In Harmony

by JN Welsh

  Also available from JN Welsh

  and Carina Press

  Back on Top series

  In Tune

  In Rhythm

  Also available from JN Welsh

  Pining Over You

  Gigolo All the Way

  Before We Say Goodbye

  In Harmony

  JN Welsh

  To all the comeback “kids,” believe in who you are, don’t ever give up, reinvent yourself, keep moving forward and don’t ever stop dancing.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Acknowledgments

  Author Bio

  Excerpt from In Rhythm by JN Welsh

  Excerpt from Pining Over You by JN Welsh

  Chapter One

  Nyah Monroe sank her weight into the horsehair bow, pulling it across the strings, and releasing the natural sound from the belly of her double bass as it poured out rich, quick, deep notes of the fourth movement in Brahms’ Symphony no. 1. Brahms wasn’t her favorite, but this piece, with all its power and difficulty, had her heart—even if she was more a Samuel Coleridge-Taylor Ballade for orchestra Op. 33 kind of gal. When the notes she poetically strung together collaborated with the rest of the orchestra and spread through the venue, the music made magic. Nyah glanced at her friend Gladys Yeh on timpani, just as Gladys’s powerful arms beat the instrument’s skin. Her friend was only one of a handful of women principal percussionists in the U.S. Like Nyah, Gladys was a unicorn making space for more brown-skinned girls.

  Nyah’s gaze returned to their conductor and then down to the sheet music before her. For a moment she visualized twenty-four bars of the dance music song she’d worked on last night. The steady thump of the electro house beat tried to creep its way into the current piece she played with the orchestra. She shut it out. Now wasn’t the time for producing dance music. The philharmonic’s Friday night performance was days away and she needed to keep her current up and down bowing in sync with her fellow musicians.

  Over the past three years, she’d been able to compartmentalize her life. She kept her moonlighting gig a secret, even from Gladys, because she’d had her fair share of judgment. Judgment when she’d finished college and postponed her classical career to deejay. Judgment when she’d left the dance music scene after a disastrous festival run. Yeah, she’d reached her lifetime quota. What she could never shake, however, was her dad’s disappointment when she’d shunned his profession and gone back to her classical roots. Tension gripped her shoulder and bowing arm. Her left eye squinted as she tilted her ear toward her fingering on the neck of the instrument. She relaxed her limbs and again sunk into the fast-paced movements.

  When she decided to DJ, she’d thought she was ready, but the pressure of living up to the success of her iconic dance music DJ father, Pete Monroe, had been unexpected. Her fall from grace had been public and humiliating, but being forced underground had helped her find and hone her sound. Not only had she performed and grown in popularity with her unique style, but she continued to play the classical music she loved and used it to fuel her growth as a musician in two very different genres. Presently, if she wanted to keep doing the latter, then her bass had better quit squeaking and pick up the pace.

  Martin Standish, their conductor, glared her way. “Stop, stop, stop.” His British accent cut through the music. Silent groans, especially from her fellow bassists, took the form of a light clattering of bows and instruments resetting as they awaited instruction. All movement ceased. Here it comes. “Nyah.”

  She’d expected to hear her name.

  “Your timing is off and hurting my ears. It’s too early for fatigue. Fix your form and focus.”

  “My apologies, it won’t happen again.”

  “I should hope not. From the beginning.” Martin lifted his baton, and with flicks and swishes that rivaled any wizard’s, he kept time for the orchestra.

  Nyah’s bow didn’t slip the remainder of the practice. At the end of the three-hour rehearsal, she packed up her bass in the case her parents had gifted her for her twenty-fifth birthday when she’d scored third chair with the orchestra. Even now, the vision of the huge pink bow around the charcoal black case tugged a smile, and her parents’ cheers echoed in her memory.

  Gladys cornered her, and the fragrance of fresh lilacs from her perfume mixed with the woodsy notes of rosin wafting from Nyah’s case. “I know you are not going to bail on drinks, again, and leave me with Evan and his date?”

  “I have to, sorry. I need to get some things done.”

  As if on cue, Evan Young, one of the violinists, chimed in. “Maybe drinks will help those bow skills.” Evan. He sported the most basic haircut, and despite his untimely chiding, still managed to be attractive in an annoying kind of way.

  “Go suck an egg, Evan. Your bowing was—”

  “Near perfect, as usual,” Evan finished. Never short on self-compliments. “As we musicians know, there is always room for improvement.”

  Gladys rolled her eyes and tilted her head. Her auburn hair was smoothed into several flat twists and tucked into a sophisticated bun. “Your self-evaluation is so skewed, I have no words. Shoo, fly.” She tapped her timpani mallets together.

  “Oh, come on...” he teased Gladys. “We’re the best in the orchestra.”

  Evan’s everyday talent for bugging her was not only harmless, but also nothing new. However, Nyah’s fatigue had her burning a shorter fuse than usual. “You heard her, Evan.”

