Impossible Duet

by Barbra Campbell

  She cocked her head in its absurd upside-down position, smiled, then tossed her hair wildly as she stood.

  Not again. I sighed. And the pink stripe. What would the audience think? Was she too much, or was she just too much for me?

  “Oops.” She stumbled and stepped wider. “Had to work out the kinks after the drive.”

  I diverted my eyes to a piece of artwork. “Why don’t you slip on a shirt, spit your gum out, and take a few minutes to warm up on stage.”

  She cleared her throat.

  Inhaling deeply, I realized I’d probably insulted her with my directions, but fuck, the gum was going to make me crazy mad and her curves were going to make me crazy horny. I’d get no credit for not telling her to change shoes. I met her unwavering gaze, trying to hyper focus so I could avoid her pursed lips. I tried to open my mouth to apologize, but my world was shaky and uncertain around her.

  She beat me to finding words. “You don’t get to boss me around just because you’re hot. I mean concertmaster.” Then she winked.

  What the ever-fucking hell was I supposed to do short of getting my dick out? I didn’t need a Magic 8-Ball to know that idea would be VERY DOUBTFUL. I tempered my excitement by checking the time on my phone. “I’ll be ready to listen to your audition in twenty minutes.”

  “Wait. This isn’t an audition.” She rested one arm on her cello case, the other on her hip.

  Suzie ran in the room. “Sorry… it’s a formality. You’re more than qualified, but if you’ll play for Oliver, he’ll calm down.”

  We both glared at her.

  Fiona kept her glare on Suzie and spoke like I wasn’t there. “Ollie, seems to have a chip on his shoulder. Probably assumes I’m desperate for a chance to perform with the great Oliver Cranston.” She fanned herself.

  Nobody ever called me Ollie, but I couldn’t focus on that after the desperate statement.

  Suzie’s eyes bulged.

  Few people talked to me as boldly as Fiona, and I kind of liked the way this wild, irreverent woman grounded me.

  It wasn’t exactly a secret that I had a fan club consisting mostly of females, and that I’d been blamed for letting it go to my head. People often mistook my steadfast focus on music as arrogant, while I considered it dedicated. My reclusive hours alone practicing left me with few alibis.

  Fiona let her comment hang in the air before grinning widely. “Okay, I’m kind of kidding. I’m deeply honored to get the chance to perform with you. I’ll get ready.”

  I went back to the dressing room and leaned my hands on the counter, dropping my head. If she was spectacular, I’d be the one who was lucky in this duet, but I felt so damn weak around her. I wasn’t sure I could handle performing with her, sharing the intimacy, the give-and-take, the bonding that happens when you have to read someone’s movements, their breaths, their intentions.

  Fuck, had she already read mine? My violin was sitting in the open case on the counter. I grabbed it and tried to blast through the fast sections of the Duet to remind myself I was at work. My fingers fumbled over the notes and my bow botched the string crossings. I tried a slower section still unable to release the notes I knew by heart.

  I set my instrument back in the case and rolled my shoulders. It wasn’t my neck or back that was tight, my entire body was wound after my brief encounter with Fiona.

  The familiar sounds of a cello being tuned, starting with the A string, then checking the intervals for the other strings, filled the dressing room through the PA system. I considered flipping the speaker off but when my fingers touched the switch, she dove straight into the opening notes of the duet and wrapped my heart in the tone and shape of each note as the rich sounds of her cello flowed through the air. Even through the PA system, they were intense.

  She morphed the piece into something familiar but from the pop music scene, something I couldn’t pinpoint, but knew I’d heard.

  Fiona was beautiful but her style was in opposition to the order and tradition I loved. Her personality had me in vise grips, but her playing spoke to me the way a favorite song touches your soul. Only it wasn’t a single song, it was her music, the way she evoked the very best from her cello.

  My balls tightened. I wanted the emotion, the connection. If she could do that with a cello, what could she do with a man, with me? Flipping the switch to the off position, I rubbed a hand over my straining erection. I wouldn’t survive a minute onstage with her, much less the six plus minutes of the duet.

