Obviously, Roddy and I weren’t able to meet up. The roads were still iced over and Green Valley just wasn’t equipped with enough trucks to salt the roads very quickly. No one would be leaving their homes today unless it was absolutely necessary. He wasn’t surprised but sounded convincingly disappointed, nonetheless. He wanted to know if I wanted to meet up another time to discuss a business plan. I felt a little less fluttery by his texts than I’d expected. Maybe because I couldn’t tell if was interested in being my business partner or being my kissing partner. I put a proverbial pin in that, so I could come back to it later.
For now, practice.
Forty minutes later, and any warm fuzzies the coffee had fostered were burned to ashes by the total assholeness that was Devlin during practice. No, he wasn’t Devlin. He was the Devil of the Symphony now.
His fingers slammed the same chord six times on the piano. “Listen to what I’m playing.”
“I’m trying.” Embarrassment tightened my throat. We’d only just started the second movement, and already I was failing. It was better when he wore the mask. God, I never thought I’d miss it, but at least it set clear boundaries. I saw the mask and I knew who I was dealing with. How could this same man be the one who had smiled at me over pasta?
This guy was such a dick.
“You aren’t though.” He swore.
“Maybe if you did something other than yell at me.” The words spilled out. My filter had apparently never got out of bed.
No matter that I’d spent the night, eaten dinner with his family, and seen his fantastic manhood, this dolt was my teacher. I needed to respect him. I would not lose my ever-loving mind on him.
He cooled his tone. “You’re holding that cello like you’re dismantling a bomb. Your whole body is tense.”
I couldn’t imagine why I looked tense.
“I’ve been playing my whole life. I think I know how to hold my instrument,” I said.
“That’s the problem, isn’t it? You think you know.”
My skin burned from anger; I was boiling from the inside out. “Is there any way you could be more specific? Because I am listening and quite frankly, I have no idea what you’re talking about.” I gripped the neck of my cello so hard the strings cut into me.
“I’m talking about listening to the message. Really listen. And play that. You are a conduit.”
I shook my head. I had no clue what he thought or what he was trying to convey. I was a human, not a “clucking mind reader,” to quote Suzie.
“Your way isn’t working. You’re the professional,” my words flew out. I’d never been so short with somebody before. He brought it out in me. I demanded more than being yelled at. “Try something else.”
Something about that sunk in. Wheels turned behind those dark eyes.
“Stand up,” he demanded.
I shot up. The neck of my cello was in my left hand, the bow in my right, once again wielded like a weapon.
“Put your cello down,” he said with steady calmness, but anger flashed in his dark eyes.
I felt a wave of uneasiness but listened.
He stood from the piano and cracked his neck by tilting his head side to side. He shook out his hands. Next to him, without the protection of my cello, I was reminded of his massive size.
He took the bow from my hand and hung it on the music stand so the rosined bow hair wouldn’t be ruined from the oil of our hands. Then, in the world’s most surprising switch up, he took my right hand in his. My hand felt tiny and cool against his large hand, calloused with the knowledge of a dozen different instruments. His thumb pressed circles into my palm. It moved to the thick muscles of my thumb pad.
“Wh-what are you doing?” I asked stupidly, because he was very clearly giving me a hand massage. And oh my, it was amazing.
“Your instrument should be an extension of you.” His words were low and rumbling. “Not a weapon you aren’t comfortable wielding. Relax.”
Sure. Relax. Please, tell the woman ten feet under water to breathe deeply.
I took a deep breath in and out and worried if my coffee breath reached him. I worried about what to do with the other hand. I worried how to stand in a way that looked comfortable when, in fact, I was freaking out. He was so close that if I leaned forward a little, I would collapse against his chest.
“Close your eyes,” he demanded with a harsh edge.
Maybe he sensed I couldn’t get passed the fact that he was currently giving me a massage that made me tingle all over. With my eyes closed, I could pretend the hands rubbing mine were those of a professional’s at a spa.
It was amazing. #MagicFingersDevlin could be trending on Twitter. I hadn’t realized how sore and tight those muscles were. He lowered my right hand and did the same thing to my left. His thumbs dug into the aching muscles of my forearm. He found a muscle that made my middle finger jump as he rubbed it. Tension that I hadn’t even been aware I’d been holding melted out of me. I sunk into sensation. It was heaven, but I couldn’t fully relax, because what if I made an embarrassing groan of pleasure?
He released me, and I let out a long breath. Thank goodness maybe we were done, because my heated cheeks couldn’t take much more. I was already panting way more than a relaxed person should be. But then, to my utter horror, he stepped behind me.
“You’re rigid,” he whispered. I heard it clearly because he was so close to my ear. The air tickled my neck and goosebumps spread down my neck to my chest.
He was slow but deliberate as he pressed down the muscles connecting my shoulder to my neck. Sweet Lord, I was gonna die like this. Let me go this way. It was a good life.
“Relax,” he said again.
