In Harmony (Fenbrook Academy #2)(21)
Author: Helena Newbury

He plucked the C string hard, producing a sound similar to a bass guitar. From there, he began to improvise a walking bass line. Then, attacking the strings with the heel of the bow, he managed to make a sound that was uncannily like a guitar distortion effect.

“There,” I said. “That.” And he nodded.

Then he put the cello aside, and it was my turn.

His guitar felt so completely different to my cello, the soft hiss of the amp a constant reminder that I was connected to something, that every tiny movement was going to result in a roar. It was like moving from a bicycle to a sports car, trying to get used to the monster controlled by your right foot. The first time I plucked and the room reverberated to the sound, I almost dropped it.

“Don’t be afraid of it,” he told me. “Connect with the sound, not with the strings.” And he brought his chair around behind me. “Shuffle forward.”

I moved my stool forward, and he sat down behind me, opening his legs and pressing in close, his thighs against my ass. He folded himself around me and I smelled the cool clean scent of him. One hand gently wrapped around mine on the neck, the other idly caressing the back of my hand on the strings before settling over it. Suddenly, everything was very close and still in the room, my heart a rising drumbeat.

“Don’t run from it,” he told me. “Control it. Get angry.”

Normally, I’d never have done that. I’d never have allowed the mask to slip, to let myself show rage as he showed it. But I was already so far out of my comfort zone that it didn’t seem that much further to go, to let my sense of outrage and unfairness over the recital, over my whole future being at risk, spill over into my playing. The power of the guitar still made it feel like trying to control a raging, snapping beast, but my anger gave me the strength to wrestle it into submission. I lost myself in the howling and wailing, cathartic in a way that my normal style never could have been. When I stopped, I realized I was exhausted: physically and emotionally. My fingers were sore and shaking, my body cramped from clutching the guitar. My mind felt fried from struggling with the unfamiliar, my soul pleasantly cleansed, at least for a while.

His mouth was almost at my ear. “Slide down an octave like you did at the end.”

I hadn’t even been aware of doing it—it was just what I’d do on the cello. I did it again, and this time I heard it. The matching partner to what he’d done on the cello, a rush of energy and emotion teased from the strings. “There,” he said, and I nodded.

I was suddenly aware of the closeness of his body, his chest pressed hard against my back, his arms wrapping me into him. And against my ass, the press of his cock, hot and hard.

We stayed there for three trembling breaths.

“We should both try some things,” I told him. “If we got a couple of acoustic guitars, we could both experiment. Sort of…meet halfway.”

I felt him nod, his body not moving an inch. “Good idea.”

A second’s silence. Long enough for one of us to say something…but neither of us did. After another two beats of my thumping heart, he slowly unwound from me and got up.

Chapter 13

A few days later, Clarissa and I had dinner at a classy restaurant downtown, as we did every month. When we first started doing it, I hadn’t understood why she’d want me as company rather than Natasha, her roommate, or Jasmine, who could have told her all about her latest one night stand. Then it clicked that it was about money. Clarissa came from by far the wealthiest background of any of us and her parents gave her a generous living allowance. She never made an issue of it and was certainly never superior or snobby about it—and that was kind of the point. When she went out with Natasha and Jasmine, she had to be very careful to pick places they’d be able to afford, so that they didn’t feel uncomfortable. She couldn’t discuss her shopping trips or bitch about how much her BMW cost to service. She couldn’t tell some story from her days at a private school, or talk about the fumble in the bushes she’d had at seventeen with the valet parking attendant at the country club.

With me, it was different. My parents certainly weren’t as wealthy as hers, but our backgrounds were similar enough that she could relax.

Sitting in the back of the cab, watching the city lights draw dancing patterns on the seats, I thought about what had happened in the practice room: the way he’d pressed up against me, the scent of him so close, the rasp of his stubble against my cheek when he’d turned his head to speak….

The feel of his cock, hard against me.

It means nothing, I told myself. I knew enough about guys to know that they’d get hard at the slightest provocation. He’d been hard because he’d been pressed up against a warm body. Nothing to do with me.

Unless…it was.

Ridiculous. I’d finally admitted to myself that he turned me on—I was actually wet, by the end of the session—but it would be crazy to think it went both ways. What on earth would he want with me? I wasn’t Clarissa, with her easy elegance and razor-sharp dress sense, or Jasmine with her curves and eyes you could drown in, or Natasha with her poise and grace. I was a geek. A geek who couldn’t keep a hold of her feelings, at that: I’d started having stickily vivid dreams about a guy I didn’t even like—

That made me stop. At first it had been so simple—he’d been a jerk and I’d hated him. Then I’d started to see underneath the mask, and I’d started to warm to him a little. Now, knowing about the dyslexia, I could understand his anger. I felt sorry for him—though I knew he’d never want my pity—and I wanted to help him.

