Broken Chords (Songs and Sonatas Book 4)

by Jerica MacMillan

  “No. I don’t,” I say softly. “That’s why I didn’t want to take things further last week.”

  Her eyes widen at that, and she turns back to the piano, but not before I see the rise of pink in her cheeks. She runs her fingers over the lacquered wood of the piano. “So you don’t … You don’t know me well enough to want to have sex with me?”

  She lifts her head, her blue eyes laser-like in their intensity.

  It’s my turn to look away, glancing up at the ceiling of the recital hall, overwhelmed by her focus. “Sort of. It’s not that I didn’t want to, it’s more that I prefer it to mean something.” I lower my eyes to hers again. “I don’t do casual.”

  She holds my eyes for a second, then nods, her attention returning to where her fingers rest on the keyboard cover. “I see.”

  “I’d like to keep getting to know you,” I say into the silence. “I wanted to call you this week. But I don’t have your number.”

  She nods, giving me a crooked smile. “Lauren mentioned something about you asking for my number.”

  “But you didn’t tell her to give it to me.”

  She shrugs. “I didn’t tell her not to. I didn’t tell her anything. I didn’t know whether you wanted to call to try to let me down easy or for some other reason. And I …” She trails off and shakes her head.

  “I wanted to talk to you. I’ve missed you this week.”

  Her eyes find mine again, this time full of a kind of cautious hope. “I missed you too.”

  “Do you want to go somewhere? Do something?”

  She laughs. “Go somewhere and do something? So specific.”

  I crack a grin in return. “Let’s go get dessert. Or coffee. Or pancakes. I don’t care. Just come with me.”

  Swiveling around on the piano bench, she faces me completely for the first time. “Okay.” She stands and smooths down her black pencil skirt before closing the piano lid and crouching to retrieve the piano cover.

  I step over to the other side of the piano, catching the shaped blanket and pulling it across, helping her smooth it into place, putting the piano to bed for the night. “Do we need to push it back?”

  She shakes her head. “Glenda said I could leave it there when she let me stay here to play.”

  As she comes around the piano to head for the door, I reach for her hand, threading our fingers together. She gives me a smile before reaching for the switches to turn off the stage lights. The house is already dark.

  Hidden in the darkness, I ask the question that’s been plaguing me since I waited around eating cake. “Were you avoiding me after the recital?”

  Her laugh is dry and humorless. “No. I actually didn’t even realize you were here.” She opens the door to the greenroom, the lamps from within sending a sliver of light shooting onto the dark stage. She takes a deep breath like she’s steeling herself as we walk through the greenroom and into the lobby, still hand in hand. “My mom called before the recital and left an … unpleasant voicemail. After Katherine and Cheryl left the greenroom for the reception, I took advantage of the privacy and called her back. It was … a frustrating conversation.”

  I rub my thumb across her knuckles, trying to convey my sympathy. “What did she want?”

  She bites her lip before shaking her head. “I really don’t want to talk about it. Let’s just say that my mom and I don’t see eye to eye on much of anything these days. We’ve basically been fighting since I got here. I’m seriously about to block her number.”

  My head jerks back in surprise, and she gives me that crooked smile again. “I know. That sounds really harsh. But if you knew what she was like, you’d understand. You’d probably wonder why I haven’t blocked her sooner.”

  I swallow. “Okay. I’ll take your word for it. Since you said you don’t want to talk about it.”

  She nods. “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.” I stop, tugging on her hand to get her to face me, reaching up to brush a strand of hair away from her forehead and tuck it behind her ear. Her short haircut is growing out a little. “One day, when you feel like you can trust me enough, and when you’re up for talking about it, I’d like to hear about her. About what she disagrees with you about so strongly. And why you want to cut off contact with her.”

  Her lips part on an indrawn breath, and she holds it in, frozen in anticipation of talking. She exhales on a rush, closing her eyes and nodding. “Okay.”

