Double Exposition (Songs and Sonatas Book 1)

by Jerica MacMillan

  That smile is on his face again when he turns to look at me. He’s so happy. His eyes examine mine, skate over my face, and settle on my lips before dragging back up to my eyes again.

  And he’s right there. So close that if I lean toward him just an inch or two, our lips would meet. I’ve wondered what it would feel like to kiss him since the night of the recital.

  Without really thinking about it, I give in to the temptation, leaning in those scant inches. I see his face turn serious in the second before our lips meet, and I close my eyes to savor his soft, full lips on mine.

  He kisses me back. His lips press against mine, but are gone all too soon. He pulls back, looking at me, that same serious expression on his face, but it doesn’t tell me anything.

  Then his hand slides through my hair, cradling the back of my head, and he kisses me again, his other arm going around my waist. Almost before I can register what’s happening, he’s urged me off the tiny piano bench and onto his bed, with me on my back and him off to the side, his one hand still under my head, while the other caresses my side, down over my hip to my thigh, and back up again.

  When his hand trails under my shirt, his fingertips rough against my skin, I arch into his touch and kiss him harder, my hands going around his neck and into his hair, wanting to reciprocate his touch, the way he’s making me feel.

  He groans at my response, his tongue delving into my mouth, tasting me. But then he breaks off the kiss and stares down at me for a second before wrapping his arms around me, pulling me to his chest, and placing a kiss on my forehead. “What am I going to do with you?” he whispers.

  I shift away so I can look up at his face. “What do you mean?”

  His green eyes search mine, and he lets out a sigh. “You … I …” He swallows and licks his lips, and when he speaks again, his voice is low and husky. “I like you. A lot. After that recital, I was planning on asking you out again, but …”

  He trails off again, and my stomach plummets at the but. I try to put more space between us, bracing myself for rejection, but his arms tighten around me. Arching an eyebrow, I prompt him to continue. “But?”

  “But it hit me how young you are, and I wasn’t sure it was a good idea. I’m a senior. I’ll be graduating at the end of the year and leaving. So I tried to stay away. Leave you alone.”

  “What?” I pull back, pushing against his chest more forcefully now. This time, he lets me go. Irritation prickles across my skin, making me hot. “You think—what? You’re afraid I’ll get too attached? Be too clingy? Because I’m a freshman?”

  He flops back on the bed, his jaw clenching. “No, Gabby. God, no. It’s the other way around. I’m afraid I’ll get too attached.” His eyes sweep over my face and down. “You have to know how amazing you are. After just two conversations you’ve worked your way under my skin. As much as I told myself I should, I couldn’t make myself stay away. Leave you alone. That’s why I ended up in the practice rooms. And invited you to dinner. I thought we could try being friends. But …”

  “But?” My voice is softer now. The prickly heat of irritation softening into a glowing warmth, and I really want him to finish that sentence. “But what?”

  His gaze sharpens, and his eyes drop to my lips. “But then you kissed me. And I don’t think there’s any going back from that.”

  “And what does that mean?”

  He laces his fingers through mine and tugs me closer, pulling me down onto his chest. Lifting his head, he kisses me, soft and chaste. When he pulls back, his hands caress over my back, his eyes staring at my lips for a beat before meeting mine. “It means that I’m not going to try to stay away. Or just be friends. It means I’m going to risk getting too attached and see where things go. I like you too much, and I’m done torturing myself.”

  My lips tug up at his words, and an answering smile stretches across his face. I kiss him again. Because I can. His fingers dig into my back, one hand sliding to my ass, and he takes over the kiss.

  But he stops it again all too soon. With one more quick squeeze, he rolls me to the side and sits up. “But we can’t keep doing that here, in my bed, unless you’re ready to take things further than just kissing …” His eyebrows raise and something like hope enters his voice.

  Biting my lip, my breath catches. But I shake my head, a little overwhelmed at how everything’s happened.

