Unfinished Sympathy (Absolution Book 1)

by Amélie S. Duncan

  “Thank you, and I don’t mind the clothes. Beggars can’t be choosy.” I shrugged my shoulders. “I love this Star Wars T-shirt. The Empire Strikes Back is one of my favorite movies. Can I ask why you call her Mom-Two?”

  “It’s a joke that stuck. It started during a time when I used to like to antagonize my dad about his girlfriends.” He motioned for me to follow him over to the coffee table by the couch, where he had set a tray of cakes, cookies, and drinks. “After my parents’ divorce, my father was….” He paused, searching for the word.

  “Busy?” I offered, grinning.

  “Yeah. ‘Busy’ is a polite way of saying it. He was introducing me to three different women a month.”

  He poured me a cup of tea with a spicy aroma. “I had to share my time with them. I thought I was being funny, but deep down I was resentful.”

  I took a sip of the tea. It was delicious. “Who could blame you for being annoyed? I wouldn’t.”

  He smiled at my remark. “Now I can understand my dad was lonely. Anyway, they fell in love. Lily is the only woman I can imagine with my dad. She’s good to all of us, even my mom. She’s also a sweet mother to my sister, Darling.”

  I raised my brows. “Is your sister’s real name Darling, or is that another nickname?”

  “No. Her real name is Jane, but we call her Darling, her middle name,” he explained. “It’s based on Wendy Darling. Lily’s a fan of Peter Pan.”

  We said “Peter Pan” at the same time.

  “I love reading, as you can see.” He gestured towards the row of five bookshelves packed with books. “When I’m working a lot, I don’t have time, but when I’m free I go through a couple a week.”

  “I love reading too,” I said. “At one time, I had a lot of books. I have ebooks now, but I still love the thrill of a book in hand.”

  “What do you enjoy reading besides Douglas Adams?” A smile teased his lips. “I loved you blowing the story for me, by the way.” He winked.

  I giggled. “I’d like to say I read the classics to impress you.”

  He leaned in closer and my pulse picked up. His eyes bore into my own. “I want you to be real.” There was a force in his tone that made him seem more intense as he waited for my answer.

  I licked my lips. “Really, I love just about everything. I’m into adventure stories at the moment. I love sci-fi, paranormal, horror, thrillers, sometimes romance.”

  “My reading habits are mostly science fiction, legal thrillers, and mysteries. I have read a few romance books too,” he said with a twinkle. “Love songs come from many places and varied inspiration.”

  “Yeah, sure. For inspiration,” I poked his side, and his eyes widened in surprise. I covered my laugh and immediately put my hand down.

  “You have a lovely smile,” he said, pleasure lighting up his face.

  “To be honest, I’ve been watching television a lot lately,” I said. “I like to binge watch stuff now as a stress relief. Lately, I’ve watched a few comic book series.”

  “I do that, sometimes. The last thing I watched was The OA 2,” he said.

  “Wow, wasn’t that awesome?” I said bouncing a little in my enthusiasm.

  We rattled an extensive list of television and movies we’d watched, including Deadpool, my absolute favorite.

  “Yes, to all of them,” he replied, and sighed deeply. “Now you know I have no life.”

  I laughed. “I don’t either, and I watch Deadpool at least once a week.”

  We sang a terrible rendition of Salt-N-Pepa’s Shoop from the movie, then laughed heartily again. When we stopped, I said, “Wow. I had no idea you were—”

  “Normal?” he asked and took a sip from his tea.

  “Or nerdy and a bit silly, I suppose, but I think it’s a good thing.” I smiled.

  “That makes two of us,” he said and grinned. “Books are my first love, though. Thanks to Lily I’m never without a new one.”

  “That’s sweet of her,” I replied, eating a cookie.

  “Yes,” he said ruefully. “She’s a darling herself. She calls me nearly every day to tell me how special and talented I am. I think she feels bad about how much time off my dad takes to spend with them.” A shadow crossed his face and evaporated as instantly as it came. “I don’t know why I shared that with you.”

