by Daisy Allen
She tries to grab the rosin from my hand and the space between our fingertips cracks with electricity again. Her lips stretch against her teeth as she hisses and she wrenches her hand back and something in the sound makes my cock do what it’s been threatening to do since I saw her. It grows instantly hard. Time to run.
“Fine. Then trust me when I want to emphasize this...it’s been damn nice to meet you, Mary.” I bend over and brush a soft kiss against her cheek. “And I promise I’ll make it up to you,” I say while waving the rosin at her, then turn and jog through the store before she can react.
“Pay the man, Jez!” I call out to my bandmate as I rush through the store’s front door and into the waiting car, thinking of smelly garbage trucks and fermented Swedish fish to free the blood congregating in my groin.
But nothing can seem to fade the smell of orange blossoms against my lips.
Chapter Three
CADENCE
“And don’t forget your Baroque period project due next Monday. Nothing except death will be accepted as an excuse for not turning it in. And even then, I want a death certificate signed by the state coroner. You’ve had all term, people.”
With a wave of my hand I dismiss my last class to the sound of scraping chairs on the floor and chatter about everything but school work. I sink into my chair, exhausted, kicking my shoes off and rubbing one foot against the other.
The cacophony of five hundred teenagers fleeing the confines of high school slowly dissipates and I let my body hang, completely lifeless in my desk chair, feeling the day seep slowly away from me.
But a part of it just won’t budge.
Say ‘fuck’, I can still hear his voice taunt me. And the curve of his lip, goading me.
But it wasn’t what he said but how he said it.
“Fuck.” I turn the word over in my own mouth, remembering the way it sounded coming out of his. He made it sound like a proposition. One I’d have trouble refusing.
God, he was hot.
From the way his relaxed denim jeans had ridden low on his hips, showing his taut, ripped stomach when he reached up with his arms, to the red-tinted brown stubble on his strong chiseled jawline. From the infuriatingly long lashes that framed his jade green eyes, to the way his long fringe hung over his forehead, covering one eye. Even the small vertical scar that ran just across his top lip was provocative. Everything about him screamed sex. And it wasn’t a scream I’d been receptive to recently.
But damn, he was a jerk. The cocky way he’d grinned when he made the comment about spanking him. I’d wanted to slap the arrogance right off his face.
Until he kissed you, that is, the annoying voice inside my head reminded me.
“He didn’t kiss me,” I argued back, out loud, while my cheek burned at the memory.
“Who didn’t kiss you?” A female voice pipes up and I turn my head to the doorway.
“Ugh, nobody, an asshole at the music store.” I tell my best friend and colleague, Sarah.
“But you wanted him to?” Her face lights up, always ready for a gossip, and always disappointed by my lack of ever having any.
“NO!” I yell, a little louder than I’d intended.
“WHOA!” I hear for the second time today. “So someone you didn’t want to kiss you...didn’t kiss you.” Sarah repeats, trying to make sense of something I don’t have sense of yet.
“Right.” I nod, hoping my apparent lack of information will stop her questions.
“So why are we talking about it?”
“We weren’t.”
“You were, alone here in your classroom.” She points out.
“I was just...processing...”
“Right. So um...what was this person like, who didn’t kiss you, even though you didn’t want him to?”
“He was....infuriating.” I scrunch up my face again, remembering his face as he winked at me before he ran out of the store.
“And?”
“He STOLE from me!”
“He STOLE?” She looks even more confused than before.
“Well, kinda?” Well, he did, kind of.
“What did he steal?”
“My cello rosin!”
“How did he steal it? From your purse?”
“No, he just took it. In the store.” Ugh, why isn’t she getting it?
“So he didn’t pay??”
“No. Well, yes, his friend paid.”
“He paid you?”
“No, he paid George, for the rosin.”
“So, he stole from George?”
“No, I told you his friend paid.” This was going nowhere.
“So it ...wait. What? So he didn’t steal at all!”
“Yes! It was mine!”
