In Harmony (Fenbrook Academy #2)(16)
Author: Helena Newbury

I heard Connor smile. “I must have tired you out….”

I froze.

“…with all the dancing,” he finished.

I breathed again. “It was only one dance. I have more stamina than that.” Any other time, I would have chosen my words more carefully, but I hadn’t had my coffee yet.

“I’m sure you have lots of stamina.” How did he do that? How did he manage to make absolutely everything into a teasing, flirting mass of innuendo? When I didn’t reply—I was too busy silently seething—he continued. “I thought we’d rehearse at my place on Thursday. More space than a practice room.”

I shook my head, then remembered he couldn’t see it. “I’d prefer Fenbrook,” I said doubtfully.

“Great, that’s settled then.” And he gave me his address, simply steamrollering my dissent.

When I’d hung up, I tried to see a silver lining. His place was a fair distance across town, so I’d have to get a cab—at least that meant I wouldn’t have to lug my cello. But Fenbrook felt familiar and safe. Neutral territory. His place…that was different.

I sighed. I could still see myself in my mind’s eye—on my knees, thrusting the dildo inside me.

“It didn’t happen,” I said, with so much conviction I almost believed it.

Chapter 8

Thursday morning, and the gray sky was lightening minute by minute, the clouds swelling with snow. As the cab drove through gradually worsening neighborhoods, I scanned the skies for the first falling flake. But it felt like the weather was waiting for something.

When we eventually pulled up outside an ancient, towering tenement I could feel the cabbie’s hesitation. It didn’t look like the sort of place a girl with a cello would go.

Connor was waiting outside for me, his leather jacket pulled tight around him against the cold. He took my cello while I got out and then wouldn’t give it back.

“I’m fine, thank you,” I told him. “I’ve carried it for years.”

“Not up these steps, you haven’t.”

“Why do you always think you know what’s best?”

He ran his hand through his hair. “Why do you always have to fight me?”

We glared at each other.

“Fine,” he said, and led the way up the stairs.

I heaved the cello case onto my back and started up after him. After the first flight, I started to see what he’d meant. Whoever had built the steps must have been six foot plus: each step was double the normal height. Climbing them was like hauling yourself up a vertical rock face.

“Okay back there?” he asked sweetly.

“Just fine.”

I could hear the smirk in his voice. “Only five more to go.”

Five? I hadn’t figured on him being on the very top floor. By the third floor, I was panting. By the fourth, my legs were burning and my back and abs were aching from the strain of leaning forward—the only way I could keep from tumbling backwards. When we finally reached the top floor and I saw a blank wall instead of the start of yet another flight, I wanted to kneel down and kiss the floor.

Connor unlocked the door and showed me in. My legs were shaking so much that I didn’t even look at the room—my eyes were locked on the bed, where I could safely drop the cello before I collapsed. I staggered over to it, shrugged out of the shoulder straps and let it thump onto the ugly green blanket. Then I sat down heavily next to it and allowed myself to flop onto my back.

I heard Connor close the door. He regarded me for a moment and then said, “I always knew I’d have you flat on your back on my bed, someday.”

I groaned and struggled up to sitting, the muscles in my legs still burning. I gave him a glare and then finally focused on the room.

It was surprisingly big, for a bedroom. Then I realized it wasn’t a bedroom at all—it was his entire apartment and it was tiny. There was a kitchenette in one corner and what I assumed must be a bathroom behind a flimsy partition wall in the other. You could pretty much cook a meal while sitting on the edge of the bed.

Pizza boxes and more than a few empty beer cans were in a heap in the corner—and I got the impression they’d been scattered across the floor only a few minutes before I arrived. His amp and guitar sat next to an old wooden kitchen chair—it and the bed were the only furniture. It was barely warmer or less draughty than the corridor outside.

Connor saw me looking and shrugged. “Probably not what you’re used to,” he said with a smirk.

“No, no. My place is….” I tried to think of something to say that wasn’t a lie. Bigger? Cleaner? In an area where you’re less likely to get mugged? “…not so different,” I finished weakly. I was cursing myself for not hiding my surprise better. What had I expected? I’d known he was at Fenbrook on a scholarship.

There was a mirror on the wall, a long crack splitting it into two uneven pieces. Wedged into the side of it was a strip of photos from an instant photo booth, all showing the same woman. She had midnight black hair tonged ultra-straight, flowing down over her shoulders like oil. She was smiling as if in victory, as if she’d let her guard down in the privacy of the booth and allowed herself a moment to crow about something, her thin lips pressed even thinner. Anyone else would have tried for at least a few different expressions as the camera flashed, but she’d stayed in the same frozen pose for all of them.

“Ruth. Like in the song,” said Connor. He seemed to be watching me very carefully.

