. Lowe

Copyright © 2020 J.F. Lowe

Edited by Kallee Wright

EBook ISBN: 978-0-6488818-3-4

Print IBSN: 978-0-6488818-4-1

Cover images: Canva

Cover created by J.F. Lowe

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights.

This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or establishments is solely coincidental.

Warning: The contents of this book are for a mature audience. Trigger warning as it contains aspects of BDSM and drug use.

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Dedication

Eddie McGuire, one joke by you in my afternoon routine set the Composing Sins journey off. Thank you for gracing our screens and radios here in Australia for so many years. I wish you many more to come.

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The musical selections mentioned, both in passing and in detail throughout this book were carefully selected to complement the mood of each character and to reflect the tone of the story at that point in time. If you have the opportunity to listen to some of the selections as you read, I think you’ll find the music adds an entirely new emotional depth and dimension. The list of music selections is also available through Spotify. Happy reading and happy listening!

Hannah Montana performed by Migos

The War is Over performed by Kelly Clarkson

Now We are Free performed by 2CELLOS

Strangers In Paradise performed by Andre Rieu

Superstition performed by Stevie Wonder

Wake Me Up performed by 2CELLOS

With Or Without You performed by 2CELLOS

Smells Like Teen Spirit performed by 2CELLOS

Despacito performed by 2CELLOS

Oh, Well (featuring Elton John) performed by 2CELLOS

Hallelujah performed by 2CELLOS

Save Me from Myself performed by Christina Aguilera

Diamonds performed by Rihanna

Girl on Fire performed by Alicia Keys

Prologue

Andrew

The crowd in front of me was dark, thanks to the glare of the stage lights. But there was only one face I could picture, and I lowered my head with it burning my brain. I played the opening bars on my cello, the New York Philharmonic slowly coming in on the bass, violins, and woodwinds. I raised my bow once more, closed my eyes and gave the slightest nod of my head as I set my fingers free to dance across the fingerboard. In my right hand, the bow is an extension of my arm. I swing it effortlessly over each string, my fingers digging in—grabbing hold, pivoting and leaping like the ballet. I coax and tease and pull the notes from my one-of-a-kind Duport Stradivarius cello, fingers rocking back and forth from string to string, everything around me falling away. I know they aren’t really gone; it’s the cocaine and the scotch. I know it’s not the smartest move being high performing, but I don’t know how to stop.

Since I was fifteen, I’d always loved the slow burn of alcohol and the exhilaration of cocaine. They were easy. They made me feel. They also made me forget. Forget that I was the reason my mother is dead. One second I’m flying high and the next I’m scraping my soul off the bottom of a bug-infested trash can outside the halls of Lincoln Centre. You would have thought the chronic nosebleeds and sinus infections would have slowed me down, but they never did.

Then when the New York Philharmonic placed me as first chair, I’d cut out the other drugs. The acid, LSD, MDMA. Now a solo cellist, doing lines before each concert is just to stave off the depression and anxiety because we couldn’t disappoint dear old dad. Oh, no, that would mean I lost everything. The money, the power, the name that means I can do just about anything I fucking want. But doing anything I want and having anything I want are two very different things. I want to be the best cellist in the world. I want my mother back, I want… fuck, I don’t know what it is I want anymore.

As the notes flow, I feel as if it is pouring out of me and spilling into the theatre. It is only when the very last note has died away that I remember that I’m no longer alone.

As usual, the requirements of post-concert schmoozing. They want a professional concert cellist on stage and charismatic playboy off it, and didn’t I play the part just perfectly. Another snort of cocaine and I step out into the pouring rain, still blinking away the dark spots in my vision left behind from the stage lights.

Chapter 1

Larkin

Twenty dollars for parking? Per day. And the garage was the budget-friendly option. Valet didn’t even have the price listed. Resigned, I dug in my purse for a twenty and handed it over. The booth attendant raised his eyebrow, giving my car a once-over.

Well, okay. Message received.

I clearly didn’t belong at the Lincoln Centre, even as a visitor. It was true. I normally spent less than twenty dollars a day on food. And my old Toyota had broken down twice on the drive over from Harlem. I wouldn’t have even bothered driving if it hadn’t been pouring with rain. Fuck, the booth attendant probably made more than I did. But if I was going to be stuck here for a few days, I’d have to adjust my standards a little bit. It was my one and only chance to have dreams come true.