  “I won’t tell anyone,” I said gingerly. “My parents worked hard too, mostly to help with my training, performances, and competitions.”

  “How did you get into audio after playing the violin?” he asked.

  I took a sip of my tea and put it down. “My father worked as an audio production manager for a local production company where I grew up. He and his friends at work taught me how to do it. He worked hard and did everything he could for us. He tried to make things better. It didn’t always work out.” My voice cracked.

  He left his cup aside and moved closer to me. “Is your family all right?”

  I plastered on a smile. “Yes, everything is fine. I only meant to say I shared a similar experience with my family.”

  “You look upset now.” The empathy on his face touched my heart. “I’m sorry.”

  “Please, don’t be,” I said with a wave of my hand. “Things are okay, but let’s talk about something else. Can I ask what it’s like to perform internationally and work with artists like Recon?”

  He was slow to answer. “Recon’s one of the good guys, but honestly, working is work. Traveling is work. The best time is performing. The rest isn’t.” There was a sudden hardness to his tone.

  My lips parted. “Oh, I’m…” I couldn’t find the words.

  “Surprised,” he finished and took another sip from his cup. “I could’ve said it’s thrilling. I still live for those two hours, but that’s my truth. That’s what I want and hope you’ll give me if we work together. I want your truth. Like, for instance, why you didn’t want me to bring up Juilliard, or even ask to work with you at Emono Games?”

  I hunched my shoulders. “I didn’t graduate, so there wasn’t anything really to share.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s complicated. And with Emono, I’m just a contractor, not fulltime. What you asked was more suited for Logan and Ryan. No one cared about my studying at Juilliard when they hired me, or after, for that matter.”

  He lowered his brows. “The reason they didn’t care was because you let them get away with making your admission insignificant. I believe you’re better than that.”

  “Am I?” I put the cookie I’d just picked up back on the tray. “You can only have seen me play maybe a few times.”

  “Five,” he replied, and my mouth dropped open. “I’m still sure about your skill.”

  His confidence in my ability was flattering, though it made me nervous. What if I wasn’t as good as he remembered?

  I pushed away my negative thoughts and asked, “Can I start playing?”

  “Okay,” he said, and stood. “I placed the violin over here.”

  I followed him around the side of the piano to a table where the violin sat waiting for me. I took a deep breath as I ran my hand along the leather case. It had been a long time. What would I sound like now?

  “I’m well out of practice,” I reminded him as I opened the case. My mouth dropped open for a second time in a row. “Am I to believe that people donate Testore eighteenth-century violins?”

  He gave me an impish grin. “If I’m having the pleasure of listening to you again, I want to hear you on one of the best there is.”

  Paul sat on the couch with his head tilted back. His sexiness was unnerving. I had to tear my gaze away from him.

  “You’re building me up too high. I hope I don’t disappoint,” I said over the distance between us. I wasn’t nervous now, but more eager to hear the remarkable instrument.

  I didn’t overthink it, instead I went on autopilot, taking the bow from the case to rosin it. Then I lifted the violin. My chin found the rest as I adjusted and warmed the strings. After a quick glance a
t Paul, I turned away at the start for a private moment of playing, then turned back towards him to bring him in. Unfortunately, what I heard in my performance was uncertainty, intertwined with Mendelssohn’s Violin Concerto.

  I paused and put down the instrument. “I don’t know. It doesn’t sound right.”

  Paul came over and stood in front of me, pressing his palm low on my stomach, heating my skin beneath the fabric of the T-shirt. I gasped. My eyes widened as I met his intense stare.

  “Inside of you is a hunger, a passion. That’s what I hear. I can only imagine where more work at Juilliard would have taken you, but I know you have a gift. Keep going,” he instructed. “Just play, not for anyone. Just do it.”

  I took a deep breath as he returned to his place on the couch and waited. I could do this.

  Picking up the violin again, I started over, choosing Tchaikovsky’s A Song Without Words this time. That was me. My feelings about the violin and music were like love, beyond description. Playing the violin again was like returning to a lost love. It was just as consuming.