But did I like him? He still drove me crazy at least half the time. He was my exact opposite in nearly every way, the chaos to my order. And yet…every time I saw him, I became a little less sure about the things that made us different and a little more sure about the things that made us the same. We were worlds apart, but sometimes I felt like I was more deeply connected to him than anyone I’d ever met.

I sighed. The one thing that was clear…was that nothing was clear. I didn’t know what, exactly, I felt for him, other than the shamefully intense response he drew from my body every time he was close. Maybe some girl time would help me sort my head out.

***

One of you has to arrive first at a restaurant. We’d long since learned that this should be Clarissa, who has no problem whatsoever waiting at the bar and fighting off guys. That night when I arrived, she already had three men clustered around her. She’d been there for five minutes.

“You’re a ballerina?” asked a heavy-jawed man in a suit, who looked like he might be a gangster. “That’s amazin’. You must be all bendy and shit.”

“You sure I can’t buy you a drink?” asked another.

The third one smiled. “Hey, can you—”

“Hi!” I said, cutting him off before he could ask if she could put her ankles behind her head. “Shall we go?”

We swept out of the bar to a chorus of disappointed sighs. I wondered what it must be like, to have that constant male attention everywhere you go. I’d never had a single person be that enraptured by me.

I noticed as we sat down that Clarissa had a store bag with her. Not Prada, for once. Some unpronounceable brand that sounded like it might be Scandinavian.

We started reading the menu, and even though the meal was going to make things seriously tight for the rest of the month, it was still great to bathe in luxury for a few hours. The descriptions sounded like the chef had conducted a three month love affair with each and every creature before reluctantly whacking it over the head. Slices of outdoor-reared organic duck breast, marinated in a dark soy and anise syrup, anointed with oil and seared, then served drizzled with a reduction of fresh blackcurrants.

“I have to show you this,” Clarissa told me when we’d ordered. She took a silver dress from the store bag, the fabric so soft and shining that it seemed to flow over her outstretched arm like liquid.

“That’s amazing,” I said with feeling. “It’s like…future-sexy.”

She grinned. “I know! With silver heels. I might do silver lipstick.”

It wasn’t often that I got into clothes, but I could imagine the outfit perfectly. “You should wear the spiky necklace—that’d be perfect.”

She looked bemused. “Which necklace?”

“The spiky one. The one with all the little crystals.”

She frowned and then all the color drained from her face. “I’ve only worn that for—”

Too late, I remembered where I’d seen it.

She lurched forward. “Please tell me you didn’t see it on the internet!” she whispered.

I could feel the heat rushing to my cheeks. “No, I—It was on your laptop,” I said in a tiny voice.

I saw the fear turn to anger in her eyes. “Bathroom! Now!” she told me viciously, and stalked off towards it leaving me to catch up.

The bathroom, mercifully, was empty. She turned to face me and I actually took a half step back when I saw her expression. “I’m sorry,” I said quickly.

“How could you? My laptop?! That’s my private stuff! No one else was meant to see it!” She took a step towards me and I had to fight the urge to run. The thing about Clarissa is, she’s quite tall, and she was in killer heels. And I’m not, and I wasn’t. She towered over me, and I suddenly felt the tiled wall behind my back, my cheeks hot with shame and guilt.

“It was an accident! I was just going to Google for pizza, and it was open on your taskbar and I’m sorry!” I said in a rush.

She frowned. “So you only saw, like, a freeze frame?”

Something in my expression must have told her no.

“You played it?!”

“I didn’t know it was you, at first! I thought it was just porn. Very tasteful porn!”

She’d reddened almost as much as me, now. I could tell she didn’t want to ask, but needed to know how bad things were. “But you only saw a second of it, once you realized it was us?”

I’ve never been good at lying. I looked at the floor.

“Karen! How could you?!”

“I don’t know! I was waiting for Natasha and I just sort of…watched some.”

“All of it?!”

“I sort of skipped through. Only, like…three or four bits.” I closed my eyes. “I’m really sorry.”

Clarissa wheeled away from me with a groan of frustration and went over to the sinks. She stood clutching the marbled countertop, staring at her own reflection in the mirror.

Very slowly, I edged over to her. “Sorry,” I said again.

She didn’t respond.

“How can I make it up to you?”

She kept staring straight ahead.

“Please?”

I finally saw her eyes flick to me in the mirror and then she sighed. “You’re on standby next time Jasmine calls drunk in a bar at three in the morning needing a pick up.”

I nodded frantically. “Absolutely.”

“And you have to let me get you into a dress next time you go out—no arguments.”