“There you guys are.” Yardley approached with a distressed expression, carrying both our violins over her shoulder. “I don’t have kids for a reason—watching these was enough to give me palpitations. Here.” She shoved them in our direction with a sigh of relief.
I bowed toward her. “Thank you, ma’am.”
She arched an eyebrow. “You guys drunk?”
“Not anymore,” I replied with a smile, only slightly unsure of myself.
“So your practice thing …” she questioned.
Nessa grinned. “Therapy. Emotional tweaking.”
Yardley’s eyes moved curiously between Nessa and me. Finally, she threw up her hands. “I don’t know why it surprises me when you guys are weird as hell. I’m going to the hotel.” She gestured to the drummers behind us. “Maybe do your best to make sure there’s no bloodshed? No one gets impaled with a stick.”
Nessa gave a mock salute. “Aye, aye, captain.”
“So weird,” Yardley mumbled to herself with a laugh as she ducked into Norio’s waiting car.
“They’re probably fucking,” Nessa said rather matter-of-factly as the car pulled out of the parking lot.
I laughed. “That’s what CJ said.”
“Don’t you think so?”
“I think men and women can be friends without nudity,” I admitted. “One of my best friends is a girl and I’ve never seen her naked, nor do I wish to.”
“Liar,” Nessa teased. “Even if you don’t wish to now, I bet you wished to at least once.”
I rolled my eyes. “Whatever.”
Stuffing my hands into my pockets, I walked over to the edge of the parking lot where the drummers were nestled, sparring away. Nessa followed, posting up next to me as we situated ourselves into the group of spectators. CJ was watching Marco intently. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched a wry grin pore over Nessa’s mouth.
“Oh,” she whispered, “he’s intimidated.”
“He should be,” I whispered back. “Macro’s wicked good.”
“Wicked?” Nessa teased, laughing. “Is he? Is he wicked good?”
I moved to cross my arms in front of me and elbowed her side playfully. “Yes. Wicked.”
Marco was engaged in a long drum roll, punctuating it with clicks to the rim of the drum, but never losing the roll in the process. All three guys were damp with sweat—they’d obviously been at this a while before we showed up. When Marco finished, CJ’s eyes lit up.
“Alrighty then,” he said, rolling his head from side to side, stretching out his neck.
He struck the drum, starting where Marco had left off. Same tempo, same stance—he was mocking him and I laughed. In a few seconds, CJ clacked on the rim of the drum, moving the sound of the roll from the head of the drum to the rim and back again, arching an eyebrow in the process. The crowed cheered him on, and then he pulled one of his tricks—spinning one stick in his hand like a tiny baton while maintaining an even roll.
“Wooo!” Nessa hooted between cupped hands, egging them on.
Soon, all three drummers were playing at once, each doing their own thing. It may have sounded like noise to someone outside our tight circle in the parking lot, but for us, it was fun.
“Regan!” CJ shouted to me. “Bring it in.”
“What?” I grumbled. “Why?”
“Come on, fucker! Bring it.”
Nessa nudged my side. “I’d do what he said if I were you,” she teased.
I looked at her, narrowing my eyes. “Oh, is that how it is? We’ll see …”
Amidst claps and hoots, I took out my violin, quickly ran through a couple of notes, then joined the drummers.
“All right, gentlemen, follow my lead.” I laughed to myself, thankful I was buzzed enough to start this song.
Within a few beats, our tour mates were laughing, and the three snare drummers behind me were doing the best they could to keep a straight face while I glided through “Turkey in the Straw.” They kept a beat though, cranking it faster as the song went on. I hadn’t had a chance to play much bluegrass in the past few years, and I missed it. The sound produced in that style of playing is often what differentiates a fiddle from a violin in people’s minds, even though they’re the same instrument. In his heyday, you’d have never heard anyone ask Charlie Daniels to whip out his violin if you were at the Grand Ole Opry. Fiddle, they’d call.