“Had you paid for it?”
“No...”
“So...”
“Shut up, it was just mine, OK, and he took it. And then left.” I cross my arms indicating I was done talking about this.
“Without kissing you.” Ugh, again with the kissing. You’d think he’d kissed her.
“Yes. Well...” Technically...
“Wait. He DID kiss you?”
“Well, just on the cheek!”
“Way to bury the lead! Tell me about this cheek kisser!” Sarah jumps up at the word ‘kisser’ entirely too excited about nothing.
“I told you, he’s a thief!” I frown at her. Whose side was she on?!
“You gotta let go of the rosin, babe,” she sighs.
“Never! Anyway, I don’t want to talk about it anymore.” I wave my hand, dismissing any more questions.
“Fine. What are you doing tonight, other than not thinking about rosin-thieving cheek kissers?”
“Nothing. Which is exactly what I want to be doing, so whatever you’re thinking, no.”
“Come on, I have tickets to this amazing group called No Strings Attached, they’re a string quartet playing mashups of classical music and rock covers.”
“Wow. That sounds absolutely...horrendous.” I shudder at what that might sound like.
“Why?”
“Er, hello. I’m a classically trained pianist and music teacher.”
“Don’t be such a snob. Trust me, they’re brilliant. They just won a Grammy, first ever non-lyrical Brand New Artist winner! Anyway, you never go out anywhere with me. You know I have to live vicariously through you now that I’m married.”
I did feel a little bad. I had been so busy with work lately that we’d hardly spent any time away from school together. She’d been there through everything good and bad in my life and I guess I could give her one night out.
“Fine. But I’m bringing a book.” I warn her.
“YAY! Pick you up at 7:00.” And she skips out of the room before I can change my mind.
Chapter Four
SEBASTIAN
“What time is it?” I get up from my seat for the fifth time in the last two minutes.
“Add about thirty-six seconds to what I told you the last time you asked.” Brad answers from his spot on the beanbag, arms and legs spread out like an octopus, his violin bow see-sawing up and down, balancing on top of his forehead.
“I wasn’t listening.” I tell him honestly. I turn to the greenroom door and wrench it open, peering down the hallway at the crew rushing around, doing their jobs. Which includes ignoring me.
“Ask me again in thirty seconds.” Brad offers.
“Gah, just fucking tell me already.” I slam the door shut and sit back down on the couch, pushing Jez’s hand away when he puts in on my knee to stop the incessant jiggling.
“Chill, man, it’s 6:30, we’re on in an hour.” Brad relents.
I don’t think I can last an hour. My adrenaline’s peaked and it needs to act now. My fingers are twitching, they’ve played every chord progression of the first few songs over and over against my leg and they were itching to wrap around my cello.
“Can’t we just go on now?” I ask them seriously, my leg jiggling so much the water in the jug on the co
ffee table builds up momentum and threatens to spill over the rim.
“No. Not if you want anyone to be there to listen, man.” Jez answers, his voice trying to stay calm but ending up somewhere between amused and over it.
“Since when did we care if anyone was listening?” I’m getting desperate now. I stand back up and start to pace, drumming my fingers against my leg and biting the fingers on my left hand.
“Since we started charging them seventy dollars a pop to show up and listen.” Marius calls out from his yoga stance in the corner. I feel like pushing him over and shoving his bow somewhere downward on his dog.
I can feel their eyes on me as I pace the room. Walking back and forth, corner to corner, around the chaises with no pattern in mind, muttering to myself, reminding myself of the set list, of opening and closing comments, crowd pleasers.
“Man, he hasn’t been this bad in a long time.” I vaguely hear Marius say.
“Maybe since Amsterdam.” Jez chuckles.
“Yeah?”
“Well, remember what happened in Amsterdam.”
“No, I don’t, dear Jeremy. Why don’t you remind me?” Brad says to Jez, calling him by his full name.
