by Kay Maree
What the fuck is going on?
I followed Rome’s trajectory, as he stomped across the small space then opened up the baby grand, sat down at it and began to play. My breath hitched as the notes permeated the air. I had no idea what he was playing, but it was beautiful. Hauntingly so, in fact. I closed my eyes, letting the sound flow over me, and slowly the words I’d written earlier began to arrange themselves along with the music. By some miracle, they seemed to fit perfectly.
Rome stopped playing, and I opened my eyes to find King staring at me, an intrigued look on his face. “Where’d you go just then?”
“Nowhere. Why do you ask?”
“Really? You seemed to have been transported by Rome’s playing. I just wondered where to.”
“What was that you just played?” I asked Rome, trying, and failing to catch his eye as I spoke. As before, his face was unreadable.
“Nothing.”
“I meant what is it called?”
“I know what you meant, I’m not stupid,” he snapped.
Jesus he was touchy. I really couldn’t work him out, except to know that being around him was a like a game of emotional roulette, both in terms of the vibe he gave off, and the feelings he aroused in me. I never knew what I was going to get with either.
“It doesn’t have a name. It’s just something I made up on the spot.”
What? “Are you serious? It was so beautiful. I didn’t even know you could play.” Let alone pull hauntingly beautiful melodies out of thin air like it was nothing.
“He’s ridiculous, right? He turned up at the con, only being able to play cello, but everyone had to take piano, too as one of the compulsory course elements. He picked it up in like five seconds flat, and can now play the rest of us under the table while blindfold.”
“I hate people like that. The ones who make the shit the rest of us struggle with look effortless and easy.”
“Ha! You’d better stay away from Rome, then. Apart from being polite and personable, which he sucks at, big time, that’s him in every area of life. Kills it without even trying.
“I’m sitting right here you know. I can hear you.”
“We’re aware. But we’re talking about you not to you.”
I chanced another peep at Rome. He was looking even more thunderous than before, but I wasn’t sure exactly why. His expression confirmed an idea in my mind.
“I think I have some lyrics for the melody you just played. I kind of wrote them while you guys were taking care of business in the hall.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
KING
“Really?” I tried to keep the incredulity from my voice, but clearly failed. A look of sheer irritation crossed Quincy’s face.
“Yes, really. Why do you sound so surprised? I may have been forced to put out covers, because that’s what the label wanted, but, as I already told you, I’m a songwriter at heart.”
“Sorry, I’m not doubting your songwriting prowess, it’s just that after all these hours with nothing, I’m just surprised to hear that you’ve come up with something so quickly and effortlessly, is all.”
“I didn’t say it was easy, but I guess it was comparatively quick.”
Your power hits me hard like booming thunder to my soul
If I don’t guard my heart, it will surely sallow me whole
There but somehow set apart, so close, but always so far
Even when you’re next to me, I don’t know where you are
She started singing, and without skipping a beat, Rome picked up the piano accompaniment and the song came together as I watched. It was so fucking beautiful. The chemistry was so palpable, it was like another person in the room. A really fucking-hot person. The unspoken communication and synchronicity between the two of them was one of the sexiest things I’d ever seen.
I reached for my cello instinctively and started playing along. It was obvious after just a few bars that we had the basis of an amazing song unfolding between us. Quincy’s voice was sublime, so much better than any of the recordings I’d listened to, and Rome’s piano playing was as impressive as it always was. Even after all these years, I was in awe of his ability to tell a story through the power of music, with pretty much any instrument he touched. It was a rare and enviable talent.
As she sang, Quincy slowly closed the gap between herself and Rome. When she reached the piano, she leaned forward, resting her arms on the top. She sought Rome out with her eyes, and eventually he looked up to meet her gaze. But, although the air crackled with electricity, Rome’s face was expressionless—his eyes flinty and hard, and his lips pressed together in a tight line. What the fuck?
For what felt like the first time since we’d become friends, when he’d barreled into the school as the new boy—rebellious, angry, and cool as all get out—I couldn’t read him. I definitely couldn’t pre-empt his next move like I normally could, and the feeling threw me.
When we’d gone out into the hall, I’d called him on his weird mood, and he’d flat-out denied there was anything wrong or different, but regardless of the wall he seemed determined to keep around himself, I knew him well enough to know that was nothing more than twenty-four-carat pure bullshit.
He might not have been prepared to tell me what, but something—other than the whole being forced to make an album thing—was eating at him, and I was determined to figure out what. I was going to have to leave it for a few days though, as I knew there was no talking to him when he was as pissed as he appeared to be right now.
I carried on playing, but hung back, content to watch whatever was going on play out. Though she’d been the one to make the visual connection with Rome, Quincy was also unsmiling. Not that it mattered—a voice like hers could tear at the heartstrings of even the most cold and detached person, and the fact was, that for all his outward assholery, Rome wasn’t entirely devoid of emotion—he just wasn’t big on letting the world see that.