  And that’s enough for me for now. I bring her hand up to my lips and give it a kiss. “Thank you. Now, you never said what you were agreeing to. Dessert? Coffee? Pancakes?”

  A gleam of mischief comes into her eyes, and this time when she bites her lip it’s to cover a smile. “Would you think I’m crazy if I want a big pile of pancakes covered in berry syrup and whipped cream?”

  I solemnly shake my head. “Not at all. Let’s go.”

  Chapter Eight

  A tempo: the performer should return to the previous tempo, such as after an accelerando or ritardando

  Charlie

  I’m practically drooling when the waitress sets a pile of pancakes in front of me, mounded high with strawberries, blueberries, and raspberries, all topped with a giant swirl of whipped cream.

  Damian smiles at me from across the table of the corner booth at a local diner that serves breakfast all day as the waitress sets his more modest meal of a ham and cheese omelette with a strawberry crepe on the side.

  His smile pulls wider when I take my first bite and let out a muffled, “Holy shit, that’s good.”

  “Is that going to satisfy your craving?”

  I tilt my head to the side as I chew. “For now. I might make you bring me here a lot, though.” I used to love getting this as a kid. But since Disney and fame and becoming Charlotte James, I wasn’t allowed this kind of decadence. It’ll take more than once to satisfy this craving. And this place is good. “These are way better than the ones at IHOP. I wonder why Lauren didn’t bring me here.”

  He gives a little shrug, cutting off a bite of his omelette. “She might not know about it. She didn’t grow up here, and neither did Gabby, her last roommate. It’s kind of a local treasure.”

  “That makes sense.”

  He chuckles at the way I keep talking with my mouth full, but I can’t help myself. I didn’t eat much for dinner, and it was hours ago. I’m starving, and this is delicious. But I also want to talk to Damian. Our talk in the recital hall cleared up a few things, but it also spawned more questions.

  Questions that deserve to be asked with an empty mouth.

  After I swallow, I focus my attention on my pancakes, carefully cutting the next bite, and dropping my question like it’s no big deal. “So, you mentioned that you don’t do casual. Does that mean you’re a virgin?”

  Damian coughs, choking on his food. He stares at me as he reaches for his water glass, the bronze skin of his face taking on a rosy hue. But he shakes his head. “No. I’m not.”

  “Oh.” I’m not sure what the follow up to that should be. So I nod like a bobblehead doll, staring at my pancakes, and shove another bite in my mouth. I could eat these every day and never get tired of them.

  “I had a girlfriend in high school.” Damian’s voice pulls my eyes back to him. “We started dating our junior year and stayed together until college. She’s a violinist. We were going to go to college together, but …” His eyes drop to his plate, and I know what he’s going to say next.

  “But your mom got sick, and you stayed here. I take it she wanted to go wherever you’d planned on?”

  He nods. “She went to the Peabody Conservatory in Baltimore.”

  “Was that where you were going to go?”

  “Maybe. I never got as far as auditioning anywhere else, though. Mom was sick. I needed to stay here.”

  Silence descends as we regard each other. I’m not sure where to go from here.

  He reaches for his glass again. “I take it your number is more than one?”

  Heat race
s from my chest to the top of my head. “I’m not—it’s not—”

  Damian holds up his hands. “I’m not judging. But you opened up the topic. It’s natural for me to be curious too.”

  With a deep breath, I try to slow my racing heart from my first reaction of embarrassment and shame at his question. Having had my picture taken with a variety of men over the years, slut shaming is par for the course. But it never gets easier to stomach. In fact, I think it gets worse the longer I have to deal with it, the longer I have to choke it down and give my media smile and pretend like it doesn’t bother me. Because guys who are pictured with a line of ever-changing starlets, models, and beautiful young women are congratulated, both in person and in the media. But women who do the same thing? Who are seen to have a new boyfriend with any amount of frequency? Well, they’re just sluts and whores who can’t keep their legs closed. Look at how low-cut her top is. She’s so trashy. She needs to get some class.

