Stolen Songs Read online

  First published in New Zealand by Koru House Press.

  For information address Koru House Press, Koru House,

  Remuera, Auckland, New Zealand, 1050

  www.koruhousepress.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Stolen Songs

  Copyright © 2017 by Samantha Armstrong

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 978-0-473-40069-9

  Samantha Armstrong asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of the work.

  This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Cover design © Carmela Diaz

  Interior format © Sarah Collingwood

  For Matt

  Always and Forever

  Prologue

  Kingsley

  Fuck.

  Maddison

  “Pick up. Pick up. Pick up. Ugh!”

  “What’s up, peeps? This is your girl Cynth. Leave a message, and I might get back to ya!”

  “Answer your fucking phone, woman!” I shove my iPhone into the front pocket of my bag. Hooking both arms under the shoulder straps, I pull it onto my back and pace down the street.

  Even though we always do this together, Cynthia has been AWOL for a few days now, and I can’t wait any longer. I need the money. It killed me leaving the house this morning knowing the fridge was bare, and their tummies empty.

  I stop at the first house with all its lights out. It’s possible the owners are asleep inside as it’s just gone ten o’clock, but my instincts—something I’ve learned to trust over the years—tell me they’re out for the night.

  I hide behind the bushes on the street without making a noise and search for a rock I can throw on the driveway. I need to check if there are any dogs. When I finally find a rock, I throw it over my right shoulder, and wait with bated breath. I should be wearing a disguise, but Cynth has the balaclavas, and if I’m right, there’s no one home.

  After waiting longer than usual, without Cynth on my ass telling me to get over myself, I finally step out from behind the bushes.

  Very few houses around this area have security systems. It’s only further east where the huge houses turn into mansions that they become a threat. It’s easier to rob those places while the rich kids are hosting parties, anyway.

  I suck in a deep breath, feeling the anxiety creep up my spine, and soak in the endorphins buzzing in my system.

  I barely make a sound as I cross the maintained front yard. The grass is dewy and alive, rows of flowers line the front porch. There’s no sight of broken toys, or rubbish sprawled across the lawn.

  I walk around the side until I’m at the back of the house, scouring the building when I come across a slightly ajar window. I find a bucket nearby, overturn it and pull myself up. This is always my part in the break in. Cynth seems to think I’m the ano one between us, but that isn’t the case. We are each as skinny as the other, but where her skinny physique is from self-inflicted drug abuse, mine is simply from malnutrition. The real reason she doesn’t want to lead the way is because she’s scared, even though she’ll never admit it.

  I flick the latch on the inside of the window, pull it wide open and haul myself in. Surprisingly, I only whack my knee once on the windowsill.

  As soon as my feet touch the floor, I pause. After what feels like an eternity of holding my breath, the sound of a clock ticking in a nearby room is the only noise disturbing the silence. I exhale, and relief floods my bloodstream.

  I keep quiet as I make my way through the kitchen to the lounge. It’s dark, but with all the curtains pulled back, the light from the moon is enough to see clearly. It’s a nice house—well-furnished and big—and compared to the shoebox I live in, it’s quite impressive. Framed family photos sit on the windowsills and above the fireplace. I cringe and whisper, “How nice.”

  I take what I can. A twenty dollar bill, a pair of what look like designer heels. Next to the sofa on a table is a gold watch. I scoop it up and shove it in my pocket. I’m just about to look for the bathroom to collect my souvenir when I turn around, and my heart freezes over. I drop the pair of heels.

  A woman is standing a few feet in front of me, and when I read her expression, all the guilt consumes me. I hate that I have to do this, but I have no choice. Where is Cynth when I need her?

  The light flips on, and the woman screams.

  Fuck.

  I turn around so fast I almost fall over my feet as I sprint to the sofa, jump on the cushions, and shove open the window.

  This isn’t the getaway I had in mind. We had never been caught before, but I kind of envisioned it would be something like in the movies. Bags of gold around each arm, Cynth in the stolen car out the front, laughing that we’d be rich for the rest of our lives, with a fat old wealthy man in the background chasing after us. But twenty bucks and a gold watch is definitely not it.

  I wince and swear as I leap from the window, smacking both my shins in the process, and run for my life. I don’t stop. If that lady has any brains, she’s writing everything about me down and calling the police.

  Shit.

  I run until I can’t breathe anymore. Before I pass out and someone finds me, I rest my hands on my thighs and gasp for air. When my heart stops pounding and my mind stops trying to keep up with my jelly-like legs, I force myself to keep moving. As soon as I hit Capel Street where the shoes hang from the power lines, my heavy breathing slows. Not even the police venture out here—maybe the SWAT team every now and then, but I don’t qualify for that takedown, I hope.

  I pull the watch from my pocket and secure it in the hidden pocket of my backpack.

  I turn off Capel Street onto Holes, which is quite fitting, since this is definitely the worst area I’ve ever lived in.