  How could I get her out of my system so I could retain my professionalism? And women typically wore fancy gowns to performances, seeing her dressed elegantly would do me in.

  Only one option came to mind. Opening Spotify, I tapped on my playlist, not even caring what came on. Increasing the volume all the way, I set my phone on the small makeup counter, unzipped my pants, and got my dick out.

  With no other option, I pumped lotion into one hand, leaned the other against the mirror, and gripped my erection. A heavy breath escaped my lips as I tried to force Fiona from my mind. My best efforts couldn’t keep any of my exes at the forefront. Fiona insisted on being there. In my mind, she watched and teased. I wasn’t sure if jerking myself off would bring enough relief, but I had to try.

  Pressure built as I drew myself closer. Coming would mean letting go and I wasn’t ready to let go of her. Guilt lingered in my mind. I dismissed it. I’d jack off to the thought of her again when I got home. She’d never have to know. Somehow the assurance freed me of restraint and my orgasm shot through my body, through my cock, and spilled my cum onto the mirror and countertop.

  I drifted back through the euphoria, slowing my hips and my hand, returning to the weight of the world… and had an uncanny feeling I wasn’t alone.

  Peering to the side, my heart stopped when I saw Fiona standing in the doorway, jaw agape, stare fixed on my hand-held cock. What the hell. My body froze but one more spurt of cum splatted onto the Formica. I had to have imagined hearing it, the music was too loud.

  Holy fuck. I managed to grab a tissue and angled away while I tucked my dick back into my pants. I could barely breathe and my hands were shaky. Was there a worse possible scenario?

  Turning back toward her, I paused my playlist and decided I’d wait to clean the counter until she was gone.

  She was still staring, but smiling now, and said, “Well, I guess we’re both warmed up.” In a slow drift, her gaze came back up to meet mine. “I’m ready for you.”

  Had she phrased her words as a taunt? They definitely didn’t have the normal tone of someone announcing they’re ready to perform, but then again, this was anything but a normal situation. And why the hell was my dick already getting hard again?

  How did scenarios like this play out? What was I supposed to say? And how did I redeem myself from coming across as a perv to the woman who had driven me to sexual insanity? “You should have knocked.”

  “I did. Suzie told me you were in here, and said we would have to share the dressing room since the other one was being remodeled. I didn’t…”

  “This isn’t… I don’t…Can I have a second?” I cleared my throat.

  She glanced at the counter then back at me. “Don’t keep me waiting.”

  Flashing me a wicked smile, she left.

  Would she tell someone? There wasn’t a rule about masturbating in the dressing room. Performers have all sorts of weird rituals. Jizzing on the counter might not be my best judgement, but it wasn’t a crime. Christ. I cleaned it up, even using soap because I really wasn’t a jerk.

  The urgency that had balled up inside of me was indeed lessened, but the afterglow had been cut short and promptly replaced with worry. And intrigue. Fiona watched. Instead of running, screaming, or cringing in disgust, she’d just stood there. And smiled.

  If she hadn’t struck me as a combination of trouble and distraction lumped into one disarming package, I would have been interested in her. Hell, I was interested in her. But women who had bright pink stripes in th
eir hair didn’t understand the way life worked. They didn’t understand professional expectations, what the audience wanted.

  And trouble, Jesus Christ, any woman who would watch a private moment without permission, then smile and mock me, had to be trouble. And her irreverence. And the fact that she was free on such short notice? Musicians had crazy schedules, why wasn’t she already committed? How could she understand my intense push to get into the New York Phil? There was no room for error at that level.

  Even remotely considering her was a mistake.

  She’d understand with age. She had to be in her twenties. Way too young for me.

  I startled. Fiona wasn’t dating material. I wasn’t sure how the idea had infiltrated my heart. What the hell? She’d slipped in under the radar. Uncanny.