  And of course, if you don’t wear a low-cut dress to an event, you’re frumpy and a fashion nightmare.

  There’s no winning.

  “Charlie?”

  I blink, realizing I’ve gotten lost in my thoughts. I shake my head. “Sorry.” Taking a deep breath, I hold it in for a beat before expelling it slowly through my lips. “Yeah. More than one.” I cover my anxiety at talking about this by cutting another bite of pancakes. Damian’s face is open curiosity, not judgment. I believe him when he says he’s not judging. With my brain, at least. But it’s harder to convince my internalized reaction that I don’t have to be on guard with him. Except to carefully answer questions about my past so that I don’t spill the beans.

  “My mom liked to set me up with different guys, hoping I’d hit it off with someone. And in my world, guys tend to have certain … expectations if you go on very many dates in a row.”

  Damian’s expression can only be described as horror. “Oh my God.” He leans toward me, his eyes scanning my face, concern mixing with the horror. “Were you …?” He looks all around, like he wants to make sure no one can overhear us, then widens his eyes meaningfully. “Were you … forced?”

  My own eyes widen. “No. No. Not … like that. No, it was more that I didn’t want to deal with the fallout of making them mad.”

  That does nothing to lessen the horrified concern in his eyes. “So they threatened you?”

  Reviewing what I said, I can see how he might’ve gotten that. “No. They didn’t threaten me.” At least not physically. A couple of them hinted that they’d sell stories about me to the tabloids and tell the world that I’m a sex addict or any number of specific sexual things I prefer. Most of which are not things I’ve tried. Though one guy said he’d tell the world what a terrific cocksucker I am. His words. The memory of that has the heat rising to my cheeks again.

  “Charlie.” Damian’s voice is soft, inviting. “Charlie, if—“

  But I cut him off with a quick shake of my head. Not wanting to talk about this anymore. “No. It wasn’t like that. I swear.” And most of the time it wasn’t. It was more that things would progress, physically, and I wouldn’t stop them. I knew the score. The expectations. And I know that it’s easier to get along, not rock the boat, because the consequences of noncooperation are worse than just doing what it takes to get through it as soon as possible.

  Not that they were all that way. There were a couple of guys that I liked. That took their time and made sure I enjoyed myself too. But they were exceptions, not the norm.

  Damian studies me for several long moments before finally nodding. “Okay. I believe you. But I promise that when we … take that step, it’ll be because we both want to. Because we’ve fallen for each other, and we’re ready for that kind of emotional connection. Okay?”

  I stare at his serious eyes, his earnest expression, and place my hand in the one that he’s reached across the table. No one has ever talked about sex like that before. Not to me, anyway. It sounds like something out of a movie or a romance novel. But I kind of like it.

  “Okay.”

  His fingers close around mine, giving my hand a quick squeeze before lifting it to his lips and brushing a kiss across my knuckles. And I melt.

  Opening my door. Kissing my hand. Wanting to take his time getting to know me—to fall for me. Believing sex is an emotional connection and not just a physical one. Can he be any more perfect?

  He gives me a smile, the small dimple appearing on his left cheek.

  Nope. I don’t think he can.

  An hour and a half later, Damian takes me back to the music building to get my car. His kiss goodnight is hotter than ever. He presses me back against my car, the cool breeze playing with our hair as he slides one hand along my jaw to tip my face up before covering my mouth with his. His lips move against mine, opening, sliding his tongue inside.

  Maybe he hasn’t been with a lot of girls, but man can he kiss. I guess you get a lot of practice being in a relationship with one girl for over a year. Plus, he only told me how many people he’d had sex with. Not how many he’d kissed. For all I know, he’s kissed a billion girls.

  “Goodnight, Charlie,” he says when he pulls back. “I’ll call you tomorrow.” We finally exchanged numbers when we left the diner.