  The regulars are all out tonight—gangsters, hookers, kids that should be in bed and away from all of these influences. I purposefully walk down the center of the medium strip. Even though these guys are the classic stereotypes of bad people, not one of them has ever laid a hand on me, but they still scare me.

  I rub the side of my leather jacket, then blow into my fingers and walk as fast as possible.

  “Sexy!”

  “Come over here.”

  Whistles and catcalls echo behind me as I hurry down the street.

  Gross. Gross. Fucking gross.

  Finally, I reach my condo, but the relief isn’t there. Music blasts from the backyard, along with shouting. My foster parents and their friends must be having another party. With each step I take up the stairs, a spasm shoots up from my shins. I check on my little foster siblings first. The four youngest are sprawled across each other on a double bed in their room, sound asleep. My tense arms relax a bit more. I dread the day when this view causes those muscles to start contracting. I shut the door and walk into my room. Tilly’s curled up on my single bed. I throw my bag on the floor, not bothering to change or shower, and carefully slide under the sheet behind her. I wrap my arms around her waist and attempt to go to sleep, battling against the paranoia of being taken away from the most important things in my life.

  Maddison

  The comfort of the music room welcomes me. At the end of the year, when everyone gets voted Most Likely to Succeed, Best Dressed, Most Likely to Get Married
First and all those horribly cliché superlatives, mine will be: The student who spends most of her time at school but fails to graduate goes to . . . Maddison Davis. No applause. Except for Cynth, who would sneak in and scream from the back of the auditorium until she gets kicked out of yet another school.

  Mr. Barner looks up from something he’s working on at his desk. He smiles, which enhances the crows’ feet in the corner of his eyes beneath his glasses. “Ahh, Maddison, how are you this fine Saturday morning?”

  If only he knew. I shake my head, drop my bag on the ground and retrieve my cello from the cupboard behind him.

  “Don’t feel like talking today?” he asks. I would have snapped at him if I did feel like talking. But he’s the nicest person I know, and I can never lose my temper with him. He is the father I’ve never had, so I keep my mouth shut.

  “I’ll take that as a no. I’ve got a few papers to grade this morning, but I have to be gone by lunchtime. You can stay, of course, as long as you lock up. I won’t be in tomorrow, either.” I wish he would, but I guess he has a family—a life.

  I maneuver my way through the desks, and just as I’m about to take my seat in the back corner of the room, Mr. Barner clears his throat. “I’ve heard back from Juilliard.”

  My heart pounds so hard against my ribs it actually hurts. I’m sure it’s louder than the bass of the instrument I’m gripping by the neck.

  I hurl myself around to see the widest of smiles, a smile that only adds another note to the set that seems to be trying to impress Beethoven inside me.

  “I managed to get you an audition. It’s in three weeks.”

  My mind spins uncontrollably, I have to sit down because gravity is about to drag my ass down, kicking and screaming.

  “If that doesn’t get those lips of yours moving . . .”

  Finally, my breath comes back to me in a gush. I gasp and project my voice further than I would like. “Are you serious?”

  He grins, showing his age through his well-worn smile lines. “I’m one hundred percent serious. Ever since you got that scholarship to this school three years ago, I knew you were going to be a prodigy. Now, I didn’t waste my time teaching you to let me down, so—”

  “I won’t let you down. I promise,” I say quickly.

  He pushes his glasses back from the end of his nose and picks up the paper he had been reading. “I know you won’t.” He smiles again. “Now, I have papers to grade; so play me some background music, would you?” He waves a hand, gesturing for me to get started.

  I place my cello in between my legs and clip it into its support. I look up once, and Mr. Barner is smiling at me, and with what I’ve just heard, there is no way I can refrain from offering him one in return.

  This is the only time and place I can feel content. This is my escape from the world. My home. My only sense of peace.

  I place my left hand at the top of the cello’s neck and grasp my bow in the other. I close my eyes, letting the calm wash over me, and putting my bow against the cello’s strings, I play.

  Sometimes I wonder if I was put in this situation as a test to see if I am strong enough to persevere. To see if I can push past all that anxiety, grief, and pain. To see if I can crawl out from that heavy blanket suffocating me.

  I always wonder if my parents were musicians—if they were placed on a pedestal and tested, too.

  Whatever the reason, I know it was meant to be.

  The first time I played the cello, I fell in love. As soon as I heard the cry of the string, it sounded like a voice—my voice.

  Music expresses what I can’t put into words, what I can’t keep silent. It’s something that I know connects me to them, because deep down, I can hear them crying, too.

  I rest my head against the neck, and let out a breath. The weight that had held me down a few hours ago, has disappeared.

  “Wow.” A voice I don’t recognize startles me. My eyes open, and I jolt out of my seat, gripping my cello by the neck. Mr. Barner has left, like he usually does when I get too carried away, and a guy—well, not just any guy but the most popular guy in school—is walking towards me. My breath falters for reasons I have yet to determine.