  Double checking the room to make sure I left it in order, I grabbed my violin and headed to the stage. The less unsupervised time I gave her, the better. Fiona struck me as unpredictable and that was inherently dangerous.

  Entering the stage from the side, I stood silently for a moment to observe before she realized I was listening. The haunting tones of her cello had already lured me like Sirens of the sea. Her talent, not just technical ability, but musical sense, filled the air with beauty.

  Could I put all of my concerns aside and work with her? If she performed as well with another person as she did alone, she was more than qualified.

  I retrieved my phone from my pocket and opened my Magic 8-Ball app: CONCENTRATE AND ASK AGAIN

  Funny, considering I couldn’t concentrate around her. Exactly. That was the answer I needed… if I couldn’t concentrate around her, she wasn’t good for this point in my life.

  I slipped my phone back into my pocket and proceeded onstage.

  She stopped mid-phrase when I approached. “Hey, Splat.”

  Shit. One duet might be too much. Should I reconsider? I didn’t dare take my 8-Ball app out in front of her. Other people knew I used it, but I wasn’t about to give her ammunition. She’d take the one frivolous thing in my life and use it against me. “Don’t call me that.”

  She winked. “Gotcha, Ollie.”

  “Oliver, please.” I tried adding the pleasantry to soften my tone.

  Shrugging her shoulders, she said, “Guess your controlling reputation was well earned.”

  “I’m not…” My words trailed off when she quirked an eyebrow at me.

  My blood boiled as I considered the lesser of two evils and opted for choosing my battles. Against my better judgement, I relented. “Fine, you can call me Ollie.” Truth was, I liked how she gave me a nickname. Ollie would roll off the tongue easier when I made love to her. And that was further proof I’d lost control of myself.

  “Yes, sir, Ollie, or should I stick with Doctor Ollie since you have a PhD?”

  I opened my mouth to correct her but she held up her hands and cut me off.

  She added, “Sorry. Three PhD’s: Music Theory, Music Education, and Music Performance. I’ve read your bio.”

  I tried to glare at her but ended up getting lost in her eyes, or something bigger, like an aura of vitality. This woman would break me, one jab at a time. The sooner I got rid of her the better. “Shall we?”

  “Are you going to decide if you like me from on stage, or are you going to watch from the seats in the auditorium, Ollie?”

  I hated myself for loving the way she lit up when she said my name. She loved antagonizing me, and I loved her antagonizing. Run, I told myself, but my feet refused.

  Fiona wrapped her arms around her cello and all I could think about was how I wanted to be between her legs. I wanted her arms wrapped around me, tits pressed against me the way they had to be pressing into her cello, and with the twitch of my dick, I brought myself back to reality. She’s not what I need.

  “I’m having second thoughts.” The right thing to do was thank her for her time, tell her the symphony would compensate her for mileage, and settle my brain on my solo piece to do in place of the duet.

  “As in?” she asked.

  The words wouldn’t form.

  She furrowed her brow. “Okay. Since you got your solo act out of the way in the dressing room, why don’t we jump in and do it together.”

  Calling me out? Fuck, she was trouble. And I loved her free spirit as much as I anguished over her cheekiness.

  Drawing her bow across the strings, her first long notes of the Impossible Duet begged me to join. I would eat the apple. I’d risk being cast out of Eden. Was it the mythical draw of the extra day, Leap Day? Once every four years the special day came along to correct the world. What if Fiona was here to correct me? It was hardly rational justification, but I was going to take a chance on her. Let her break my boundaries.

  I tucked my violin under my chin. I wouldn’t make her audition. Joining her, I had one mission: Quit thinking with my dick.

  Chapter 3

  Fiona

  I’d worried how nervous I’d be around Ollie. If I’d even be able to play or if my fingers would reveal how weak he made me. The second I’d walked into the green room and stood in his presence, a sense of calm and belonging washed over me. And horniness, but I’d expected that.