I glided right into the next song, “Swallow Tail Jig.” A change of tone from bluegrass to Celtic undertones, jigs have always been my favorite thing to play. Despite being English in origin, almost everyone I’d ever come in contact with associated the jig with the Irish—one connection I could stand behind.
“Swallow Tail” is easily recognized, even by people who claim they don’t know any jigs. It’s like the unofficial anthem of Ireland and all things Irish music. It’s only three minutes long, but can easily loop over itself again and again. The drummers pushed me in tempo, added their own tricks to the mix, and soon the small crowd of road-worn musicians around us were dancing.
Glancing up, I caught Nessa’s eye as she stared at me with a complicated look on her face. Happiness, maybe. But it was mixed with anxiety and unmistakable desire. Longing. I pulled the instrument away from my shoulder, dropping my arms to my sides, and turned to CJ.
“Just take my lead, okay?” I asked, quiet. Moving my eyes to the other two, I spoke a little louder. “Firm and steady, boys. Got it?” They just shrugged and nodded, looking to CJ for direction. The small crowd grew quiet, waiting for our next move.
Tucking the violin back between my shoulder and chin, I raised the bow, then gripped it under my left fingers, leaving it dangling awkwardly from the neck of the instrument while I brought my right hand to the strings. I paused, shot Nessa a wink and a grin, then brought the violin down in banjo-like position in front of my body. I knew it looked ridiculous, highlighted by the laughs stuttering through the crowd, but it was worth it to see the horror fall over Nessa’s face.
“Don’t,” she begged with a nervous laugh, the beer clearly wearing off but still present. “Regan,” she cautioned, “don’t.” She laughed again.
I teased her, raising and lowering my eyebrows several times before I plucked the strings with my right fingers and thumb. Pizzicato is the technical term for this, but almost no one outside of musicians knows that. Plucked. It’s just a fancy, classical-uppity word for plucked.
I plucked the notes slow at first, one at a painfully-slow time. I was betting on Nessa being the only one to recognize them until I sped them up, and it seemed I was right. She pressed her tongue into the side of her cheek and shook her head.
“No,” she spit out flatly.
“Come on,” I egged her on, picking up the tempo slightly, then again until at least a few people recognized the melody.
“Dueling Banjos” wasn’t written for violins, but it’s a hell of a good time, anyway. It can be played solely plucking away, like I had started, but I was about to transition to using my bow once I lured Nessa and her violin out of hiding.
“Oh hell yeah, girl,” Marco shouted to Nessa from behind me. “Come on.”
“I hate you,” she called to him before eyeing me. “And you.”
I paced toward her, playing slightly louder and faster with each step I took. “Come on,” I echoed Marco’s peer pressure. “It’ll be fun.”
“Bet you can outplay him,” CJ egged on.
I turned and faced him with mock betrayal. “Et tu?”
He just shrugged. “Seems like she doesn’t want to embarrass you.”
“Oooo,” came the calls from the group, now forming a circle around us.
“Is that true?” I faced Nessa once more, teasing. “You’re afraid to beat me?”
A small glint of fire sparked in her eyes, and I figured I’d won her over, but just in case, I leaned in close, so only she could hear.
“Your band’s heard you play, I’ve heard you play, and at least half of these other people have heard you
play. Come on,” I encouraged close to her ear. “Fall in love with performance again. Chicago will love you for it.” I pulled back and resumed plucking, carrying with me the scent of saltwater and grass that drifted off her neck
Shaking her head and taking a deep breath, Nessa slid her case from her shoulder and set it on the ground, finally bringing out her violin. Walking toward me she shot me a playfully evil look.
“You’re lucky I’m just buzzed enough to engage in your little torture.”
“But can you handle this?” I teased, bringing the violin back to my shoulder and playing a verse at moderate speed.
I wanted to get her playing, and keep it fun. Therefore, I had to do as little talking as possible, letting the music persuade her all on its own.
