Striking a Chord (Siren Publishing PolyAmour)

by Mary K. Preston

  Angharad pulled herself up, away from her front door, took the earphones out, and crossed the entryway and kitchen space into her living room, flinging herself gracelessly onto the comfortable old couch, an absolute relic from an elderly aunt’s house. She knew she shouldn’t compare, but she couldn’t quite help it. Being with Nick was a wholly different experience to sex with Paolo. Angharad bit her lip unconsciously, and made herself stop when her nerve endings warned her that the abused flesh wouldn’t take much more. She couldn’t help comparing the two of them, the way Nick was so in control of things all the time and the way Paolo sort of negotiated his way to getting what he wanted. For the first time in a day, she let herself really think about Paolo. Paolo was almost an archetype of a drummer. He was energetic almost to the point of hyperactivity, playful, and sweet. His Italian breeding had given him big, dark eyes, expressive gestures, a charming smile, and a softly curly mop of hair that most women would envy. He wasn’t short, being a few inches taller than Angharad herself, but his compact build made him seem so at times, especially standing near the staggeringly tall Nick. He had an artistic sensibility, though, a work ethic that made him patient, that he’d brought to bear on Angharad early in their courtship. Angharad remembered the way he’d talked her into the first date. She had gotten the assignment to interview the members of the band about their soon-to-be-released album and touring plans, a hard-won victory after months of writing tiny record release blurbs and interviewing small-scale area acts. “I don’t know how you do it, but you get people to open up,” her boss had said when he’d given her the interview. “Make it a good story and we’ll see about putting you on a regular rotation.”

  She had arrived in the rehearsal space the band had taken, all nerves and caffeine. She had spent hours researching what other interviewers had asked them, combing through their media presence. She preferred to ask questions her interviewees weren’t expecting, questions that she found important personally. Whenever, in her research, she found herself wondering idly about some question, she wrote it down. When she arrived at the interview, quiet Dmitri, the bass player, had spotted her first, gave her a reserved, almost wintry little smile and gestured a welcome. Robert, one of the guitarists, had been chatting with him, and noticing Dmitri’s attention shifting away, followed his gaze. “You must be the reporter,” he’d said, all smiles and conviviality. Angharad had found herself shaking his hand, accepting a friendly hug. “Hey, she’s here, guys!” he called back further into the room. Angharad found herself surrounded by males, briefly overwhelmed by the welcome she got. Dmitri didn’t hug her, but he offered her his hand, quiet and gentlemanly. Nick, towering over her, shook her hand and then pulled her in by it, kissing her on either cheek. Paolo had taken her hand but then kissed it in greeting before hugging her. Sylvain, the band’s darkly brooding de-facto leader, had greeted her last, with a cordial handshake and a brief hug.

  “How do you guys want to do this interview?” she’d asked, trying to be both businesslike and approachable. “As a group together, or separately?”

  “Grab a beer, ask us questions,” Robert replied, gesturing Angharad to the fridge in the rehearsal space. The room was poorly lit, a bit grimy from years of musicians playing in it. The carpet was almost threadbare, the furniture so worn it was a wonder the couch was able to stay upright. A slightly moldy smell, compounded by spilled beer and cigarettes, lingered in the still air. But there was also something homey and comforting about the space. Posters that had clearly come from the band members’ own homes were plastered on the walls, a few paintings and drawings. The drum kit sat on an area rug that was in good enough shape to be Paolo’s personal property. Angharad took her recorder out, set it on a table in the middle of the band, and politely declined Sylvain’s offer to open her beer for her, taking out her keychain with it bottle opener from a brewery’s gift shop, a gift on her twenty-first birthday. She started by making regular conversation, taking sips of her beer and making eye contact with whoever was speaking in a casual way. When everyone started to loosen up, she interspersed her interview questions with the regular chatting, making the things she wanted to know the natural progression of what they were talking about.