  His mouth twists in a crooked smile, and he bends over to give me one last swift kiss. Standing, he adjusts himself and stretches, and I let my eyes roam over his body. Cataloguing the way the fabric pulls over his chest, the strip of skin revealed when he reaches his arms overhead, the undeniable bulge in his pants. That I felt against me. That I could, if I said the word, feel completely. Without the barrier of clothes.

  I swallow, slightly tempted to see what would happen. But the reality is that I’m not ready. Even though I like him too. A lot. The last time I had sex with a guy, it was not good. And I don’t want that to ruin what’s been a pretty enjoyable make out session.

  Even if the make out session seems to be over for now.

  When I look back up at his face, he’s grinning at me. “We should go somewhere. Or I should take you home. Because if you keep looking at me like that, I don’t know how well I’ll be able to control myself.”

  Standing too, I grin back, a little embarrassed about being caught checking him out so blatantly. But he clearly doesn’t mind. So I refuse to let my embarrassment be an issue. Sliding my arms around him, I hug him, turning my face to the side to press against his chest. His arms drop around me, and he nuzzles my hair.

  “Let’s go somewhere,” I say. “I’m not ready to go home yet.”

  Chapter Nine

  Jonathan

  “Are you excited about the concert?”

  Gabby nods, taking one last drink of her soda as I put my credit card back in my wallet after paying for dinner. She grins. “Yes. I’ve been to tons of orchestra concerts. My friends and I used to always go see the Fort Worth Symphony and get student rush tickets. Bass Hall is gorgeous. But I’ve never been to this kind of concert.”

  I stand. “Really? I’d think you’d have tons of opportunities in the Dallas area. And I know you like non-classical music.”

  Her nose wrinkles, and I can’t help smiling. She’s so cute when she does that. “I’m the baby in my family.” She shrugs and stands too, pulling her thin sweater over her shoulders. “In a lot of ways I was more sheltered than my siblings. Or at least it feels that way. Lance got away with a lot more since he’s a boy.” She gives a tiny fist pump. “Yay sexism. Anyway. I was pretty little when Marissa was a teenager, so I don’t remember if she got away with more than I did or not, but she does now. Of course, she lives on her own. So there’s that.”

  “This should be fun, then.” I give her a smile as we walk out to my car. Sometimes it still catches me off guard how young and inexperienced she really is. When we talk about music or books or things we have in common, it’s easy to forget she’s only eighteen. And even though I told her last week that I’m done trying to stay away from her, at times like this, I still wonder what the hell I think I’m doing. She’s just a baby. I haven’t looked twice at a freshman basically since I was one. They seem to get younger every year. Which, I guess is true. Or at least I’m older.

  But then she leans across the console of my car and kisses me, and all my doubts fly away. Being with her feels better than anything has in longer than I can remember.

  And since she helped me fix my song last week, the music’s been flowing easier than normal. I played her some of the new stuff I started messing with over the weekend when she came over on Monday. And she played for me after her rehearsal on Tuesday.

  Watching her play showed me a different version of her. She was transcendent. She has it. That indefinable spark that makes a performer. My youngest brother Colt has it too, so it’s easy for me to recognize.

  Handing over our tickets at the door to The Knitting Factory, we head in
to find our seats. There’s a bar here, but since Gabby’s underage, I’m not going to get a drink. It’s a smaller, intimate venue. Perfect for a solo act like City and Colour.

  We settle into our seats and Gabby looks around wide eyed. It’s as much fun to watch her as it is to watch the other people here. After a minute or two, she turns to me. “So do you know him? Or did you?”

  My eyebrows go up. “Who? City and Colour?”

  She nods, and I laugh, shaking my head. “No. We weren’t exactly moving in the same spaces. Brash was heavily managed by my parents and our actual manager. We were attached to acts that were closer to our age. Like Charlotte James. We joined her tour as her opening act when they were trying to get us into the Disney machine. Even if we had the opportunity to meet someone like City and Colour, I don’t know that we would’ve been allowed to, honestly.”