  I moved as I played. My heart swelled as music and I got reacquainted with each other through a Testore. It was utter perfection, the sound following touch as smoothly as velvet. The flow like silk across skin. I was in absolute heaven.

  When I reached the end of the piece, I stopped and put the violin down. A hot ache grew in my throat. I could only stand there, shaking.

  Paul came over, took my trembling hands and said, “There’s your sound, just as I remembered. You’re a haunting fire. Remarkable. You’re unforgettable.”

  I didn’t speak. His validation of my music brought all my emotions to the surface.

  “I need more of your music, Aubrey. Play for me. Fill me up. Are you ready?”

  My heart skipped a beat. I smiled and nodded. “Yes.” And, I was.

  This time he sat at his piano bench to watch me.

  Enlivened by his virility and drive, I lifted the violin again. His encouragement emboldened me as I moved through the first uneven chords of Bach’s Chaconne. The piece was extraordinarily complex, requiring courage to perform it before a trained ear such as Paul’s. I had no place to hide should I fail in coordination, time, and tempo. But how could I not try? His strong will and confidence made the piece the right choice. His enthusiasm and support elevated me. I dared.

  The muscles in my arms and fingers pained me as I stretched to reach the intricacies of the piece. I played recklessly. Defiantly. Fearlessly. I didn’t have to look at Paul to know I pleased him.

  When I finished, he got to his feet and began pacing. “You’ve made me selfish now. I need more.” He stopped and demanded, “Give it to me.”

  I wiped the sweat from my brow with my sleeve. As I thought on for the next piece I would perform that I hoped to impress Paul with and chose Ysaÿe’s Violin Sonata No. 3 Ballade. I’d practiced it almost every day at Juilliard. When I started playing, however, I quickly realized it was the wrong choice. Although I tried to hide my grief and despair, they rose from the instrument. I wanted to stop playing. I looked at Paul and he shook his head.

  “Keep going. You need this,” he said, his face softening. “I’m right here with you.”

  His support was kind, and I played on—but I was as conscious of my sorrow as incapable of disconnecting from it. And it became the voice of the song, along with the ache in my heart. The end finally came. I was physically and emotionally spent.

  Paul took the instrument from me. Without a word, he opened his arms, and I went into them. My spine tingled as one of his hands slid up and down my back. This was well beyond our boundaries, but I couldn’t bring myself to let go.

  His warmth was so male, so bracing, and his scent so delicious that a need arose in me. It had been too long since someone had touched me. His touch went from being comforting to more heated the longer we held each other.

  Paul seemed to understand, and just stood there holding me for a while until I calmed down. He then gently let me go, took my hands, and led me over to the couch to sit close to him. He didn’t press me for an explanation. Instead, he offered me a box of chocolates from the table, and I took one.

  “Chocolate always makes me feel better,” he said.

  The taste was unfamiliar but divine. I let out a moan and covered my mouth.

  His eyes flicked to my lips. “I’m glad you like it.”

  He picked up a bottle of water as I ate another piece of candy. Just like Paul said, it made me feel a little better. I relaxed, though I was now embarrassed too.

  Pulling my hair over my shoulder, I ran a hand along the ridges of my braid. “Thank you for inviting me here. I’m sorry about—” I couldn’t finish. There wasn’t anything I wanted to share. Equally, I didn’t want him to think badly of me.

  He picked up my braid from my trembling hands and placed it on my back in one fluid motion. “You don’t have to tell me anything, but I hope you do in time. You’re gifted. I don’t tell artists that often.”

  My heart vibrated at his praise. “Thank you.”

  “I don’t want you to leave feeling sad, but I don’t want to push you anymore today. Would you play with me?” he asked.

  My eyes widened. Paul Crane wanted to play with me? There was only one answer: “Yes. I’d love to play with you.”

  I ate another chocolate first, and Paul took his place on the bench. I rose and stretched, then returned to the violin.