  Dmitri was quiet, and Angharad hoped against hope that the audio pickup on her recorder was strong enough to capture his voice. He limited himself to only occasional comments, mostly nodding support for whoever else was talking. He didn’t make much eye contact with her, even when he was directing a comment at her, instead talking to one of the others or to his shoes. Robert was jittery, energetic in a manic way, cussing and smoking, friendly like a large-breed dog, but much sharper and more astute in his commentary. Angharad let herself get bullied into another beer when she’d finished her first. Robert stood up to refresh his own, and his eyes noticed that her bottle was empty. He’d grabbed two bottles and had them both open before she could protest that she was hardly there to drink their beer. Sylvain alternated between limiting himself to monosyllables, particularly early in the interview, and waxing philosophical, explaining the work ethic of the band, their chemistry, and anything else under the sun that related to the conversation at hand.

  Paolo kept his eyes on her throughout the interview, smiling or laughing at her jokes, answering her questions with an energetic earnestness. Like her, he fidgeted constantly. When Sylvain told Paolo that the incessant tapping was getting on his nerves, Angharad, startled by sudden embarrassment into noticing the way her leg was bouncing up and down in counterpoint to his strange rhythm, tried to still it. “Aw, Syl, now she thinks she’s annoying you, too,” Paolo said to Sylvain, making Angharad blush that he’d noticed. “Tell the pretty lady she’s fine.” Sylvain had smiled ruefully and told her that he didn’t mind her fidgeting, but Paolo’s tapping got on his nerves at times. Nick, somehow both part of the group and detached from it, watched her constantly as well. Angharad was comfortable with Paolo’s consistent regard, but something unnerved her about the way Nick watched her. It wasn’t predatory or leering, but there was something in his gaze, as if he was trying to figure her out, trying to work out what she was doing, who she was. Like he’d seen her before and couldn’t quite place her. When he spoke in his calm, confident voice, colored just slightly with French soft consonants, Angharad found herself listening sharply, drawn in by the way his voice seemed to bring down the temperature in the room with its controlled cool.

  By the end of the interview, Sylvain had wandered away, Robert had a phone call from his mother he couldn’t avoid, though he asked permission from Angharad before taking the call and gave her an apologetic glance, and Dmitri was ready to dive back into a book that had been lying around. Paolo and Angharad were talking, having a personal conversation, and Paolo insisted that she should let him buy her a drink since she had made the interview go so smoothly. “These things are normally nightmares,” he said. “I need to buy you a drink to compensate you for making this so much fun.” Angharad had laughed, blushing slightly. Nick was still around, and Angharad could feel his eyes on her, even though he didn’t participate in her and Paolo’s conversation in the slightest. “I mean it!” Paolo had insisted. “Give me your phone number, and I’ll call you and we’ll figure it out.” Angharad, cynical of the possibility of sincerity, gave him her phone number and promised to let the band vet the article before she turned it in. It was a courtesy she did all of her interviewees, something she felt was basic politeness. She wanted to develop the kind of reputation as a journalist that would make musicians seek her out, feel comfortable talking to her. She enjoyed finding things out about people, and people wouldn’t give up nearly as much information if they thought she would misrepresent them.

  Paolo surprised her by calling before she’d even finished the article. “Oh, hey,” she had said when he identified himself over the phone. “I don’t quite have the article done yet, but I’ll make sure the minute I do that I send it to you guys.” Paolo had laughed over the phone line.

  “You al
ready forgot, didn’t you? We agreed that I owed you a drink for such a fun interview.”

  “I thought you’d have forgotten all about that by now,” Angharad replied, covering her embarrassment.

  “I never forget my debts,” Paolo said. “Now, when can we get together for a drink?” Angharad suggested a few days in the future, thinking that by that point she’d have the article ready and could kill two birds with one stone. Paolo accepted, told her what bar to meet him at, and ended the call with pleasantries. Angharad had never had a worse hangover than she did the day after their get-together. Paolo had somehow managed to convince her to compete with him, shot for shot. Robert had showed up halfway through the night and bought a few rounds. Nick and Sylvain arrived later still, and by the time the night was over, Angharad had been bundled by the band into a cab, giving uncertain directions to the driver. She hadn’t registered the significance of Paolo’s handing the driver a several folded bills until, arriving finally at her apartment building and digging through her purse to pay, the cabbie told her it was already covered, tip and all.