I race through the Lincoln centre. Shit, I’m going to be late. Just my luck, the doors of the theatre were already closed by the time I reached them, and the faint hint of scales drifted from beyond like an ominous warning.

Shit. I slipped around the side of the building, shouldered open a fire exit, and hurried down the dimly lit hallway that led backstage. The other singers were already doing vocal exercises warming up, which left me with no chance of hiding within the shadows of the studio.

Nice of you to finally join us, Miss Jackson.

They remembered my name; that had to count for something. Rather than just written off, I had been artfully rejected, the truth sweetened with a little bit of sugar and personalized for dramatic effect.

Shit, it’s the first day, and I’ve already blown it. This is my one chance to get a recording contract. This was my only chance of getting out of the hell hole that I have been living in my entire life. It wasn’t every day that a girl from Harlem receives an offer to audition at the Lincoln Centre. It certainly didn’t happen to ones that wanted to fuse rap and classical music.

I’d grown up signing in church, mamma made sure of it. I wasn’t an overly religious person myself but momma she lived, eat and breathed it. Also, the church had been good to mamma ever since my father had died when I was two in a car accident.

Not long translated into roughly two hours. The entire time, I sat on a hard metal folding chair, watching the clock. Tick. Tock. Time seemed stuck, and I had no choice but to observe the other singers—their clothes, their posture, their perfect, shiny hair. Just when I thought the wait might stretch into another hour, a door opened on the right-hand side of the room, drawing everyone’s attention. Larkin Jackson, a man’s voice called from beyond it.

Centre stage.

A man near the centre of the table read my name off a slip of paper before him. Ms Jackson?

Yes? I waited patiently to be given the required song.

Did you bring music?

M-music? My stomach fell to the floor and shattered. Check and mate, preacher’s voice taunted through my conscience. Haha, very funny. Only a sadist would send someone into an audition without preparing them.

No. There was a smattering of muttered conversation. Before I could make out a single word, the man in the centre shrugged.

Will you be able to sing a Capella? Shit, a Capella. No music to hide in. It was if I was naked on the stage. The panel stared at me, impatience brandishing their faces. All I could manage was a quick nod of my head.

Good. You may begin. The only song coming to mind was what I was feeling at that moment. The War Is Over by Kelly Clarkson

I watch the days rush by me like a river

I shouldn’t wait, but I’m scared to touch the water

I let the phone ring, why won’t you believe me (believe me)

I wait for silence, takes a lot not to answer

All I have to say is

You don’t deserve me, you don’t deserve me

I’m finally walking away

‘Cause you don’t deserve me, and you’re not worthy

This is not my surrender

I’m not running for cover

I’m right here, I know you see me

But your words no longer defeat me

In the night, when you’re lonely

You remember how much you miss me

So you call, but I swear

You can try a million times, you’ll get the same answer

Thank you, Miss Jackson.

I glanced up and found that the judges’ table had reappeared. The people seated there watched me with impassive expressions as they shuffled their paperwork. Someone coughed.

You can join the rest of the group in the main lobby. The man in the centre pointed toward the exit, where the blond man was already waiting to usher me into the first room I’d entered. The other singers were back in their original seats, each pretending, once again, that the rest of us didn’t exist. I could sense them watching me as I took one of the metal chairs at the very back of the room. How had I done? Any better than they had? Any worse?

Thank you all for coming, the man with the ponytail said, spearheading the group of judges. Their neat smiles and warm expressions didn’t fool me. I was late for dinner. If mom happened to glance at one of the corners, they might notice I wasn’t there.

You all sang beautifully. However, we would like to have a word with Miss Larkin Jackson—

I shouldered my bag and started to head for the side exit.

Miss, Jackson, Larkin. I froze. The other singers stared, struggling to hide their disappointment. They made that naughty habit we weren’t supposed to give in to, compare.

Miss Jackson?

Almost in slow motion, I headed to the front of the room, past the other singers fleeing for the exit. Once I’d reached him, the blond man handed me an envelope.

You were marvellous, he said before turning away and following the other judges back down that narrow hall. The words hadn’t sounded like carefully rehearsed lines. I think he even meant them. And I could only stand there with a white envelope clenched in my fist and no clue of what to do next.

The fairytale moment ended the second I left the Lincoln Centre and stepped out into the freezing rain.

Chapter 2

Andrew

A screech of brakes. The oncoming car, fishtailing briefly as the driver over-applies the brakes in the wet conditions. My luxury Bugatti was never intended to