Broken Chords (Songs and Sonatas Book 4)

by Jerica MacMillan

  “Yeah. Let’s go.”

  With his arm still around my waist, he guides me in that direction. Lauren’s huge grin catches my eye as we move away from our group, and I grin back. Both of us ignore Zeke’s exclamation of, “Hey! Wait!”

  Damian approaches the cellist first, another tall, thin man, this one several years older, with pale skin and short, medium brown hair. His eyes light up as we approach, and he extends his hand to us. Damian’s arm drops from my waist so he can shake his hand. “Great performance tonight.”

  “Thank you,” he says, giving Damian’s hand a firm pump before turning to me and shaking my hand. “Thank you both for coming. I’m glad you enjoyed it.” He releases my hand and sticks his hands in his pockets. “You both students here?”

  I nod as Damian says, “Yeah. I play cello, and Charlie plays piano.”

  “Nice.” The two of them chat about cello things, and I scan the room. The second violinist, a pretty woman in a full black skirt and sleeveless top with a scattering of sparkly beads that shimmered under the stage lights, sees me glancing around and comes over to say hi.

  We chat for a few minutes while Damian finishes up his conversation, then someone else comes up to congratulate her on her performance and claims her attention.

  Damian’s arm slips around my waist again. “Ready?”

  “Definitely.” Another flutter of anticipation goes through me. For the first time in a long time I’m excited about the third date expectations instead of strategizing how I can put them off or get away with the minimum amount of groping. The difference this time is that Damian cares about me. I’m looking forward to seeing him without some of his clothes—or all of his clothes. And I feel safe sharing my body with him, confident that he’ll care enough to ensure my pleasure as well as his own.

  He lifts his chin in the direction of his roommates as we head toward the door, and Lauren gives me a little wave and a thumbs up. I can’t help laughing, which has Damian turning to me. “What?”

  I shake my head. “Just Lauren.”

  “She is pretty funny. Are you enjoying living with her?”

  “Yeah. She’s not around much. But we have fun when we’re both there.” I open my mouth to spill the fact that we both know Gabby, but that would create more questions, so I bite it back and swallow it down. I’m not ready to risk our new connection with the crazy details of my life outside of Marycliff. Yet. I hope we’ll get to the point where I can bring him into the tiny circle of people here who know the truth about me. But right now that’s limited to Lauren, the dean of students, and the chief of campus police. The more people who know a secret, the less likely it is to stay a secret, after all.

  After we climb into the car, Damian hesitates for a second before putting the key in the ignition. “It’s still early for a Friday night. Do you want to get some coffee? Or dessert?”

  At first I’m not sure if that’s his way of working up to inviting me to his place—coffee or dessert and then invite me over. Or maybe he’s hoping I’ll invite him over? Well, I already know we’ll be alone at my place. “What about going back to my house? Lauren’s going to be practicing for a while, so we’d have the place to ourselves.”

  His Adam’s apple bobs visibly as he swallows. And when he answers, his voice is lower, huskier than normal. “That sounds good.”

  That voice and his direct gaze have all my nerves flying away. Anticipation skitters down my spine and warmth starts spreading low in my belly. Knowing how good he is with his hands on his cello, how he can alternate between firm and delicate touches to evoke just the right sound—what can those hands do to my body? Will he play me, changing the pressure, the stroke, the timing to find out what kinds of sounds I’ll make?

  And what about him? I can’t wait to taste him. To see what he looks like when he finally loses control. Is he loud? Growly? Or as quiet and self-contained as he is right now?

  I cross my legs and squeeze as I shiver in delightful expectation. No words pass between us on the short drive to my house. But Damian’s hand reaches for me across the console, glancing at me as he gives my leg a squeeze and turns his hand palm up, wiggling his fingers so I’ll cover his palm with mine.

  When we get to my house, I lead the way inside, enjoying the way he never lets me more than an arm’s length away, his hands staying on me the whole time. But once we’re inside, he turns shy again, standing in the entryway, looking around the house with his hands in his pockets like he’s never seen the place before.