“Why, Bradley, one might remember that one Mr. Sebastian had a visitor one night there in Amsterdam.”
“Oh yes, one does remember. A rather loud visitor, if one does remember correctly.”
“Oh yes, one does remember correctly indeed.”
“It seems one’s visitor helped wonders with Mr. Sebastian’s preperformance jitters. Perhaps it is time one Mr. Sebastian has another visitor?”
“Isn’t that Dennis’ job?” Marius agrees.
“It bloody hell isn’t.” The voice comes booming through the intercom interrupting the banter.
“Aw fuck, who turned that on?” Jez growls at the baby monitor Dennis uses as an intercom to spy on us.
“Well, it wasn’t me.” Brad says defensively.
“No one’s thinking it was you, Brad. When’s the last time you turned anything on?” Marius quips, grinning at Jez and high fiving him.
“Hey!”
“I turned it on before you dickheads went in there.” Dennis’ voice booms through the tiny speaker. “Now shut the fuck up and leave Sebastian alone. And Sebastian, stop fucking pacing, sit down and chill the fuck out. Remember the breathing lessons Hailey gave you.”
I press myself against the door and close my eyes, counting my breaths. Deep breath in two, three, four, five. Hold. Out two, three, four, five. I feel my ribcage expand and stretch from the air. My hands feel the urge to scratch at my skin and I shove them in my pockets.
My right hand digs deep and closes around a cube object. It’s the box of rosin. The rosin I stole from that girl. The girl in the store. Cadence. My mouth twitches a little as I remember the way her eyes rounded into large, perfect circles, the pupils like a Belgium chocolate truffle, soft brown and velvety, when I brushed her cheek with my lips. Her mouth shaped into a seductive ‘O’, in both sound and structure. Sending my body and mind into hormonal overdrive as I imagine her lips making that same shape while she experienced an ‘O’ of my making.
“Fuck.” I shake my head to reset my brain’s thoughts. What is wrong with me? Why has she taken such a hold of me?
“What?” Jez looks up in response to my curse.
“Nothing.”
“He’s thinking of a ‘visitor’.”
I wasn’t. But I am now. Thinking of opening the door to my dressing room and finding Cadence standing there. Even if just to yell at me for being a damn jerk again. I’d take it. I’d promised her I’d make it up to her. And I can’t wait for the night to be over so I can fulfill that promise.
Just got. To get through. The night.
“Hey, what time is it now?” I ask the boys and they groan in synchrony.
“What?!?”
CADENCE
“You’re not wearing that.” Sarah greets me as soon as I open the door.
“What? Why? I think I look fine.” I look down at my floor-length floral maxi dress and pink cardigan.
“You do, babe. You look fine. For church. Not a concert.”
“A classical music concert!” I remind her.
“Mashed with ROCK!”
“Ugh, stop reminding me.”
“Come on.” She grabs my hand and pulls me into my bedroom.
“Where are we going?”
“Into the deepest corners of your closet to find something appropriate for you to wear.”
***
“I look ridiculous.” I tell her ten minutes later sitting in her car. My floral dress has been discarded and in its place is a short black mini I bought on a whim once but have never had the courage to wear. After some begging, Sarah relented and allowed me to pull on the pink cardigan though.
“Only because you keep fidgeting.” She reaches over and slaps my hands away from my cardigan’s collar.
“We’re going to stand right out.” I scrunch my face up at the thought.
“So what if we do?” She shrugs nonchalantly. “But trust me, we’re going to fit right it.”
“You’re crazy. We’re going to be the only ones dressed like this.”
She turns into the parking lot and waits for the crowd of people crossing to get to the concert hall. A startling array of leather and Mohawks and motorcycle boots greet me.
“Oh. Never mind.” I concede.
Sarah throws her head back and laughs. “I told you.”
“Curiouser and curiouser.”
She parks the car and we get out. I pull on the dress, making sure it covers top and bottom where it needs to. It does, just barely. The pink cardigan covers my arms but just barely buttons up over my chests, so I leave it open.