I looked away and massaged my aching legs. “Shall we start?”

I sat on the edge of his bed with the cello between my knees. He picked up his guitar and sat across from me on the kitchen chair. We had more space than in the tiny practice room, but it was somehow more intimate. He’d invited me into his home….

He started to play the first of the sections he’d be leading. I stopped him on the first note. “Wait: where’s the music?”

He looked at me as if I was mad. “In my head.”

I blinked. “It can’t be in your head. This has to be perfect.” I’d spent the week since our last rehearsal composing my first section and practicing the hell out of it.

“And so it will be.” He started to play again and it was…beautiful. Sad, but with a thread of hope running through it. On the second pass through, I did my best to follow along with a harmony.

“See? All without music,” he told me.

I sighed. “Please write it down for next time.” I could feel the stress coiling and building inside me, cold snakes twisting in the pit of my stomach. He had to have all his sections written and be note-perfect on them in just over nine weeks…and the worst part was, I couldn’t get angry at him about it. He could walk away at any time and kill my future stone dead.

I pulled out my own first section—clean black lines on snow white paper. He didn’t have a music stand, so he made an impromptu one on the bed out of a couple of pizza boxes and propped it there.

As we played my section, I felt the stress begin to gradually ease—this part, at least, was under my control. But then my mind started to wander. I kept looking at his hands and the way they moved over the strings, fingertips sensitive but firm. Imagining them on my n**ples. On my clit. Playing me the way he played me last night.

That was just your imagination, I reminded myself. He’s not interested in you, except as someone to tease. And even if he had been, I certainly wasn’t interested in him…not beyond the physical, anyway.

I felt myself flushing. I’d never been attracted to someone that way before—not so strongly. Especially not a person I didn’t like!

We tried his section again, which meant I had to concentrate like hell to play it from memory. It was hard to focus, though, with Connor glancing up at me, blue-gray eyes under his thick, dark brows. He was cradling his guitar, one hand strumming while the other wrapped around its neck, and I started to imagine it was me in his arms. If I was turned away from him, in exactly the same position, one hand would be on my cheek, his fingers toying with my lips. The other arm would be wrapping around my hips, his hand right on my groin. Maybe sliding under my clothes, his fingers gently opening me—

The bow slid off the strings at a strange angle, shrieking in protest, and I stopped. Connor stopped, too, and looked at me. “Problem?”

I flushed. “No. Not at all. Just new to it.” I cast about for an excuse. “This would be easier with it written down.”

He grinned. “I don’t believe in writing stuff down. I like to let it flow.”

That pretty much summed up the differences between us. His life was a disordered, chaotic jumble…and yet somehow he was happy. Mine was perfectly regimented and disciplined…and yet I was stressed out of my mind.

As we tried his section again, I noticed something. Before, I’d thought that he was uncertain of the piece because there were slight variations each time. But watching how confidently his fingers toyed with the strings, it came to me that it was deliberate. He knew the piece just fine; he was tweaking it because he wanted to. And there was no way he could know it that well unless….

“You’ve been practicing,” I said, astonished.

He kept playing for a few seconds and then stopped, letting the notes fade away before he spoke. “You don’t have to sound that amazed.”

“But you don’t practice. I mean, I’m in those practice rooms every day, and I haven’t once seen you coming in or going out the whole time I’ve been at Fenbrook.”

“I don’t practice there.”

“Why?”

He shifted uneasily, but I didn’t want to let him off the hook. A suspicion was forming in my mind.

“Why, Connor?”

He sighed and then looked right into my eyes. I could tell that he wanted to lie, to come out with some easy quip or flirty comment. But then his expression softened. “Because everyone can hear you when they walk past.”

I looked at him blankly. “But…you’re good. I mean, you’re really good.”

He just looked at me.

I almost laughed. “Connor, the whole academy knows how good you are. You know that!”

He kept staring at me, and there was a flicker of something, something I never thought I’d inspire in anyone. Hope.

“Oh my God….” I said slowly. “You really didn’t know that. Did you?”

He shrugged. This uber-confident, arrogant loudmouth, this guy who got to Fenbrook on a scholarship, who everyone talked about being the next Hendrix…he was just as insecure as the rest of us. He just kept it hidden away on the inside.

And yet he’d revealed it to me.

I moved about a millimeter towards him, and it went through my head that I’m about to hug him. Fortunately, I caught myself before I threw my arms around him, and managed to make it look like I was just leaning forward.

“Look,” I told him. “Everyone thinks they’re no good. Everyone. That’s called being a musician. Didn’t anyone ever explain that to you?” I could see in his face that they hadn’t. I tried to imagine what it would be like, to live with that daily, hammering dread that maybe I’m just no good, but to not even know that it was normal.