  I’m not used to taking the lead like this, but if I don’t we’ll end up standing here all night. Dropping my keys and purse in their place beside the door, I move to the couch to sit down, patting the space next to me. “Come sit. Make yourself comfortable.”

  While I wait for him to decide what to do, I cross one leg over the other and unzip the short zipper on the side of my bootie. By the time the first one is off, he’s crossed the room and sat down next to me. I give him a smile as I unzip the second one, enjoying the way his eyes follow the movement of my hands.

  Once my shoes are off and sitting side by side on the floor next to the couch, I pull my legs under me, shifting to face him on my knees. His face is still, neutral, as his eyes roam over all of me. I take a moment to do the same thing, taking him in, the way he’s sitting on the couch, one leg pulled up next to him so he can face me, his arm along the back of the couch, his wiry body looking ready to launch into action. Is he readying himself to launch at me? Or holding himself back?

  Maybe he’s worried that I don’t want to move things to a more physical relationship? Maybe he’s waiting for a signal from me?

  Then I’ll give him the signal he needs.

  Leaning toward him, I reach out with both hands, cupping his cheeks, and tipping his face up so I can kiss him. He’s initiated our previous kisses, but now it’s my turn.

  His hands wrap around my wrists, holding me as my mouth moves over his, his lips soft and warm under mine. We kiss, kiss, gentle and sweet, just lips. The longer it lasts, the more relaxed he becomes, his body pliant and supple rather than tightly coiled. But when my tongue licks along his lower lip, he tightens up again, his fingers clenching around my wrists, his whole body jerking to attention. With a low groan, he opens for me, allowing me access to his mouth. His tongue meets mine, sliding, welcoming, dipping into my mouth in return.

  Our kiss is a meeting of equals. A slow, sensual exploration. Not a duel. Neither of us trying to master the other. It’s like when we play together. Our mouths mingling the same way our sound does. It’s like no kiss I’ve ever experienced before. And I want more. More of this. More of him.

  Leveraging our connection, I scoot closer until my knees bump his. He shifts, and my leg has room to fit between him and the back of the couch. Inch by inch, I make my way onto his lap, straddling him. When I lower myself, resting my weight on him, he lets out another low sound as I slide along the hard ridge in his pants.

  I move my hands to the back of his head. His hands find their way to my waist. I take that as encouragement and move against him again, slow and deliberate. His fingers tighten reflexively on my hips. I do it again. And again. Until he’s bucking up against me, meeting me thrust for thrust. And I want this without clothes in the way. I want to feel him against me. His warm skin under my hands.

  Breaking our kiss on a gasp, I attack the tie at his neck, yanking on the thin piece of silk, ripping it out of his collar. Then I go to work on the buttons of his shirt. He shifts underneath me, making me moan as he pushes his dick against my clit through the fabric of my leggings.

  But his hands wrap around my wrists again, stilling me. “What are you doing, Charlie?” His voice is low and husky like it was in the car. When my eyes lift to his, they’re black and liquid with desire, but also guarded.

  “Unbuttoning your shirt.”

  “Why?”

  I yank my hands back in surprise. “Um, well, that seemed like the next logical step. We’re both enjoying th
e kissing, and …” I trail off, unable to articulate my expectations in the face of his guarded and curious gaze. But I screw up my courage. “Sex. Isn’t that what this is leading toward?”

  He shakes his head slowly. “Is that why you invited me over tonight? For sex?”

  Backing off his lap, I climb onto my own cushion, wrapping my arms around myself, suddenly feeling naked even though we’re both still fully clothed. I only got three buttons of his shirt undone, and a triangle of bronze skin peeks over the top of it. “It’s the third date. Isn’t that …?”

  He shakes his head again, his eyes never leaving mine. “I don’t … “ Glancing away for a second, he searches for what to say. “I like you a lot, Charlie. But I don’t usually sleep with someone this soon.”