“Come on!” Sarah calls out to me, waving at me to catch up with her. “Let’s go see Beethoven roll over in his grave!”
***
“Aren’t these seats amazing?” Sarah squeals to me, turning in her seat to take in the sold-out crowd.
Despite myself, I have to agree with her. Somehow she’s scored front row seats and the atmosphere is electric. I have to admit, I have no idea what to expect, but I’m a little excited. As a lifelong lover of classical music this concept of mashing it with rock music sounds almost sacrilegious. The crowd is an eclectic mix at best – and there is an unprecedented number of young women here, more than I’ve ever seen at a classical music performance.
The stage setup tells me nothing. There isn’t any decor, just an empty stage with four chairs. Not even a music stand disrupts the otherwise bare landscape of the stage floor.
Who are these musicians?
With the building noise from the rowdy crowd, my curiosity grows, and by the time the lights dim and the 10,000 voices around me start chanting “No Strings Attached! No Strings Attached!” I find my lips twitching to join them. Nothing stops Sarah though, and she’s up and out of her chair, pumping her fists and adding her yells with the crowd’s as the hall completely fades into black.
I hold my breath as my eyes adjust to the darkness.
And then a single note plays pure and clear, fading in from the dark to fill the hall with sound. I close my eyes and feel the vibration of the cello string penetrate my body. My cells calibrating to the particular vibration of that one cello. And I wait.
The single note breaks and it’s silent again.
Then, as if ordained by God, the ceiling of the concert hall lights up with 100,000 white lights. Twinkling artificial stars dancing over the eaves and chandeliers, reflecting back onto the darkened walls and raised hands of the audience, reaching out to touch the radiance. And as each light grows brighter, and its diameter spreads so you can’t differentiate one from the next, the single string note plays once more, starting soft and then building louder and louder and louder as the light grows brighter and brighter until the ceiling is just one giant expanse of light, almost painfully blinding, bathing the entire audience in an almost heavenly pure
glow. And just when I think the light can’t get brighter, it explodes like a hundred fireworks and then folds into darkness once more.
And then the music begins. Out of the darkness, while my eyes are still playing tricks on me and projecting dancing fairy lights against the black backdrop, the single note breaks into the opening strains of a tune so familiar, but I can’t pick it.
But I don’t care. It is divine.
Short notes on the violins dancing over the driving beat of the cellos.
I’m lost in the sound, with the lights completely out, my senses are all forced to shut down to focus just on the music coming out of the dark.
The notes cascade over each other, driving forward, forward, building towards a chorus that I can feel is about to break.
God, what is that tune...what is it?
I reach out next to me and Sarah’s hand gropes for mine, and we grip each other for a sense of reality in this surreal, beautiful experience. Her body bumps against mine as we give in to the sound wrapping itself around us.
And then, as the chords change in a familiar progression, I realize, it’s U2’s “It’s a Beautiful Day”.
I’m stunned. I’ve only ever heard the lyrical version, I am amazed at the absolute melodic beauty of this song now that I don’t have the words to focus on. It’s almost as if this piece of music was written to be played by these four string musicians, they’ve made it theirs.
But I don’t have time to muse over my revelation for too long.
Just as the chorus breaks, and the crowd raises their voices into a communal declaration of “It’s a Beautiful Day”, the stage lights up with the universe of dancing stars fallen from the ceiling.
The scream that projects from the crowd somehow is only just overtaken by the music, and I scan the stage, trying to make out the band amongst the white haze.
As the song pulls back into the second chorus, the lights slowly dissipate, and focus on a single spotlight, the lead cellist.
As my eyes blink away the excessive light, I can just start to see the musician’s form. It’s tall and slim, his head is down, hair over his face as he stands, lost in the music he is creating from his instrument. Or is it that it’s creating from him? It’s hard to tell, they look to be working in complete synchrony. In all my years of attending both classical and pop concerts, I’ve never experienced anything like it.