  Before she had even had the presence of mind to pay attention, they’d been dating consistently for weeks. She could still remember their first real date, Paolo taking her to a friend’s gallery show, talking about composition and tension and form, the way his voice had drawn her in. He had a sweet, reedy voice, almost green and grassy the way he expressed himself, surprisingly soft-spoken for all his energy. After the showing, Paolo had talked her into drinks, a late dinner at a place he knew. Angharad could still taste the greasy burger, the high quality gin, still smell the cigar smoke lingering in the air, mingling with the smells of meatloaf and beer and frying things. She could still feel the way he’d pressed her hand as they walked in out of the cold, the warmth of his palm, his fingers. There was strength in his wiry frame when he pressed her against her own apartment door, kissing her. “I’m not going to invite myself in,” he had said, favoring her with one of his megawatt smiles. “But I am going to call you first thing when I wake up tomorrow, just so I can hear you all surprised.” And he had actually called her. She had only been awake a few minutes when her phone rang, and she had felt the blood rushing into her face. Paolo had laughed at her surprise and talked her into another date before she was even fully awake.

  Chapter Six

  On their second date, Angharad rose to the bait and invited him in. They were kissing, Paolo teasing her into breathlessness, his hands wandering along her waist, teasing her wrists, caressing her neck, never straying into definitive sexual territory even as his lips sealed hers, his tongue darting out to cajole her into parrying, only to retreat and draw her in. He had led her directly into her own bedroom, holding her hand tightly, looking back at her with those big, dark eyes, smiling in a way that promised only more teasing, but she had been so hungry for more. Paolo had pulled her in close the minute they were in her bedroom, his hands suddenly demanding on her body, finding every sensitive spot, it seemed. He lost all shyness about touching her breasts, teasing her nipples through the lace of her bra, kneading at her hip gently. His lips traveled to her neck, her chest, her hands. He loved to kiss her hands from the very start, nibbling and licking each fingertip. “You have such beautiful hands,” he had commented. “I want them all over me.”

  When they finally made it into the bed, Paolo had gotten her mostly naked already, his eyes widening in appreciation at the sight of her lush breasts, his hands cupping them reverently. “Madonna, sei bellissima,” he had murmured, rubbing his thumbs gently over her nipples. It had been all she could do to remain still, her body wanting to tremble at the sweet pleasure. Angharad had managed to get Paolo’s shirt off and delighted in the feel of his chest pressed against hers as he laid her down in the bed, the sparse, soft hair, the warmth of his muscles. He was more muscular than Angharad had given any thought to, his arms and chest well built from years of playing, his abdomen flat. She felt like putty in his hands, melting into the warmth of his touch, willing to let him do whatever he pleased to her, just so long as his body was nearby, his lips brushing her skin. Paolo had taken his time, taking a careful inventory of her body, whispering compliments, smiling up at her in the midst of covering her body with kisses. According to his words, she had the most gorgeous breasts, the silkiest skin, the sexiest hips in all the world. By the time Paolo had gotten the last of her clothes off and peeled his own jeans off, Angharad had been thrumming inside with anticipation, already half in love with the beauty of his movements. There was something oddly fluid about the way he moved, at odds with his energetic nature. Angharad could still feel the way Paolo had held her hand when he had first thrust up into her, the brush of his hair against her cheek, the feathery touch of his lips. She could still remember with a vividness that amazed her the way he had wrapped his arms around her, the heat of his cock inside of her, even through the condom he wore.