  “Oh,” I say softly. Then his words filter through all the cracks in my brain. “Oh.” This time it’s louder. I swallow hard and stand. “I’m sorry. I assumed … well, that doesn’t matter. I, uh, I don’t—” I give a hard shake of my head to stop my stammering. I don’t stammer. I’m a trained media professional. Except I do stammer in personal situations where I feel nervous or out of my depth. And I feel both of those things right now.

  Damian stands too. “Charlie, look. Let me explain.”

  I shake my head again. “No. No need to explain.” Blood rushes to my cheeks as it sinks in that he doesn’t want me. “I thought—but I guess—” With another shake of my head, I take a step back. “Give me a minute, please.” I turn and flee to the safety of the bathroom.

  Okay. This isn’t going the way I’d planned. But we can still be friends, I guess. I’m just confused. The touching, the hand holding, the kissing. He was into it. I felt it.

  But he doesn’t want to have sex with me.

  Fine. Okay. No big deal.

  I shove down the desire to cry, blinking rapidly a few times to dispel the telltale moisture that’s gathered unbidden in my eyes, and remind myself that I don’t cry in front of anyone, always saving that for when I’m alone. No one reduces Charlotte James to tears. And it doesn’t matter that no one else knows I’m Charlotte James right now. I armor myself with her thick skin and imperviousness to attention and criticism.

  Sufficiently bolstered by my years of training and the fortress I’ve erected over the years, I return to the living room. Damian’s still standing in the middle of the room, but only the top button remains undone on his shirt, the tail of his tie sticking out of his pocket.

  He looks up at my entrance, and I give him a smile, consciously telling the muscles around my mouth to pull my lips into a winning curve. “Would you like something to drink? Water? Coffee? I think we still have a few Izze sodas in the fridge.”

  “Charlie.”

  The way he says my name—tender but commanding—is almost enough to break through the layers I’ve erected around myself in the few minutes I was in the bathroom. “Yes?”

  “Don’t do this.”

  “Do what?”

  He stares at me for a long moment, his eyes studying my face. Then he seems to deflate as his eyes drop to the floor. “Thank you for coming with me tonight. But I think … I think I should go.”

  “Are you sure? Because I don’t mind making coffee.” I’m not really sure why I’m protesting, except that I’m afraid that if he leaves, that whatever might’ve been between us is over. If he leaves, we can’t recapture what we had before I ruined it by throwing myself at him.

  He crosses the distance between us and places a delicate kiss on my forehead. “I’ll see you later.”

  Before I can respond, he’s crossed to the door and let himself out. I stare at the closed door for a long time before I turn and go to my room, lying on my bed and staring at the ceiling, numb.

  Chapter Seven

  Acciaccato: broken down, crushed; the sounding of the notes of a chord not quite simultaneously but from bottom to top

  Damian

  Charlie’s front door closes behind me with a soft click, and I find myself alone in the cool air of a September evening. It’s stayed warm for longer than normal around here, the days full of sunshine, but the nights are as chilly as usual. The cold light from the stars highlights the fact that I’m now cut off from Charlie and her warmth.

  I blink at the door a few times, debating whether to knock and apologize and taking her up on her offer of coffee. Trying again to ineptly explain myself.

  But she shut down.

  She ran away when I said no to sex, and when she came back out she was a different person. Armored with that cold, brittle exterior. If I wasn’t paying attention, I might’ve thought she was fine. Hell, if I hadn’t seen her before she went in the bathroom, been part of what sent her running, I would have thought she was fine.

  She wasn’t, though.

  I let out a heavy breath and head to my car. Going back inside, even if she let me in, wouldn’t return me to her warmth. No, I was firmly shut out even before the door closed. And no amount of explanation on my part right now will make a difference, even as my body still thrums with what I could’ve had.

  But we barely know each other. And I know myself well enough to know I’m not wired for casual sex. That I want something far more than casual.

  So I get in my car and drive around for a while, needing to calm down and figure out what to do next before I head home. But when I get home I realize that it doesn’t matter what I’ve planned. I can’t do anything. I never thought to get Charlie’s phone number.

