Page 26 of The Duet

A few moments later, Lana ushers me into her dressing room and closes the door behind us. She leans against it and holds up her hand while she chugs back the entire bottle of water. She’s a little out of breath when she’s finished it. She locks her gaze on me and says, “Maybe we shouldn’t do the duet anymore.”

“What?” Not what I was expecting by a long shot. “Why?”

“I think you know why.”

I shake my head. “I don’t.”

Lana pushes herself away from the door, but then lets her back drop against it again. “Come on, Cleo. Don’t make me say something I don’t want to say.”

“Like what?” This is starting to feel like a mother-daughter situation now. I very much feel like I’m being told off for something I’m not even aware of doing.

“You were all over me up there. That’s not okay.”

My eyes grow wide. “Since when?” I might have given it a bit more than usual, but I don’t see how that could have made such a difference.

“Since last night. You came on to me and I’m not going to judge you for that. But you equate me with…” She pulls up her shoulders. “I don’t know, some sort of goddess. Which I’m not. I’m just a woman. You’re going to have to snap out of that.”

So much for not judging me. And Lana isn’t just a woman. I take a few stuttering breaths. I’m going through a swift and cruel decompression from those wonderful five minutes on stage earlier. I try to look at her, but I can’t. I’m being dressed down in Lana’s dressing room, and not in a good way.

“Fine,” I say, hating how I sound—too petulant, too young. “Consider me snapped out of it.” I can’t help but add a sigh worthy of the most ill-tempered teenager.

“That’s bullshit and we both know it. Look, Cleo, I don’t want you to suffer for a song. It’s just a song. We don’t have to sing it. No matter what the audience wants. We’re in charge.”

“I’m not suffering. What are you talking about? I love singing with you. You know that.”

“Maybe you love it a little too much.” She reaches for another bottle of water on the table next to the door she’s still leaning against. “I can’t ask you to snap out of it while demanding you perform with me. That’s insane.”

“What should I have done differently tonight?” I bring my hands to my sides. I’m not leaving here without arguing my case.

Lana’s still knocking back water. She draws up her knee and puts her foot against the door. She could not look any sexier if she tried. She’s aglow with post-performance endorphins. Drops of sweat pearl on the skin of her neck. Her hair looks like she just—

I’d better get a grip.

“It’s hard to say exactly. You know that.”

My phone buzzes in my pocket. We have meet and greets. Lana’s going to be late for hers if she doesn’t shower soon. “Let’s not decide now,” I say. “We’re emotional from the show. Let’s sleep on it.”

Lana puts the bottle down with a sigh worthy of an entire gaggle of hormonal teenage girls.

“I don’t want to take from your performance, Cleo.” She steps away from the door. She turns away from me, then grabs the door handle. She doesn’t open the door to me, though. Instead, she lets go of the handle and spins on her heels. She pins her gaze on me. “Maybe it was a little too good.” Her voice has dropped all the way into ultra-sultry territory. “Maybe the problem is me.”

Chapter 17

Lana

I’m not made of stone. Beneath the protective layer of my skin, I’m as brittle as they come. After I’ve put myself out there on stage, for all the audience to see, I can’t just go back to being the person I became these past ten years. When Cleo sidles up to me like that, when she speaks to me the way she did last night, when she stands there all defiant, I can hardly keep on pretending it’s all her. I have feelings too. I’m human too. I sing that song to her every night after I’ve performed two hours without Joan by my side—after all my defenses have been so lowered, they might as well never have been there.

I can’t blame myself for trying to protect myself, for trying to play it cool and resorting to drastic measures like no longer singing with Cleo at all. I’ve been in this game long enough to not let the fans dictate what I do—and I know that, by now, they want Cleo and me to sing this song more than anything. It reminds the audience of something that The Lady Kings lost when we lost Joan. It ignites a kind of nostalgia in them that is irresistible because it’s so deliciously bittersweet. I can see all of that. More than that, I can feel it too.

By telling Cleo that we should no longer duet, I’m protecting myself much more than her. She’s young. She has decades of life and love ahead of her. She still has enormous unused capacities for recovery, whereas I don’t.

I reach out my hand to her. She bridges the distance between us. Our fingers touch. We have touched many times before on stage, but this is different. This is for us only, not for the benefit of an audience. Her fingertips against mine spur me on to look up, to not look away from this. I find her blue-eyed gaze. I’ve stared into those eyes for minutes on end, yet it feels like, in this moment, I’m seeing them for the very first time.

“Cleo, I’m—” I say, but she lifts her free hand and brings a finger to my lips. My skin is cooling off, yet heat radiates from deep within me.

“Don’t speak,” Cleo whispers. “Don’t say another word, please.” She swallows hard, then leans toward me. Then she waits.

It takes me a few seconds to realize she’s waiting for me to close the final gap between our lips. Then I do. I touch my lips to hers and as I do, as we kiss, a long-held tension inside of me collapses—as though I’ve finally set myself free of shackles only I had the key to.

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