Often there are no drums in this song, but CJ and I had played this one together often enough that it was no big deal. Traditional jigs often have some percussion for measure, so over time CJ and I adapted a duet of sorts, stripping the jig band down to their barest parts—melody and beat.
Cheers and claps sprung up as Nessa brought up her instrument into the ready position.
“All right hot shot,” she started, refreshingly confident. “Whaddaya got?”
I bit my lip. “Uh uh. Ladies first.”
And with that, Nessa eyed Marco and gave him a swift nod, and we were off to the races.
Twenty-Two
CJ
Regan had only mentioned in passing that Nessa could play—really play—the violin. I knew he’d written some songs for Moniker that Yardley intended for Nessa to play, as I’d been sitting in for Moniker’s drummer for a couple weeks, but that was as much as I knew until she opened the challenge with Regan in “Dueling Banjos.” I kept my eyes on Regan as Nessa marched moderately through several runs of notes, kicking off their little head-to-head.
The two of them had bailed on the formal practice session, which wasn’t all that strange since Regan’s methods could be weird as shit, but something didn’t sit right with me when I saw them tumble out of that cab. They looked, I don’t know, too chummy, or something. I figured it was just brewing jealousy since Nessa had turned me down in several creative ways at the beginning of the tour, and it stung to see her giving anyone that kind of attention—friendly or otherwise. I was more grateful than jealous at this point, though, so I let all those old feelings go.
Watching Regan watching her play, though? The feeling was coming back. An uneasy drop in my stomach, like I got while driving through Boston, attempting multiple lane changes at once. I knew Georgia had concerns about Nessa and Regan’s relationship, but even she was trying to shake them off. Because this was Regan, and he was monogamous and professional. I couldn’t tell right away if my discomfort would have surfaced without that talk with Georgia this morning, so I decided to drop it. Besides, it pissed me off to no extent when either of them butted into my business.
Nessa played her bars, and Regan shot back with his. It was fun kicking around like this. So far, most of the off-stage hours with the group had been spent partying or sleeping, but it was nice to goof off once in a while to remember what the fuck we were all doing in the first place—sharing music. Or, as my mom used to say, providing a healthy outlet for my ADHD. The tapping on everything around the house only got worse as the years went on. Drove Frankie nuts, too.
I swallowed hard, trying to push thoughts of my tall, curves-from-heaven ex-girlfriend out of my mind. I refrained from texting her since the night with Clara, but that didn’t mean I didn’t hover over her contact information in my phone more than a dozen times since the tour started. But after starting and stopping a dozen texts over the last several days, I knew I’d have to try something new. Something she deserved. Space, for one. And something more personal. A card, maybe? Flowers, definitely.
You know what you have to do. What she wants. What you need to do.
I sighed, knowing the level of commitment Frankie explicitly requested of me, that went above and beyond moving in together, and was even more intense than marriage. She wanted a piece of me that I wasn’t ready to give to her. To anyone. Regan never even addressed me by my birth name. That was orchestrated. It took a few years for Georgia to learn it and, even though I really loved—love—Frankie, I just … wasn’t ready. I didn’t know why, or if I’d ever be, but it was always important to her.
“CJ, take it,” Marco cued me, which was a godsend. I couldn’t remember if I’d missed a cue since high school, and that was embarrassing enough. A mistake at a competition I worked for years not to repeat. Woodwinds can be an uptight bunch.
By the time I refocused on the scene in front of me, the tour members circling Regan and Nessa were dancing to the rapid pace of the song. Regan was in the lead, this time, his full body working through the notes as he walked around Nessa. Her eyes never left him, challenging and inviting. I’d seen her in clubs before—the looks she gave “hot guys” around her. This wasn’t quite the same, but it was almost there.
She dove right in when he finished, building on what he’d played, adding in more complicated chord progressions and picking up the tempo. Their back and forth was fun as hell to watch. It was fast, light, and full of life. It almost made me want to dance along. Almost. Nessa was certainly in Regan’s league as far as strings go—I’d have to rub that in soon. It’s supposed to be good to be reminded that the sun doesn’t shine out of your ass. I wouldn’t know.