I wanted to relax but the second his hands touched me again, a different sort of tension took over—sexy-man-proximity tension. His scent encompassed me. He smelled like cooking dinner, and relaxing by the fire, and good conversation. He should smell like death and regret; that would make this easier.
The image of his naked, glistening skin popped back into my mind. It had been there most of the night while I’d tried to sleep. It was the first thing I saw behind my eyelids when I woke with the blankets tangled between my restless legs. Wow, this was not the best time to remember that. But, well, since we were here …
“It’s a little hard at the moment,” I said to break the tension. When he went stock still, I realized my mistake. “To relax,” I added as quick as possible.
“Hmm,” he rumbled out.
Dear God, did he feel anything close to this on his end? This spark? Was it because I was a hard-up horn dog with a totally indecent crush, or was this heat between us a real thing that would exist outside the roles we played? You couldn’t force or fake attraction, but sometimes two bodies rubbing together was enough to stir our most ancient needs.
“Roll your shoulders,” he said.
Then he took my head in his hands and gently pressed his thumbs into the base of my skull while his fingertips spread through my hair. Goosebumps spread over my skin and my breasts screamed out for attention in the only way they knew how. My nipples hardened and grew heavy with want. Play with us, squeeze us, twist us, suck us, they called out.
“You’re a string tuned to high. A second from snapping,” he said softly.
“I am not,” I said. It came out as a half-hearted whisper.
He tilted my head side to side. He moved to the deep tissue of my upper back and neck. As a cellist, I had almost perpetual back pain and what I called “cello butt”—a constant ache in my tailbone from sitting stock-straight on the edge of a chair. I wondered if he was aware of cello butt. Maybe those muscles needed to be worked.
I coughed out and cleared my throat.
He didn’t notice and continued my three-hundred-dollar massage. As he rubbed, an amazing thing happened: I actually started to relax.
“Ohh,” I moaned. I didn’t even care.
I did notice that his body pulled back away from me slightly. Maybe I freaked him out.
But he was the one rubbing me down telling me to relax; what the heck did he expect?
He pressed my shoulders down away from my ears. As he did, he said, “Years of playing incorrectly have locked them into a hunched position.”
He rubbed his thumbs deep into the tension. My body felt delicate and tiny under his touch. He could easily toss me around, bend me, break me …
Chapter 17
Believe the story the music is telling you.
DEVLIN
Finally, she started to relax into me. She was pliable. She took instruction perfectly. I could spend my life instructing her into various positions. She melted into me and it grew more difficult to ignore the heat radiating between us. Sweat broke out along my brow. The air puffed out of my nose, too hot.
She had to feel it too. What would she do if I slid my hand forward and across the expanse of her delicate collarbones? Felt all her softness under my rough skin? How would she respond?
I cleared my throat. “Pick up your bow again.”
It took her a minute for my request to sink in through the layers of relaxation. Eventually, she blinked rapidly and picked her bow back up. Her hand clamped it into a rigid C-shape.
“No. Hold on to that relaxation. Feel the balance of it.” I grasped her hand so that I almost completely embraced her from behind. “The bow should feel weightless. There. Good. Middle finger and thumb. That’s all you should use right now.”
“I know this. This is all first-year stuff.” Her defenses were down but I could tell this still frustrated her.
“Exactly. You think you know. But we need to start here.”
My arm moved out and in, mimicking the draw along a string.
“See. That. The pointer and pinky only provide direction. They aren't demanding or crushing. Let gravity help you,” I said.
Her head fell back against my shoulder in relaxation and then she went still when she realized it.
“No, shh. That’s okay,” I whispered, and she stayed in place.
We played an invisible instrument, our right arms traveling out and back in perfect tandem. We played the same piece of unheard music.
My left arm wrapped around her so that I grasped her left shoulder. “Now this is the neck of your cello. Place your fingers on me.”
Her fingers were tentative as they grasped my skin. “It’s too big.”
I swallowed with difficulty, briefly shutting my eyes against the barrage of images that accompanied that soft sentence.
“It doesn’t matter. It’s about balance again. Relax your grip.”
Her fingers moved up and down my forearm and a shudder I hoped she couldn’t feel ran through me.
“Your arm is much hairier than my cello.” A smile came across with her words.
My own smile followed, as always, without will when I was around her.
“Your thumb is flat. You should have a cupped hand, using the tip only. Keep your hand loose and it will travel distances faster,” I said.
“I know.”
“Then do it.”
She grumbled but obeyed. Her fingers danced delicately up and down my arm. It was tricky but with our right arms still bowing, she played me perfectly.
Her scent and the unheard notes floated in the air around us. The soft sounds of our shared breath and rustling clothes filled the space. I joined her closed eyes and lived in this moment.
My instinct was right; together we would play beautiful music. She was perfect to play my piece.
Eventually, I started to pull away. When she made a sound of dismay, I said, “Stay like that. Don’t even open your eyes yet.”
I carefully led her back down to the chair. I replaced my arm with the neck of the cello, placing the bow on the string.
“Now, just play.”