  Evan backed off, grazing Gladys on his way out. Her friend lowered her weapons and put them away.

  “He’s right. I was sloppy. That one fucking phrase... I can’t do that at performance.”

  “Shh...” Gladys pressed the air down. “Don’t tell him that. It’ll only inflate his ego and then there won’t be room for any of us to even move in here or out there.”

  Nyah stood, simultaneously lifting her sheathed instrument upright. Martin calling out her imperfect technique had been mortifying at best. She’d have to find time to bump up her at-home practice and improve her concentration. On the DJ stage, her musical imperfections many times led to exceptional moments, but here at the philharmonic she needed to be perfect. She had to do a better job of keeping beat mixing and effect layering out of her head as soon as she walked through the David Geffen Hall doors.

  “What is it that you’re constantly jetting out of here for? Or should I ask who?”

  Nyah scoffed. “I wish. The only thing that’s made it past these knees recently is pink, silicone, and vibrates.” She delivered the joke in a relatively hushed tone. Sometimes she wished a “who” would materialize into a regular fuck buddy, but her musical lives packed her
day-to-day to the point where she barely had time to scratch her own ass, much less invite a “who” into her bedroom. Her bachelorette-hood, and situation of her own making, needed work but her commitment to the new vision for her life only had slots for the occasional dicks for fun. Nyah’s current focus? Finish the tracks for her Friday night performance and don’t lose her chair in the process.

  “My friend’s sister does those parties. You know, where you get the latest in—” Gladys looked around “—self-care.”

  “Sign me up. Actually, let me know when it is and hopefully it works for my schedule.” At best, Nyah would request an electronic catalog and pick something from Gladys’s friend’s sister’s lineup of toys.

  “You really are busy,” Gladys confirmed. “I guess I just miss hanging out with you after practice. Are you sure you won’t reconsider coming out with us? First round’s on me.” Gladys batted her lashes.

  Nyah missed hanging out with Gladys too, and felt even worse for never confessing her secret, but she already worked tirelessly to keep her worlds separate, her names straight and her outfits square. She hated giving that ginormous responsibility to another friend. “I can’t, G. I promise I’ll come out next time.”

  “You said that last time.”

  “And I mean it every time.” Nyah offered Gladys a quick hug, grabbed her satchel, and draped it across her body. She tilted the case on its wheels as she rolled. “I gotta go.”

  “Okay. I’ll see you Sunday.”

  Nyah froze and winced.

  Gladys squinted and puffed her freckled cheeks. “You still have time carved out for us to do the application, right?”

  Nyah had been looking forward to a full day of rest on Sunday but she’d promised Gladys they would work on their applications for the new London symphony. As a principal, Gladys’s application would likely be on fast track. Nyah, though self-proclaimed awesome, would probably need to wait a bit longer for her application to be processed.

  “Nyah?” Gladys reprimanded, making Nyah feel all of three years old.

  “Yeah, Sunday,” Nyah returned with of course I remember type confidence.

  “You forgot, didn’t you?”

  “No, I did not. I just had a temporary brain fart.”

  “Look, if you don’t have time to devote to this...”

  “No, no... I got you. I’ll see you at call time tomorrow.” Before Gladys could interrogate her further, Nyah squeezed her in another quick embrace and split. Her other life waited.

  * * *

  Nyah turned the volume up in her headphones. The songs she’d been working on for Artistique were almost done. Now all she needed to do was put a bangin’ set together to play over the weekend at Rebel, the underground dance club that housed her bimonthly residency where she DJ’d as Queen Roe.

  She only half hung up her classical musician’s cap to produce music and wanted to record some more live samples of herself. She moved to the instruments in her apartment. “Who’s up for the challenge?” she posed to her keyboard, guitar, violin, and bassoon. Most had made it onto her various tracks in their pure form. This time, her eyes settled on the bassoon. “Okay, BB-Bae. Let’s do it.”

  She’d started messing around with woodwind instruments during her last year of college. When the music department had a sale on beginner instruments, she’d lucked out and got a sweet deal on a still-very-pricey bassoon. She’d tried using only the synthetic sounds she created on her equipment, but she loved the live music feel with all its imperfections. She folded the notes in, used them as interludes to connect tracks, and when she created her songs, she layered each sound on top of the beat and bass until the track was full and vibrant.

  She pressed pause on her current track and set up the mic to record the bassoon. She could hear the melding of the sounds together in her head. Sometimes in reality they didn’t sound as great but other times they were straight genius and she had to humble herself. She could be confident, but not conceited, and she worked hard to remain that way. Something she’d had to do all her life being the daughter of an icon.

  She picked up the rich maple wood body of the C Key bassoon Fagotto and attached the seat strap to the bottom. She laid the strap on her chair, sat on it and scooted into a comfortable posture. With the weight of her instrument supported, she tilted it to rest on her right thigh until the double reed, attached to the long, skinny, pipe-like neck of the crook, met her mouth. She moistened her lips. “M,” she said on the bamboo, and she was ready to play.