Regan watched her, tapping his foot with her beat and moving his shoulders at the same time. He had a look I’d seen before—one he’d watched Georgia with the first week he met her. His eyes had lit up watching Georgia bust her ass around the bar she tended. Curious and intentional. Just like they were now.
The song ended with applause and black-slapping, Nessa and Regan laughing and out of breath from their performance porn. I knew jack shit about Nessa’s personal life or her “game,” but I knew Regan—which is why I fought the bitter taste of watching them have music sex with each other right out in the open.
Did he even realize what he was doing?
If he did, we were about to have a huge fucking problem.
***
We had a decent opening night in Minneapolis. Not our best, but it’s hard to say why. There weren’t huge errors or missteps. Maybe it was all in my head. I’d been a bit of a dick the last couple weeks—turns out I didn’t know what to do with myself if I wasn’t with a woman or chasing one.
I’d kind of gotten into the habit of being holed up in my hotel room after shows. At first it was because I didn’t trust myself at a club, then, inexplicably, I just didn’t want to go anymore. But, at Regan’s urging after tonight’s show, I found myself at kind of a trendy club. He said he didn’t want to go “alone,” meaning he wanted me to suffer, too. I tried to get him to stay back with me, but he was on some kind of high. It was weird, having the roles reversed—I used to have to drag him out by his ponytail to go anywhere.
“Nice job tonight,” Regan shouted above the noise, clinking his beer bottle against mine.
“Same.” I took a swig, eyeing the dance floor. I’d spent a lot of time on those, and I can’t dance for shit. Turns out, it doesn’t matter much as long as you move your hips along with the hot girl, and prop your hands on her ass. They kind of take care of the rest while you brew a killer erection for later.
“You okay?” Regan nudged my side.
“Yeah … are you?”
His eyebrows pulled together for a second. “Yeah, why?”
I shrugged, taking another sip of my beer. “Nothin’.”
I kept an eye on Nessa. She was at the far end of the bar with Clara, ordering and pounding shots. Clara didn’t seem in the mood to spend much time around me. Can’t blame her, really—I needed shots to hang out with me sometimes, too.
I was beginning to think maybe I’d made the whole music sex thing between Regan and Nessa up. Nessa seemed focused on Clara and whoever else they were standing with, talking and laughing as if she
wasn’t pulling my cousin down a dark hole. Maybe she wasn’t.
I eyed Regan again, and followed his gaze. Straight to the end of the bar.
“That was fun earlier, with Nessa and the guys,” I tried, casually.
Regan lit up like a Christmas tree. “Right?! She’s good, huh? Good.”
I nodded. “Yep. Have you guys been practicing a lot together?”
He shook his head. “Nah—that was actually the first time we performed together. But we shared some intense shit at dinner and kind of needed to cut loose.”
“Intense shit?”
Regan finally looked at me. “Rae,” he said. Casually, but with a visible swallow.
“And her?”
“Her brother.”
“The paralyzed one?”
His eyes widened. “She told you about that?”
I shrugged. “Drunk conversation a few weeks ago. I don’t know any details.”
He seemed to relax a little when I said that. “Yeah, it screwed her up. He played violin too—don’t … don’t tell anyone, okay? I don’t know who knows that.”
“Jesus,” I mumbled. “So she, like, plays for you now?”
He scrunched his face. “Not like that, pervert. We’ve practiced and I’ve coached her on some things in a few numbers. That’s it. Why are you looking at me like that?”
“I think it might be like that,” I mumbled.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
I looked away, squaring my shoulders to the bar and staring straight ahead. “I think you’re treading dangerous ground, is what I think.”
Regan was silent for a few seconds. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
I shot him a sideways glance, sighing. “Look, I just think …”
“What?” he cut in, a sort of angry anxiety in his voice. “What do you think?”
Facing him, I shrugged. “Just be careful. I know how these things start.”
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