  His name is Kingsley—well, that’s his last name, but that’s what people call him, and I guess with how rich he is, he kind of is a king.

  I pull my shoulders back, narrowing my eyes on his. “What are you doing in here?”

  He smiles the alluring smile he’s known for and stops in front of me. I can’t deny it, that smile has a reputation for a reason. My legs begin to defy me, and I find I have to lean more of my weight onto the support of my cello.

  “I heard you from the hallway and I couldn’t help but come in.”

  Every exposed bit of my skin flares up. Shit. I clear my throat, and try to get myself together. “You’re not supposed to be in here.”

  His broad shoulders are pulled back, and he towers over me, but that’s more to do with me than him. I’m a whole five foot two and I figure he’s well over six feet.

  He casually shoves his hands in the pockets of his shorts and looks around the room. When his focus shifts back to me, that smug expression is sprawled across his face. “Are you?”

  Smart ass. I have the urge to throw something at him but I restrain myself. Counseling has really helped with my anger. I glare at him. “Yes.”

  As I look at the clock on the wall, I notice I only have fifteen minutes left before the cleaners lock up the building. I don’t want to move, but I have to. I walk past him, ignoring his gaze and making sure I take the widest possible step around him.

  I open the cupboard, place my cello inside and lock it. As I turn around, I almost trip over my feet, thanks to my clumsiness. He’s leaning against Mr. Barner’s seat, about a foot from me, blocking my path. My gaze trails up his body. I’ve never been this close to him before, and I can see his every feature. His irises are ringed in a deep sea green, but the hollow, dark bags below them dull the brightness they could hold—an effect of the other reason he’s well-known.

  I stare up at him. His expression is unreadable. “What are you even doing here?” I ask bitterly.

  “I had lacrosse practice.”

  My gaze flicks down to his revealing lacrosse jersey. His arms are sculpted and from what I can see, he’s ripped. He looks hot in his uniform, I can’t deny it. One point to you, buddy.

  My glance catches the C stitched above his right pec, and I roll my eyes. Of course, he’s the captain.

  The corner of his mouth quirks, but a moment later, he furrows his brow and runs a hand through his light brown hair. “I just wanted to tell you that was amazing.”

  I quickly get over the fact that Kingsley is standing in front of me. If he is trying to charm me like he does with all the other girls, it isn’t working. At least, I don’t want it to. Finally, my courage has the decency to return, and it scurries back up my legs so fast I put more force in my steps as I shove him out of my way, and pace towards the door.

  “Move,” I say.

  He’s stunted in the same position, staring at me. When he finally finds his feet, I lock up behind him and practically run out of the school, not daring to glance back and desperately trying to resist the grin that is forcing its way onto my face.

  What the hell just happened?

  Kingsley

  I pull out my phone and look at the time. I’ve been leaning against the classroom wall for nearly forty minutes, and she hasn’t noticed. She’s absolutely entranced. I can’t take my eyes off her. Every chord, every note, every breath she takes is mesmerizing.

  Her short, black hair curtains her face as she leans into each movement, and when she finally opens her eyes and looks up, it looks as if she’d seen a ghost. Her expression pales and all the serenity in her features quickly vanish.

  She’s in a few of my classes, but I don’t even know her name. She’s known as the weird chick, and I have to admit, she is a weird chick, but a fascinating one.

  I’ve
never looked at her properly, and I don’t know why. I think it’s the semi-goth look she’s going for. I can tell she’s out of place at this school. She definitely got a scholarship or something to get in because she isn’t rich, hence the outfits and the part-time work as a thief.

  As our eyes meet, and her hair draws back from her face, I study her features and I’m stunned. She’s fucking hot. My gaze flits up and down her body, and stops at her face. The dark makeup lining her eyes makes the bright blue pop even more. Her cheeks turn a rosy red, and before I can get myself together, she snaps. I try to hold her attention, but it doesn’t last, which is strange. After begrudgingly making conversation, she hurries out of the room and flees the building without even looking back. No girl ever shoves me off like that. If anything, it’s the other way around. I pull my backpack over my shoulder, pace down the halls and out the front door, thinking about what just happened.

  As soon as I reach the parking lot, I can’t help but look for her. There’s no one here. My Porsche is the only car in the lot. I shake my head, jump in my car, and take off.

  I can hear the music from at least half a mile away, and the closer I get, the louder it is. Shouts, screams, drunks, accompany the heavy bass of the music. Shit music. The one good thing about living in this area is each house has a section of about three miles on either side, separating it from their neighbors, which is a good thing, otherwise the cops would always be shutting down our parties.

  I walk through Toby’s foyer towards the lounge. Jack, Suz, and about five other people I don’t know are sprawled across the sofas, or dancing around the tables.

  Toby jumps up from his perched position, beer in one hand and smoke in the other. “About time you showed up!”

  I pick up a beer from the table, pop the lid off and take a swig. “I told you I’d be here.”