In Harmony (Fenbrook Academy #2)(34)
Author: Helena Newbury

“Hardcore?” he asked.

“Shut up. You know what I mean. You have to be seriously good.”

“What’s so hard about improvising? I can improvise.”

I craned over my shoulder and looked pityingly at him. “No, you fail to write stuff down and have to wing it from memory. That’s just sloppy—”

“It’s rock n’ roll, is what it is.”

“Which reminds me, you need to write down all of your sections properly. Neatly. Not on the back of a pizza box.”

“Yes ma’am.” And it sounded so good, with his accent, that I would have forgiven him anything.

“Anyway,” I told him, “the improv challenge is horrible. They play you a melody and then you have to compose around it, and then perform it. Live on stage, in front of everyone, and you only get one shot.”

“How many days do you get to compose?”

“You get thirty minutes.”

He went quiet. “Okay, that is pretty hardcore.”

I turned to face him. “Surely you remember all this? They do it every year, just after the recitals.”

He thought about it. “I missed last year’s. Hangover.”

“What about the year before?”

“Also hungover.”

“Connor, have you ever actually been to a recital, your entire time at Fenbrook?”

“Yes!” Then he looked down at his feet. “No.”

I just stared at him.

“It didn’t seem very important, alright? I was never going to do my final recital—I always thought I’d flunk out long before this. And I didn’t see any point in going along the first three years, just to watch that year’s seniors do theirs.”

It suddenly made sense. The insecurity he’d opened up to me about in his apartment—what could be scarier than hearing student after student perform, if you doubted your own ability?

“Come on,” I told him. “Let’s rehearse.”

But as soon as we were inside with the door closed, it was difficult not to think that we’re alone together. We caught each other staring: me at his arms as he took his jacket off, him at my bare stomach as I shrugged off my cello case and my sweatshirt rose.

“We have to work,” I said seriously.

He just looked at me with those big, blue-gray eyes and I nearly threw myself into his arms right then.

“Don’t,” I said, half warning and half joking.

He stared for a second longer and then relented. “We’re going out tonight though, yeah?”

I nodded “Oh yes.” Tonight’s the night, I heard Jasmine say, and a little thrill went through me. Then I heard Ruth saying the same words and winced, annoyed at having it tarnished.

Our recital piece was made up of six sections—three composed by him, three by me—and so far we’d written four of them. With just over a month to go, we still each had one section left to write. I’d started to try to mix the sounds of my cello and his electric guitar together, but I couldn’t get it to mesh. It felt like the sections were tracking our relationship: the first pair had been very different, very us, before we knew each other; for the second pair he’d written my personality into the music and I’d written his; somehow, I knew the third pair would be us coming together.

Since the first rehearsal, the tiny practice room had been thick with tension, both when I thought I hated him but wanted him, and when I knew I loved him but didn’t know how he felt. Now, though…now it was different again. Before, I’d gazed at his arms and imagined them wrapped around me, or seen the way his jeans pulled tight around his thighs and dreamed of running my hand over the warm fabric. Now, I sat there knowing that, that night, we’d be together. We’d…fuck.

I thought back to my dream of him, of me as innocent virgin, corsets and heaving bosoms and pleas for gentleness as he ravished me. I thought of Jasmine and riding him cowgirl and hula-hooping. Was that any more realistic than my fantasy? Could I really pull off seductress?

“You okay?” asked Connor.

“Fine. Why?”

“You haven’t played a note in about five minutes.” He was grinning, as if he somehow knew exactly what was going through my mind.

I flushed and stared at my music, trying to get the thought of him f**king me out of my head. At that exact second, my phone rang. The screen burned accusingly with my father’s name.

“Do you need to get that?” asked Connor.

I thought about how I’d have to lie to him, telling him how everything was going just fine with Connor, “the violinist.” The irony was that it was going well. The piece was really coming together. If only my father would trust me….

“No,” I told Connor. “I’ll call them back.” I turned my phone off. I’d call him back the next day and apologize, but I wasn’t letting anything—not even my father—spoil our first day together.

***

I’d been so focused on what was going to happen after the date that I hadn’t thought about where Connor was going to take me. When he announced dinner and a movie, I got this big, silly grin on my face. It was about the most traditional, couple-y thing we could have done, and it felt perfect.

We had dinner in a French place tucked away in a backstreet, where the tables were so small we could talk in whispers without even leaning into each other. We spent at least half the meal eating one-handed because we were holding hands across the table, and when the waitress said how cute we were it didn’t feel cheesy or silly at all. It felt fantastic.

“After we graduate—” he began.