She kept her eyes shut tight; her dark lashes fanned out against her pale skin. Her face was smooth in relaxation, and her cheeks flushed with color. Her mouth was relaxed and slightly open. She looked devastatingly beautiful.
She played the last piece we had been working on without being able to see the music. She was gifted, but somewhere over the years since camp she had lost faith in herself. She had been changed and filled with nonsense.
“Good,” I whispered. If she’d heard me, she made no sign. She wasn’t aware of anything outside what she played in that moment. As it should be. “It’s that space between the notes. Feel it. Touch it. The music is all around you.”
The music flowed from her. It wasn’t my piece of music; it was a snippet from the July show we were performing. She was perfection though.
She played and I sat on the bench of the piano listening, elbows on knees, fingertips steepled and my chin resting on them.
She played until she reached the end and when she did, she lifted her bow off the string and the last note hung in the air.
Several long seconds later she blinked into awareness. Her gaze moved around until it found me watching and listening intently. Her eyebrows raised in question.
I tried to speak, cleared my throat, then started again. “Better. Much better.”
“Thank you,” she said.
“Remember that feeling when you play. Block out the years of mechanical lessons and tap into that feeling. Well done.”
A smile broke out on her face. Perhaps I could be a little more generous with positive feedback. She responded better when I showed her, taught her. I’d just grown so used to snapping and taking. That wouldn’t work with her.
She had me questioning so many things I thought I knew.
“Look!” Kim’s voice broke my attention.
She stood at the kitchen window, leaning over the sink, to look outside. How nicely she filled out her pants was of no interest to me. I cleared my throat.
“What?” I asked as I went to her side.
I was sore and tired. My stomach grumbled. We’d been playing so long we’d both lost track of time, and now the house was dark again. The storm had not relented overnight; it had worsened.
“I’ve never seen anything like this,” she said.
Outside, it was the picture of winter at the end of April. Ice covered every inch of tree and earth. The driveway was an ice luge. A few large tree branches littered the ground, glittering with ice.
“It’s bad,” I said.
I pulled out my phone and searched road conditions. “All the roads around Green Valley are closed. There are weather warnings not to drive for any reason.”
Kim’s eyes were wide. “I can’t believe this spring.” She walked to the fridge and pulled out last night’s leftovers. “I’m starving.”
Without discussion, or even manners, she grabbed a fork and started eating straight out the container. “Wanf som?” she asked around a mouthful of food.
I shook my head at her.
“What? No? And I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be telling you how to write your own music. It’s your decision.”
“Kim, stop. It’s good.” I took the container from her hands. “I wouldn’t have asked for your help if I didn’t want input.”
I wouldn’t make a big deal about it, but I liked seeing this side of her. The side that offered glimpses of her assertiveness, like I saw at dinner with Wes. It was what was missing at practice. She was not overthinking. She was just being herself.
We dug back in, chewing in silence, occasionally tearing off hunks of bread with our teeth from the loaf of French bread we passed back and forth.
After a few minutes we sat back with sighs against the sink. We hadn’t even made it to the table. In our defense, the clock read almost five. We’d played almost six hours without a break.
“I guess we were hungry,” she laughed, wiping her mouth. “I feel like I ran a marathon.” She rocked her head back and forth to stretch. I debated offering another massage but the last one had sucked years from my life.
“We’re making progress,” I said.
“Don’t hurt yourself with all that praise, over there.” She rubbed her slightly p
rotruding stomach. “Look, a food baby.” She turned the side and stuck her stomach out even more, rubbing her hand over the area like a proud mother-to-be. The vision sent a weird warmth through me and an unsettling sense of déjà vu made me dizzy. I shook my head with a laugh and looked down.
“I think I’ll name her Ricotta,” she said.
“You look Prego.”
She looked up at me shocked. “You made a pun.”
“It’s less funny when you point it out.”
She crackled with laughter. “That was a good one.”
“I can be funny,” I complained, acting out a wound that I felt deeply. The price I paid for playing the bad guy.
“You are funny. You should show it more.” Her eyes widened as she realized what she said.
“Humor doesn’t get results,” I said. My smile fell.
She chewed her bottom lip and refused to meet my gaze.
“What? What are you trying so hard not to say right now?” I asked and crossed my arms, turning fully to face her.
“Nothing?” Her voice lifted at the end.
“Just say it.”
“You could soften a little at rehearsal.”
I growled.
She faced me now as well and her arms came up as though to settle me. “Hear me out. You’re so much more than this image you portray. You’re funny and nice and sometimes even a little patient. You come across as such an—”
My eyebrows raised at her abrupt stop. “An asshole?”
“Your words.”
“Your thoughts,” I said.
“To me, it feels like you’re trying to make them respect you. But there’s a chance you’re pushing people too far the other way. People aren’t bending. They’re about to snap.”
“They need to be better.” Heat crawled up my neck.
“I understand a little bit more now.” She gestured to my face. “Because you want to …”
“Get to the point, Christine.” I regretted the words as soon as I’d said them, but if she were about to lecture me about presenting a different face to the world, the hypocrisy had to be pointed out.
The Treble With Men Page 12