  Their sex had been punctuated with giggles from the beginning, Paolo interrupting her intense pleasure to nibble at her side just below the ribs, to tickle her or whisper nonsense in her ear. He would drive her to the limit and then break away, kissing her stomach while she trembled with frustrated arousal. “You’re such a secret sex pot,” he told her, his fingers sliding between her labia, stroking her just enough to tease. “I love it. You act so respectable and cool in front of everybody, but I can tell when you’re thinking about spending all day in bed.” Angharad always found herself entering into an adventuresome mood whenever Paolo was around, her “bad behavior” encouraged by Paolo’s enthusiasm. When he saw how flexible she was from years of parentally demanded ballet, he had dared her to a sex-off, a different position every day for a month. Angharad’s legs had gone almost over her head one day, and another, Paolo had fucked her from behind while she lay on her side, one of her feet pressed to the wall behind them. Paolo knew all of her weaknesses, delighted in pulling her away from a party or a conversation at a bar to nibble at her neck, deftly work his hands up under her shirt, tease her into such a state of arousal she couldn’t even think, and then guide her back, smiling so innocently at their friends, darting playful glances in her direction. Paolo enjoyed the flush in her cheeks, he said, when she was turned on. He enjoyed knowing they were keeping up an active sex life without anyone knowing exactly what their sex life was like. What amazed Angharad was that he was equally content spending a night in, inviting her over to listen to album after album while drinking beers and smoking cigarettes, talking until dawn about the merits of a particular artist or discussing little almost-invisible effects in songs. Or they watched art films, Angharad putting her introduction to film class to good use. Just when Angharad thought she had no more energy to do anything but curl up in bed, Paolo’s hands would begin wandering, his kisses on her face and neck becoming something other than tender, and she would feel herself come alight with need.

  When Paolo had first made his suggestion that Angharad “distract” Nick, he had timed it expertly. Angharad smiled slightly, thinking of it. Paolo had come over, saying they’d scrapped the evening’s session, carrying bags of carryout Chinese and liquor. They’d put on The Beatles’ White Album and ate and drank, Paolo talking about the sessions, Angharad about her assignment for the week. Paolo kept the drinks going, and Angharad found herself in the easy, talkative mood that copious amounts of alcohol put her in. They play fought and then cuddled on the floor right in front of the speakers, talking about music in general, Paolo’s band in specific. She felt fortunate that her job, writing and editing a mostly online music magazine, didn’t give her set hours most of the time. She worked more than the standard 40-hour week, but most of her work was done from the comfort of home, or out for the night. Her editor had been delighted when she had started dating a bona fide rock star, thinking of the ease with which she would get into shows, the scoops she would be able to get.

  Paolo had insisted on giving her a shoulder rub, which had moved inevitably to kissing and touching, their hands wandering over e
ach other’s bodies. Paolo teased her over and over again, his hands light as butterfly wings on her skin. They made out like teenagers on the couch, Angharad’s hormones rushing through her blood at such a speed she imagined she glowed. They moved from the couch, with Paolo holding her body tightly against his as he slowly fucked her from behind, to almost tumble back to the floor, with Angharad on top, and then Paolo lifting her up in his arms and leaning back against the wall to hold her up, against him, thrusting up into her body just as hungrily as he had before. Gradually, they worked their way to the bedroom, Angharad wondering if she would ever find the point at which Paolo needed time to recover.

  She had been resting in his arms, still trembling from climax, when Paolo’s hands started wandering again, caressing her breasts and then moving on to more interesting territory. His fingers slid between the folds of her mound, teasing her pussy all over, taking advantage of the sensitized flesh he found. When his fingertips found her clitoris and began slowly rubbing, Angharad’s already shaky hold on conscious thought had evaporated. “You know,” Paolo had said, stroking her firmly, “I’m really worried about Nick.” Angharad had murmured something, knowing a response was required but not capable of paying enough attention to think. Paolo’s lips laid claim to her neck, and Angharad twisted her hips, trying for more contact between her clit and his hand. “I mean, we all knew he’d be wrecked when Cynthia died, but he’s not getting better. He’s only getting worse.” Angharad nodded, moaning at the way Paolo touched her. He slid two fingers into her, caressing her inner walls, just as his teeth found the sensitive patch of skin just below her ear. Angharad, torn between trying to pay attention to what Paolo was saying and what he was doing, tried to focus on words. It was impossible. “Mm, tesoro mio,” he had purred in his sweet voice. “I think you should help him.” Angharad had started, some part of her brain filtering the suggestion past the layers of fog her arousal imposed.