  The reassuring part of my feelings wasn’t just about the crazy opportunity to do the duet, but that I never in all of eternity would have thought could be a reality. It extended to an unexplainable sense we were meant to be together. Despite telling myself a million other women had experienced the same sentiment, I couldn’t shake the suspicion it was true.

  Even his stuffy formality didn’t turn me off. It was part of him, and I knew his history. I’d read about his parents selling his violin because they said it was a waste of time. I admired how he practiced with two pieces of wood, a horrible excuse for a make-shift violin, until he saved up enough money delivering newspapers to buy a new one. And the ridicule… saxophones, percussion, maybe even the bass, were sexy, but boys didn’t stand a chance of escaping bullying if they played the violin. On the other hand, sexy-ass grown men wearing a tux could pull off the suave, confident persona that made women swoon, including me.

  But his distance, his hesitation… it was no different than what I’d seen of him in the media. No attachments, no distractions, and no girlfriends other than a few short-lived relationships. He’d fought for everything he wanted out of life, and all of his efforts geared toward musical excellence.

  I also had to keep in mind Suzie hadn’t given me the opportunity to play the duet with him so I could husband hunt… or wait, boyfriend hunt, that’s what I meant, although it had been funny that she used it to lure me in. It was to get me back on the horse. Free me from my demons.

  All I could do was be myself, play my best, and somehow stop recalling his fist wrapped around his cock. Did I stand a chance of replacing his hand with mine and eliciting the total abandon on his face? And having seen him climax, I wanted to know what it felt like to have his thickness shooting cum inside of me?

  How often did he jerk off in the dressing room? Onto the counter no less. Interesting method of stress reduction.

  The sexual urgency banging around inside of me made it hard to focus.

  I wanted him to consider me as something other than a pesky amateur. To accept me for who I was, and that seemed as likely as convincing trumpets and trombones to play quietly.

  When he came onstage, something was wrong. Had he been so embarrassed by me walking in on him that he’d want to get rid of me? I couldn’t leave without playing for him. All wanton lust and confused feelings aside, I wasn’t going to let anything stand in the way of my opportunity to perform with my idol.

  My exterior came across as confident, but I was protecting the self-doubter inside of me who had been burned by the demands of being a prodigy. Expectations took a toll on a kid and part of me feared commitment, feared being controlled the way my parents and every music teacher had, expecting me to be a robot who could crank out one perfect performance after another.

  In the
moment Oliver approached, violin in hand, nerves revealed by his white knuckles, I only had one resource, my music. Drawing my bow across the strings, I played the first notes of the duet and watched him agonize. Would he interrupt and tell me something I suspected I didn’t want to hear? Would he let my half of the duet wither away, incomplete?

  Energy surged through me when he raised the violin, tucked it under his chin, and wove his way into the duet just as I was about to give up and fade out unrequited.

  The blend of our sounds soothed the damage my soul had taken the last time I’d performed the piece in public. The beautiful harmony justified the countless hours I’d forced the notes from my fingers with the presumption no one would trust me to play it with them.

  Feeding off his motions, I read every innuendo of his playing, and he did the same with me.

  The notes poured from my body and my instrument, memorized like my own name. We paced instinctively with each other, catching the natural ebb and flow of the phrases. My fantasy performance was happening with my fantasy partner. My soul was bonding so tightly to Ollie, the only step closer would be making love, and I wanted to, more than I’d wanted anything. How could he deny how good we were together?

  His part switched to keeping the beat while I took over the faster notes, and he rushed the tempo.

  Euphoria collapsed into shock. I shot him a questioning glance but met his pace. The next section, he slowed, lengthening the notes, taking me to the brink of not being able to control my bow.

  Hierarchy gave him the lead, and I bit my virtual tongue to play it normal instead of following his absurd choices. The light at the end of the tunnel was that if I continued to match him note for note, he’d have no choice but to admit I deserved the chance to perform with him. Meanwhile, I made a mental note to curse Suzie for failing to mention I had to prove myself.