  Gabby’s eyes are wide as she listens. “I had no idea.”

  Shrugging, I look at the people moving around in the venue, finding their seats, groups of friends laughing, couples talking quietly. There’s enough ambient noise that Gabby and I have to lean close to each other to be heard. “We didn’t really know any different. And we had fun.” Meeting her eyes again, I give her my practiced smile. “I got to be on stage, play in arenas filled with screaming fans, play music with my brothers, and hang out and have fun with some of the biggest teenaged acts at the time.”

  “That sounds amazing.”

  “It was pretty amazing.”

  Her eyes dart back and forth between mine. “Do you miss it?”

  Glancing around again, my mouth twists to the side as I consider her question. “I miss parts of it.” My eyes find hers again. “Performing is the best high there is. But like I said, we were heavily managed. And I get why. I mean, we were just kids. I’m the oldest, and I was only sixteen at the time. Brendan was fourteen and Colt was just eleven when we got picked up. He turned twelve while we were still big, but that was part of our downfall. His voice started changing. People liked the high, little boy voice. That was our hallmark. When he couldn’t do it all the time anymore, and his voice became less predictable, no one wanted us. Our label dropped us, Disney wouldn’t touch us, our manager eventually quit, and we were back to just being three brothers who liked to play music.”

  She laughs at that last part, and I smile back. “Just three brothers who liked to play music, huh? Somehow I think it was a little more than that?”

  I shrug, not wanting to elaborate. Not now. Not surrounded by all these people. I disliked the lack of control I had over my life while we were in the limelight. The inability to go hang out with my friends, because we’d get harassed by paparazzi anytime any of us were in public. And when were together? It was impossible to go anywhere together for over a year. Even after the label dropped us, paparazzi still camped outside of our gated community hoping to catch a glimpse of us. Or tried to get into our school. Which was why our parents enrolled us in a private school that catered to children of celebrities and former child stars. There were a few kids of foreign officials with consulates in Los Angeles at our school too.

  We couldn’t have a normal life for longer than we were actively recording or performing.

  I hated that part.

  We only had one big hit. One record. We started recording a second one, but that was when Colt’s voice started breaking. By the time his voice settled, we were washed-up one-hit wonders.

  Colt wanted to get Brash back together. Put together a demo and shop it around. Or produce ourselves and go straight to the electronic distributors. Build a following on YouTube and in the local area. But I was already in college by then, and Brendan was about to go away too. And we weren’t interested in trying to resurrect what had been taken away from us years earlier.

  The other thing I hated was not getting to choose our music. When we were just having fun in our living room at home, we played whatever the hell we wanted. Covers. Original stuff I’d written. Anything. But no one would give my music the time of day once we got picked up.

  That never stopped me from writing it, obviously, since I’m still writing now. But now it’s just for me. And the friends I choose to share it with.

  The house lights dim and people start to cheer as City and Colour comes out on stage. This is the kind of music I write now. If I had a chance at this again, this is the kind of thing I’d want to do. Me and my guitar. Sometimes bringing in other people to collaborate. Maybe Colt could get his wish and we could play as Brash every so often. But I’d focus on my own songs. My music. Just me, playing for my audience.

  That’ll never happen, though. I have no connections there anymore. Not really. And no desire to try to forge them after all this time. No, I’m at peace with being washed up.

  Focusing on the show, I push aside all thoughts of my former glory days, singing along with the songs I know, losing myself in the music. And enjoying watching Gabby do the same.

  After the concert ends, we stumble into the cold late-September evening. She wraps her arms around herself, shivering. “It’s so damn cold here already!”

  I chuckle and tuck her under my arm as we walk to the parking garage to get to my car. But with her pressed against me like this, I pull us out of the flow of foot traffic and back her against a wall. Lowering my head, I kiss her, getting carried away at the first taste. I deepen the kiss and sweep my tongue into her mouth. She clutches at my shoulders, my neck, my hair. Her chest arches up and presses against me, her tongue dancing with mine, giving as good as she gets.