  He played Beethoven’s Spring Sonata. I wanted to sit and listen, but I wanted to please him more. My desire for him and the music moved me as I went where he took us, pausing only once to pull up the stand and spread the sheet music for Dvořák’s Romance in F Minor. Once again, I was swept by my love for the violin. Playing was thrilling, and so was Paul. He displayed an exquisite mastery in his performance. We played the music together as if we had been doing it for longer than a day, as if there were a timeless bond between us. And when our eyes met, the link intensified. We were in sync. I was in awe. It was extraordinary.

  Without saying a word, he veered off to add his own embellishments. I followed him as far as I could, and we went somewhere I’d never reached in music. After a while, I stopped to listen to his magic as he formed a new sound, one of his own. With tension and control, he commanded the piano keys. I flushed at the beauty he evoked, completely seduced by his virtuosity and ingenuity. His sound was hypnotic and sensual, matching him in every way. He had a powerful pull, and I could not look or move away. I was transfixed.

  I was also turned on. I tried to fight the pull, closing my eyes to block out how powerful he looked at the piano, and how voluptuously his hands moved over the keys, but my mind wouldn’t let go. A fantasy of how his hands would command my body began to overwhelm me.

  I squeezed my eyes shut. What was I doing?

  I was obsessing over this man. It was wrong, but I couldn’t turn off the desire I had for him. I was slick between my thighs. My clit throbbed. I needed to relieve the ache. I squeezed my thighs together to create pressure, but it wasn’t enough.

  Paul’s deep baritone cut through my haze. “Just because I’m playing doesn’t mean I’m not aware of what’s going on.” His voice had a slight edge to it. “Did you forget our agreement?”

  He stopped playing and turned around to face me. The full impact of his gaze was dark and penetrating. I’d known I wasn’t clever at hiding or lying. He was already aware of that too.

  “I was responding to your music,” I rasped.

  “I can see that.” He pushed his hair back from his forehead once more, and a hint of a smile crossed his lips. “We were feeding off each other. You also agreed to show me mercy because we might work together.”

  I chewed on my bottom lip. “I did.”

  “Since you won’t follow our agreement, then neither will I.”

  My eyebrows rose. I didn’t know what he meant, but I didn’t have to wait to find out.

  He parted his legs and placed his hands on his thighs. �
��Come over here.”

  Was he mad? There was tension in his square jaw, but no frown on his face. I couldn’t read him.

  In nervous anticipation, I took a step towards him. “What’s going on?”

  “All the way,” he purred. “Don’t stop now.”

  I took a breath and closed the small distance between us, stopping just outside the space between his thighs. My heart pounded so hard I was sure he could hear it. “What’s going on? I don’t understand.”

  But I did understand and as I stood between his legs, I felt a silent communication between us and an unrehearsed understanding that every fantasy I had or was yet to have could be fulfilled by this gorgeous man’s lips and hands, and his sex buried deep in mine.

  The allure in his eyes and voice entranced me. “I believe you do. Tell me what you want from me, Aubrey.” His hands ran down the length of my arms, creating goosebumps in their wake.

  In books I’ve read, women behaved sexily after being asked such a question, whereas I adjusted my glasses—and not sexily either. But at least I made up for it in my reply, my voice steady though my confidence had slightly ebbed, “I want to get to know you. I enjoy playing music and talking to you. Maybe for us to spend time together.”

  “You only want to get to know me?” he repeated with a hint of a smile.

  “I’m telling the truth. … Y-you make me nervous,” I stuttered and took in a short breath while trying to summon some kind of sexual goddess who might have been hiding inside me, and who would climb on top of him now.

  “It’s more than nerves… it’s fear,” he said, breaking through my thoughts with his own analysis. “I believe you want more than just to talk and play music, but you can’t bring yourself to tell me. If you can’t say what you want, you shouldn’t do it. If you did, and it’s against who you know yourself to be, you’ll regret it. Trust me on that.” He ran his hand over his face and stared away.