I gave a little intake of breath.

“Oh come on—you think I’m going to jinx it?”

“Yes,” I said seriously.

“Okay…if we graduate…the New York Phil, huh?”

It felt like there was just enough of a chance that I could dare to talk about it. I let the glow of excitement build inside me. “Yes. Playing concerts, touring the world….” I grinned. “They play in Europe. I’ve always wanted to see Europe.”

And then I caught myself. I’d been imagining it for years…and never in that time had anyone else ever been in the picture.

“I mean…you know. If you think that would work with…us,” I said.

He frowned in confusion and then stared at me. “Karen…Jesus, you don’t have to ask my permission!” He sighed and traced my cheek with a finger. “You’ve spent so long doing what everybody else wants. It’s okay to do what you want. I’d never stop you following your dreams. You do what you need to do, and we’ll figure out us.”

It was like a rush of pure oxygen after being cooped up in a tiny box my whole life. I wanted to throw my arms around him and kiss him right there in the restaurant…and then I went ahead and did exactly that, just to show I understood.

***

The movie was a romantic comedy, fun and simple and immediately forgettable. I was surprised that he’d pick something so tame and…normal, but cuddling up beside him, his arm around my shoulders, I didn’t care what we watched. I kept looking across at him, his face lit by the screen’s glow, and thinking he’s mine.

It was only in the bar he took me to, afterwards, that it started to make sense. It was perfect—not too dressy and not too casual. In my dress and the smarter-than-usual jeans he’d worn, we could have been an advertising poster for the place.

“You’ve never been here before, have you?” I asked as he brought the drinks over. “Or the restaurant. And you don’t normally go to the movies, do you?”

He gave me a long look and then hung his head and said, “Clarissa. They were all her suggestions. I had no f**king idea where to take you.”

I burst out laughing. “What do you normally do on dates?”

He held out his hands helplessly. “I don’t go on dates. You know what I’m like.” He looked abashed. “What I was like.”

I narrowed my eyes, smirking. “You play some rock club, and there’s some young thing at the front, all innocent and big eyes, and you play a solo she thinks is just for her. And then you get her back to your dressing room, ravish her on the counter and both of you get drunk on cheap beer.”

“Did you really just say ravish?”

My face went hot, but I was grinning. “Don’t try to change the subject! Is that accurate?”

He looked everywhere but my face. “…yeah. Pretty much. That’s how I met Ruth.”

I nodded quickly—I didn’t want to talk about her. “And tonight? That was…?”

“That was me trying to give you the perfect date. How did I do?”

I smiled. “Perfect. But next time, if you want to take me to some place with…you know, a mosh pit and beer all over the floor…that’d be fine too.”

“I think it’s just possible that this is going to work out.”

He finished his drink, and I realized I’d finished mine. We sat there looking at the empty glasses, neither of us wanting to be the one to say it.

At last, he said, “Would you like….”

“…to go to my apartment?” I finished.

He stared into my eyes. “Like you wouldn’t believe.”

***

We were kissing before we even got in the door, turning around and around as we moved down the hall as if we were dancing, our lips never separating for an instant. It was as if we’d been starved of each other all the months we’d worked together, straining at chains that had finally been released.

We fell onto the couch, the same one I’d watched him sleep on what felt like years ago. I was on top, kissing down his neck as his hands roamed over my back, smoothing the jersey dress over my body. His large hands cupped my ass and I drew in a long breath, my whole body trembling at his touch. One of his knees parted mine, rough denim against smooth nylon, and then we were scissored together, kissing long and deep as his hands rubbed my thighs, the edges of his hands nudging my dress higher and higher. When it reached my stocking tops and his hands touched bare flesh, he froze and lifted me—easily—so he could look down at my legs, then grinned with delight at what he saw. I had a little warm rush of pride. Score one to Jasmine.

He rolled us over, and then I was looking up at him, running my hand over the stubble on his cheek, stroking through his soft, feathery hair. His hands skimmed up my hips, my stomach…I groaned as he lightly squeezed my br**sts. Pleasure arced between them, joining and flowing straight down between my legs, and I squirmed beneath him. My hair was fanned out around me like a halo and he smoothed it against the cushions with his fingertips.

“You’re perfect,” he whispered. “I knew it when I saw you on the steps.”

“I was lucky,” I told him. “Lucky you saved me.”

He gave me one of those smiles. “Not that lucky. I knew what was going to happen when I opened that door.”

My eyes went wide, more delighted than angry. “It was deliberate?!”

“To tell you the truth,” he said, “I was hoping you’d be a little more grateful.”