Knowing what I knew about the way he’d grown up, I kind of didn’t blame him. There’d been no room for dwelling on feelings, or even admitting he had them, or showing any other sign of ‘weakness’ while he’d traveled the world as part of a Russian-Ukrainian street-performance troupe.
He and his brother had learned to survive on their wits—and when that failed, sheer brute force—far more than was healthy for growing boys. It was really no surprise that as men, they’d—mostly—evolved beyond using their fists to solve their problems, but hadn’t lost the rough street-kid edge that had essentially kept them alive.
As the newly created song came to an end, a heavy silence fell between us. It definitely wasn’t the “we’re so comfortable with each other, there’s no need for words” kind, either. It was more the “there’s so much tension in the room, that one word, false or otherwise, could blow the powder keg of emotion sky-high” kind.
“Wow. Your voice is… I didn’t know you could sing that way.”
“Again, what you’ve seen me do, and what I can do are two different things. My mom is a classically trained opera singer. Not only that, but she went on to develop her own breathing technique and method designed to help singers make the most of, and also protect their voices. You’ve heard of the Hicks-Copeland Method?” I nodded. “Well, that’s my mom. So… yeah…”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to imply anything. It’s just that this is quite different to any of the stuff you’ve released. The label really have been hiding your light. You’re incredible. It’s awe-inspiring. Thank you for sharing that part of yourself with us. I feel privileged to have witnessed it.”
Rome gave a snort of derision and slammed his hands down on the piano keys.
“Shit! Dude, what the hell is your problem?” Quincy had jumped a mile into the air at the sudden noise, and my heart was hammering in my chest.
“Apart from the fact that listening to you crawl up her ass is making me feel sick? Jesus fuck. If you got any farther up, you could floss her fucking
teeth. Let’s just run the song again, then record it to send back to management, or whatever the hell we’re supposed to be doing, and wrap this shit up. I need a fucking drink.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
ROME
Three weeks later
“No!” I slammed my hand down on the table at Doubting Thomas, and as we drew attention from people around the room, even I was surprised at the ferocity of my response.
“Jesus! What the fuck man? Just calm your fucking farm.” King had a point.
I sucked in a few deep breaths. “I’m not going on tour with this thing. Literally, this is happening over my cold, dead body.”
“Listen, at this rate, the label would happily kill you and prop your rotting corpse up on stage if they thought they could still sell tickets to the gigs.” James had been our manager long enough not to be too phased by my temper.
“They are just about soiling their underwear for the demos you’ve sent through so far.”
Fuck. The whole thing was a double-edged sword. We’d all been convinced that it was doomed to fail from the get-go, which was a safe assumption under the circumstances, yet now I was kind of pissed that it wasn’t a total disaster.
After that first song, the words and notes had just seemed to flow out of us. Despite the initial cryptic vibe and weird energy, something about the three of us just clicked together musically. Far from being the third wheel on the bicycle, it was almost as though Quincy was the missing cog in the machine, and we’d needed her, without even realizing.
Definitely a case of not knowing it was broken until we fixed it. Or in this case, until Quincy fixed it. Still, a tour was the last thing I wanted—just beneath having my toenails forcibly extracted by pliers, while having pins stuck into my eyes.
“You must know that what you’ve done is phenomenal. I mean, you guys have always been the sexiest thing to happen to classical music, like ever. But add Quincy into the mix, and even just to listen to the three of you play, with her voice weaving the whole thing together, is next level.” He wasn’t wrong.
“And that’s just on the rough demos. Witnessing you perform these songs live is so damned hot, you almost had me wishing I was gay. Almost.” He looked between us as though checking we were still with him. I blanked him in return.
“I hate to agree with them—you know I don’t think they have a redeemable braincell among the bunch, but I have to say, I think the label is making the right call on this. The world needs to see the sexiness up close and personal, and more to the point, will pay good money to do exactly that. You’ll have people getting off just watching the three of you. The chemistry between you is off the charts—”
“And that’s the fucking problem.”
James shot me a quizzical look. “I’m not following.”
“I don’t want to spend months on the road third-wheeling those two, with nowhere to run or hide when they’re making eyes at each other like high school kids. It’s too sickening to bear.”
Now it was time for James to look at King in shock. “What am I missing here? Is there something I should know?”
King stared me down, and I read his unasked question. I stared back. Keep your mouth shut. No, James didn’t need to know that we’d had a three-way in the hot tub the day before we’d gone into the studio and created musical magic together, and that ever since, the vibe had been weird in a way that I still couldn’t define.
“I guess you could say that Quincy and I have been getting closer as the weeks have worn on. We’ve been spending some time together outside the studio, also. Meals. Movies. Y’know. Nothing too wild.” King addressed the floor, rather than meeting James’s gaze.
“Dating you mean?”
“Well, I wouldn’t exactly call it that.”
“Wouldn’t you?” James was looking at King like he’d lost his mind, which probably wasn’t too far from the truth.
King shook his head slowly. “Nope.”
“Well, what would you call it then?”
“Hanging out, I guess.”
“Uh-huh. And in the time you’ve been ‘hanging out’ with Quincy, have you also been hanging out with anyone else? In any capacity.”