  A week passes before I see Charlie again. And when I do, it’s from the audience in the recital hall. She’s on stage, sitting primly beside Cheryl, the staff accompanist, to turn pages during Katherine’s senior recital, one of the vocal majors.

  After the recital ends, I linger in the lobby, eating cake and chatting with my friends, all the while keeping an eye out for Charlie. But I never see her. Did she escape while I wasn’t paying attention? Or is she still in the greenroom?

  Twenty minutes later, the only people left in the lobby are Katherine’s parents, cleaning up the remains of the refreshments, packing up the leftovers to take home. And me. I stand awkwardly for a moment, still hoping that Charlie might appear. But she doesn’t. Maybe she’s waited in the greenroom this whole time so she doesn’t have to see me.

  Frustrated, I head to a practice room. I’ve already practiced today, but with contests to prepare for and my own junior recital coming up in a few months, extra practice time won’t hurt.

  But my brain is buzzing with all the things I want to say to Charlie. The frustration of missing my chance tonight. Is she going to avoid me forever?

  I asked Lauren for Charlie’s number after class on Wednesday. She just eyeballed me, and said, “Oh, did she not give it to you? Hmm.”

  I gritted my teeth and said, “No. I forgot to ask for it. But I need to talk to her.”

  She stroked her chin, like she sometimes does, and said, “I’ll tell her you want to talk and see what she says.”

  But Lauren didn’t bring it up again, either yesterday or today. I don’t know if that means she never said anything to Charlie, or if Charlie’s answer was no. From the way Charlie avoided me after the recital, I’m inclined to think her answer was no.

  My practice session sucks. I can’t focus past all the questions running through my head. My scales are terrible and out of tune. Not even the challenge of the Bach cello suites can distract me.

  After about half an hour, I give up. Packing up my cello, I haul it back downstairs to my instrument locker. And I make one more pass through the lobby. I don’t know why. It’s after ten. The only people around this time of night, especially on a Friday night, are weirdos like me in the practice rooms.

  But when I do, the faint sound of a piano reaches me. I try the main door to the recital hall, but it’s locked. Still curious, I head toward the entrance to the greenroom that leads to the stage.

  It’s cracked.

  When I open it, the sound of the piano is even louder, and I recognize the
slow sliding chords. The melancholy tinged with sweetness that drew my attention the first time I heard it a couple of weeks ago.

  Peeking through the stage door, I see Charlie at the piano. She has the big stick out, holding up the lid on the nine foot Steinway in the middle of the stage. The dark brown quilted piano cover sits in a crumpled heap between the piano and the edge of the stage.

  I lean against the door frame, quietly watching her. She’s completely absorbed by her playing, her whole body involved in pulling the sound from the piano. As I stand listening, the sweet quality leaves her music, and it becomes darker, angrier. Fewer major chords are in the mix, and she pounds on the piano, each attack jarring through her small frame.

  Eventually, the chords gentle. Now just melancholy. And then they drift off. She’s a frozen tableau, her fingers still pressing down the keys as the sound fades away to nothing.

  When she lifts her hands, she gently closes the keyboard cover, puts her elbows on top of it, and covers her face with her hands.

  I straighten, concern shooting through me, and speak without thinking. “Are you okay?”

  She jerks around, one hand on her chest, which is now heaving. “Holy shit! Damian, you scared the crap out of me.” Her eyes scan down my body and back up again. “I thought I was alone. What are you doing here?”

  “Oh.” I scratch my cheek and adjust my glasses. “I heard you playing and stopped to listen.”

  Her eyes narrow in a look that she must’ve picked up from Lauren. They could be twins. “You creep on girls practicing a lot? Or am I just lucky?”

  I push my hands into my pockets, studying her. “Been hanging out with Lauren a lot lately?”

  She blinks at my change of subject. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “She seems to be rubbing off on you. The narrowed eyes, sarcastic questions. Classic Lauren.”

  “How do you know it’s not just me? You don’t know me that well.”