  The smile on my face when he steps away is impossible to hold back. Even if a million paparazzi were surrounding us, taking our picture, and shouting questions, I couldn’t disguise my happiness—no—joy. “Talk to you tomorrow.”

  My smile stays in place the whole way home. And I can’t help doing a little happy dance when I park my car.

  I make a point of being quiet when I open the front door. It’s almost midnight. Lauren might be out with her friends still. But she might also be in bed.

  The answer is neither. She’s watching TV on the couch in what she calls her lazy clothes—lounge pants and a cami—when I walk in, so I let the door close normally.

  She mutes the TV, looking me down and up. “Have you been practicing in the recital hall this whole time?”

  I bite my lip, trying and failing to stifle my smile. “No. I ran into Damian.”

  Her brows jump up her forehead, and her mouth curves in a knowing smile. “Oh? Do tell.”

  Sitting on the couch next to her, I kick off my shoes and pull my feet under me. “He found me in the recital hall after everyone had left.”

  “What’d he say?”

  I give Lauren a stripped down version of our conversation in the recital hall and the essentials from the diner, leaving out the implication that I may have been raped, or at least coerced into having sex in the past. I’m happy right now, and that new perspective on my sexual history is … disturbing, to say the least.

  Lauren’s smile grows wider as I tell my story. When I’m done, she claps her hands and bounces a little. “Yay for you! I was so bummed when it seemed like things weren’t working out. You were having fun together, and it seems like you really like him.”

  “I do.”

  “And from the sounds of it, he really likes you. I don’t think he would’ve cornered me for your number if he didn’t. But I’m glad you guys worked it out between yourselves.” Her face turns serious. “I’m not sure I’d be as on board with the whole falling in love before having sex stipulation, especially in your shoes, but if you’re happy, then I’m happy.”

  “What do you mean, especially in my shoes?” I can’t help the defensiveness that leaks into my voice. I think but don’t say, You don’t think I deserve to fall in love?

  But it’s as if Lauren hears my unspoken thought. “I just mean that if I were you and it were my career that was sort of a big question mark right now, I don’t think I’d be looking for anything that serious. I wouldn’t want someone pulling me in a different direction, when I already have a bunch of other considerations in play. But that’s just me. Maybe falling in love is exactly what you need.”

  Her face is so sincere that I can’t hold her words against her. Instead I nod. “Thanks. Yeah. I don’t
know. But I haven’t really had the opportunity to explore a normal relationship. So I’m going to, whatever that entails.”

  “Have you told him?”

  I arch an eyebrow, guessing I know what she’s referring to, but wanting to be explicitly clear before answering. “Told him what?”

  She sighs and gives me a look, her lips pursed and her eyes narrowed. “That you’re Charlotte James.”

  “You know …” I say slowly. “I’m not even sure he knows who Charlotte James is. I was playing the chord progressions for one of my songs when we played together last week, and he didn’t seem to recognize it.”

  Lauren’s expression doesn’t change. “I’ve heard you playing chords like that. And it’s never the way it sounds on the radio, so that’s nothing to go by. And that’s not an answer.”

  I shake my head and grin at her. “But you still recognize them.”

  “That’s because I’m well trained in playing name that tune. It comes with being a music major. You’ll get good at it too. And if you’re already good, you’ll get even better.”

  I laugh at that. “And Damian’s not good at it?”

  Her eyes narrow even more. “Fine. Point taken. But from the way you’re still dodging the question and arguing about this”—she waves a hand in illustration—“I’m guessing you haven’t mentioned it.”

  “No. The whole point is for that to be a secret.”

  She considers that, her face relaxing. “I can see why you might not want to tell him at this point. But if things get serious between you, you probably should.”

  “I’ll think about it.” She has a valid point. But I’m not ready to go there yet.

  She stares at me for a few seconds before nodding. “Fair enough.”

  Chapter Nine

  Metronome: a device used by musicians that keeps time at a selected rate by giving a regular tick or beep

  Damian