“No. Not really. I guess not.”
What? That part was news, even to me. For some dumb reason, I’d assumed he’d carry on business as usual, even while cozying up to Quincy.
“Okay, so what you’re doing is what the rest of the world refers to as dating.”
Shit.
“And now you see my issue,” I chimed in.
He’d never dated anyone. Ever. Neither of us had, in fact, and I for one had no intention of breaking my track record. King on the other hand, was oblivious to the point where he didn’t even recognize it while he was in the process of doing it. Either that, or he was a big fat ball of denial. It was hard to tell which.
King looked to me sharply. “What the fuck? You said you didn’t have a problem with us spending time together, just the two of us.”
“And I don’t.” Not that I’m going to tell you, anyway. “But going on tour is a whole different thing. You know that. It’s not like there’s any way to avoid the two of you. We’re in each other’s pockets, and in each other’s business.” And in each other’s beds. “I don’t want to hang around like a dildo at a wedding while the two of you fall in love.”
“What the fuck are you talking about? Nobody’s falling in love. We haven’t even slept together.”
“Exactly. I rest my case.”
“What do you mean you rest your case? You have no fucking case.”
“I beg to differ. You’ve been on dates, you haven’t had anyone in your bed. including her, since you met. What the hell else are you doing, if not falling for each other? Sitting there watching you make googly eyes together while we work is bad enough in the studio, but at least I can flush my mind out with brain bleach—aka vodka—afterward, and then find a ‘friend’ to help me forget I even know the two of you. There’s no doing that when we have a 3 a.m. lobby call, and a plane to catch to head to the next city. No thanks.”
“Which would be fine, if there was any truth to what you’re saying. But there isn’t. Yes, she’s pretty much the hottest thing on two legs, in my eyes. Yes, every time she opens her mouth to sing it tears right through me like a runaway bullet. Yes, each time I see her, I’d like nothing more than to fuck her raw where she stands. No, I’m not in love with her.”
“Whatever, dude.” I stared him down, and he held my gaze defiantly in return.
“Whatever yourself. You know very well that you can say yes to all of those things too, and nobody is accusing you of being in love.”
“Because I’m not you, and anybody who’d think that of me would need their head looked at.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
QUINCY
Three months later
Deone paced the living area of my opulent hotel suite, brandishing my iPad as though it was the Rosetta Stone, as she read one of the many reviews of the previous night’s gig,
“As the house and stage lights dimmed in the iconic Zénith de Paris, an anticipatory hush descended over the room. I didn’t know if it was just me, but a sense of excitement spread through my body, in a rash of goosebumps. Everybody seemed to be holding their breath, but again, maybe that was just me.
“A single spotlight illuminated the far-right corner of the stage, and into it walked just the hottest thing to grace the floor in decades. Quincy Copeland—aptly named after the legendary soul producer, Quincy Jones—was a sight for sore eyes. Resplendent in a black sequined jumpsuit that left little to the imagination, Copeland normally known by her stage name, Que Violin, had the audience eating from the palm of her hand from the moment we saw her.
“As she played the opening strains of the first track on her priceless Stradivarius, the rest of the stage was lit, and Copeland, best known for her classical renditions and mashups of popular soul and R
nB tracks, was joined by Anthony “King” Kingston, and Roman “Rome” Ivanenko. Together, the genetically blessed duo make up classical music’s hottest property, Bowed & Dangerous.
“Gripping their instruments between their toned thighs, the topless, leather-panted duo were nothing short of sex on legs, owning the stage, and no doubt, the libido of every woman—and a good number of the men— in the room.
“Just as famous for their antics off stage, and in bed—together or apart—the ripplingly toned pair have been gifting audiences with their unique brand of frenetic, sex-infused cello renditions of well-known rock songs, as well as some their own original songs, since graduating from the world famous Conservatorium of Music five years ago.
“However, the trio, together known as Thoroughly Plucked, is something else again. The group—which fell out of a repertoire consolidation brought on by the merger of Sonic Bully Records and Audio Dissonance Records—seems to be more than the sum of its constituent parts. Bringing in the best of Copeland’s soulful vocals and sexily sultry violin, and combining it with Kingsley and Ivanenko’s testosterone-charged cellos, Ivanenko’s virtuosic piano, and more raw sex appeal than is decent even in a full rock band, the trio’s chemistry-laden performance screamed ‘Will they, won’t they? Have they, haven’t they?’”
“Holy fuck, Dee. Tell me it doesn’t say that.”
“It does.”
“Ugh.”
“They’re not wrong either. It’s like eight parts amazing music and talented performers, two parts sex show. Don’t get me wrong, I loved it, and so did everyone else, but if you wanted to keep whatever the hell is going on between the three of you a secret, then eye-fucking, and practically dry-humping them on stage in front of thousands of people, really wasn’t the best way to go about it.”
“Stop. That’s not what went down.”
“Interesting choice of words there, girl.” She grinned, showing off the deep dimple gracing her cheek.