  Someone bumps into me, drunkenly calling out, “Sorry, man!” as he stumbles away. But that brings me back to the fact that we’re standing on the street making out.

  Pressing my forehead to hers, I flex my fingers on her hips, enjoying the fact that her fingers are still tangled in the hair at the nape of my neck. “Should we go back to my place?”

  She nods. “For a while. I do need to go back to the dorm, though.”

  With a groan, I tug her hands away from my neck so I can lace our fingers together and walk to the car. “If you insist.”

  She looks at me with a sly smile on her face. “I do. I’m not ready for … that. Yet.”

  Nodding, I lead her to the car. This is another thing that always drives home Gabby’s innocence. We’ve only kissed. And she lets me put my hands under her shirt, tease her breasts. When she’s in my lap, she grinds down on me with abandon. But that’s as far as we’ve gotten. I don’t want to push her, but is her reluctance because she prefers to wait until a certain point in a relationship? Or lack of experience?

  Chapter Ten

  Gabby

  “You’ll do better next time, Gabby.”

  I turn from putting my violin away in my locker at the sound of Damian’s voice. He’s one of the cello players, a freshman this year too. Standing next to the bank of instrument lockers behind me, he straightens his black-rimmed glasses. His shoulder-length, black hair is pulled back into a little ponytail. He played in today’s String Seminar too. Of course he didn’t freeze partway through after flubbing a passage and missing an entrance.

  Nope.

  That was just me.

  Forcing a little smile, I hold back the frustrated and embarrassed tears that linger below the surface. “Thanks. Yeah. I hope so.”

  “Everyone has off days. We all know you play better than that.” He shifts the backpack on his shoulders. “You spend tons of time in the practice rooms. We hear you. You just got a little performance anxiety today. It’s understandable. Today was your first time playing for the department. Anyone would be nervous.”

  I snort, shouldering my bag and moving toward the door. Damian falls in step beside me. “It didn’t seem to affect you.”

  He shrugs. “I had a good day. Sometimes that happens too.”

  “Yeah, well, I wish it would’ve happened to me today.”

  “Next time. You still have to play at least once more this semester. You’ll do better next time. You’ll see
.”

  “Thanks, Damian. I appreciate the pep talk.”

  He smiles, the bronze skin crinkling around his dark brown eyes, and lets me walk through the door to the hallway first. “No problem. See you tomorrow in class.”

  “See ya.”

  He heads off to the door on the other end of the building, and I watch him go, his long legs, clad in skinny jeans and Converse, eating up the ground. He’s tall and lanky and cute. And a nice guy. I’m pretty sure Lauren’s already decided she has a crush on him.

  Lauren left already, skipping off after giving me a hug and telling me that my playing wasn’t as bad as I thought. When I gave her a look expressing what I thought of her lie, she giggled and said, “Okay, fine. But the good parts sounded awesome.”

  I guess that was the best I could hope for. My performance started off okay. My accompanist, Cheryl, gave the shortened introduction, and I got through the exposition of the concerto. But something happened as I moved into the development. My fingers missed notes, and it felt like I wasn’t in charge of my own muscles. They wouldn’t cooperate, wouldn’t coordinate and hit the notes that I’d worked so hard on in the practice room. And then I missed an entrance, getting out of sync with the piano, turning the Mozart G major violin concerto from a beautiful, lyrical piece of music into a cringeworthy collection of sounds.

  Damian’s attempt to make me feel better, while appreciated, doesn’t lessen my embarrassment. And a few tears escape the tight hold I’ve kept on them since I finished playing, managing to indicate my accompanist and bow as though everything had gone fine. Because no matter how much you suck, you always have to pretend like everything’s fine on stage and afterward.

  But now I’m alone—everyone scampered off as soon as Strings Seminar ended—and I can let my feelings out. I’ve taken a long time putting my things away on purpose, trying to avoid the majority of the other string players, not wanting to wait for Jonathan in full view of everyone.