  She practiced tonguing the notes she wanted to play over and over until it was clean enough for her to record. The rich-bodied melodies reminded her why she loved this particular woodwind instrument. The sound oozed like a silky, thick, savory sauce on top of the heavy tone and house-shaking bass of the song. She knew it would be good, even if it took her a few tries to combine the styles. She loved creating music like this.

  In the past she’d stress over her sound. Was it too much like her father’s? Did it move people beyond the sixteen bars? Was she memorable? The last question still stung. When she’d dropped off the scene, no one wondered about her after the initial media exposés about the fallen daughter of dance music DJ icon Pete Monroe. She hadn’t proven herself good enough for the masses to care.

  She put a tight lid on the memory and poured the energy she had left into her track. On her computer, she finished her recording and then organized her music for easy accessibility before flipping screens to check her email. Follow-up messages to the snail mail invitation requests that had been sent to her Queen Roe P.O. Box scattered her desk. “What am I going to do with this?” she sighed.

  Over the past several months she’d cherrypicked the engagements she said yes to and declined the others, hopeful that that would be enough to slow the demand for her to perform. The tactic had backfired. Now more rumors into why she wouldn’t perform, from increased compensation, to her being an elusive rising star, had started to rumble beyond the underground.

  “I need to get a hold on this quick.” She’d been her own booking agent, promoter, manager, advisor, stylist, and office admin, in addition to performer, and that was only for her DJ life. Being a classical bassist, she managed orchestra practice, performances and special donor events in an unwieldy schedule. She had to keep prying eyes out of her life if she wanted to maintain both careers.

  She pounded her keyboard with a few hasty replies, declining a list of invitations but ending with a few hopeful “maybe in the future” and “when the artist’s schedule frees up” postscripts. Signed, Nancy Rogers, Manager. However, one unread invitation stood out from the unending inbox. Buzz about the Boiler had floated through her tight DJ circle for months. Her fingers secured her phone by the Baby Yoda PopSocket as she thumbed the club owner’s number.

  “Hi. I’m trying to reach Mike—”

  “Yeah.” The clattering of utensils on plates and someone in the background raving on about the tender veal in their osso buco came through with his short greeting.

  So very New York. She puffed her chest like the boss pigeons of the city. “This is Nancy Rogers on behalf of Queen Roe.”

  “Great to hear from you, Nance. This girl is tough to get a hold of.”

  Nyah swallowed and caged the various corrections she wanted to make behind her teeth. “She’s quite busy.”

  “Look, I want to get her on the lineup for next weekend. That gonna be possible?” he asked.

  “She’s actually booked next weekend but has an opening the following Friday.” Nyah tapped her pen on the desk as she waited for his reply.

  “I’ll take it. I’ve been tryin’ to get her to the club for a while. I give the kids what they want, you know?”

  “Yes. I’ll email you her rider but can you give me a few logistics of the club?” Nyah had had her share of surprises when showing up to an unfamiliar venue. One time she’d had to wait on lin
e to get into the spot because there wasn’t a private entrance for the talent. Another time a fight broke out after some drunk dude tried to jump on her stage, slobbering “I love you” over and over to her with no security for the club, just a promotions greeter. Let her not forget nearly tripping over her bag onstage because there were no lockers for her shit and the stage was so small, she’d nearly fallen off. Twice. If she had a sense of what she got herself into, then maybe she’d avoid a possible shit show.

  “Sure. It’s center stage so the crowd is all around her. The place gets packed. I mention this so she don’t get claustrophobic. It’s happened before. Un’altra bottiglia di Barolo, per favore.” Mike continued, “The performances are filmed and sent to our YouTube page. It’s great exposure to our subscribers.”

  First osso buco, now a bottle of Barolo wine? She half wanted to ask him where he dined so she could check it out. “Great.” Nyah did her best not to worry about being filmed, because she liked that 360-degree layout of the club.

  Without prompting, Mike offered her double what she’d been prepared to demand. “Gotta tell ya. I’m curious to see what all the hype is about.”

  Nyah owned her Nancy persona and endorsed her artist. “She won’t disappoint.”

  “I’ll put her on the bill. Pleasure doing business with you, Nance.”

  “Grazie mille.”

  “Prego.” Mike chortled in her ear. She tapped the circular red and white telephone icon to hang up. In a few weeks she’d find out if the venue would be worth sacrificing her rare Friday nights off.

  Chapter Two

  Tommy Mills fidgeted in his desk chair, moments from plucking one strand at a time out of his styled-to-perfection, full head of dark brown hair. Though the California sun poured into his LA office, it failed to brighten the gloomy outcome of his call. He’d scheduled this meeting with Herman Elliot and had been sure that third time would be the charm when it came to getting one of his clients booked for the Sunburst Festival.