Page 62 of The Duet

Chapter 37

Lana

It’s different calling Cleo to the stage now that we’ve been sleeping together for a few weeks—although sleeping really isn’t the right word to describe what we’ve been doing in all those hotel beds.

Behind a locked door, Cleo is every inch the person she is on stage. Seductive, confident, and always a little unpredictable. In addition to, I’ve come to find, utterly addictive.

“Please welcome—” The audience cheers so exuberantly, I don’t get the chance to say Cleo’s name. The crowd’s reaction to our encore has grown in intensity as much as our act has—although I can’t still call it a mere act. What Cleo and I do on stage is more than an act and that’s what the audience responds to. Sparks fly when we sing to each other. They did from that very first time, but those sparks have multiplied a thousandfold since.

I wait for the audience to quiet down, enjoying every single second of their reaction and how I get to play with it.

“The amazing, incomparable Cleo Palmer.” My voice bursts with pride. Most people present here must know about Cleo and me. In this day and age, a passionate kiss in a club no longer stays under the radar. The fans in the front row are beside themselves shouting Cleo’s name.

Cleo walks on with her usual irresistible swagger. I could swear that she still grows in confidence every night I call her out here. The Other Women’s gigs have taken on some of that mid-tour momentum as well, that sweet spot where it all seems to go so easily, when all band members operate on the same powerful wavelength.

When I told Cleo the other day she was getting better every time, she said it must be because she’s sleeping with the best in the biz. I kissed her for a good long while after she said that.

We start out the same way we’ve always done. I sing the first verse, making my voice as delicate as I can manage. It’s usually enough to silence the audience. Now that Cleo and I are all over each other every night, singing to each other is even more like the most exquisite foreplay—especially because we can’t touch each other apart from some on-stage antics, which only contribute to the sensation of it being the prelude to what’s to come after.

Cleo’s voice comes in for the first chorus. She sounds gorgeous again, holding back, keeping it inside for now so she can let it all out later. Oddly enough, we can be more disciplined about this now—maybe because we know, in our hearts, what will happen later. And how we really feel about each other. When you duet together as often as we do as well as sleep together, that other person really gets under your skin. Making music together can be like spilling all your secrets, like offering the other person a glimpse of what lurks deep inside your soul.

On stage, Cleo tells me many things she can’t or won’t say with mere words off stage. Since our first performance at the Hollywood Bowl, we’ve shattered all boundaries between us. We’ve fallen in love.

We keep our distance for Cleo’s solo in the second verse and even though I’ve seen her do this so many times, I can’t keep my eyes off her. Just like that first time we saw The Other Women in LA, my gaze is glued to her because watching Cleo is as much a feast for the eyes as listening to her is a party for my ears. She’s the whole package. She puts as much emotion into her voice as she does in how she carries herself and she has some moves I wouldn’t mind copying. But this song isn’t about spectacular moves or stage tricks. This song is a ballad about two people who should have kissed each other. It requires more stillness than bravado, more control than exuberance. This too, Cleo excels at—and not just on stage.

She looks deep into my eyes as she sings the last line of the verse, before sashaying up to me in that ravishing way of hers, hips swaying to an inaudible beat—a beat only our hearts can hear.

Cleo joins me at the mic for the next chorus. The audience screams as though they’ve all just won a million dollars, and we’ve learned to wait, to draw out this song, for them as well as for us. Because when I’m on stage with Cleo, I never want to leave.

This is the final song of the night, and I should be exhausted, but I don’t feel tired. Having her stand so close to me that I can hear her breath invigorates me, makes me forget that I’m close to dehydration and my muscles will require a vigorous massage to recover. It makes me forget the physical as well as the emotional discomfort of touring—as though, so many years later, I’m learning again what it’s all about. As though I’ve been injected with that reckless energy I used to have on our first tours and nothing else mattered but this. The song. The music. The moment. Joan always by my side. Deb and Sam always having my back. All that musical magic we created—because how else can I describe it when four individuals come together with their separate instruments and produce a sound that drives a crowd of people crazy?

What Cleo and I are doing now is like The Lady Kings in our early, heady days. And, of course, it feels this way because I’m in love. I’m besotted with Cleo. Right now, she’s the magic maker in my life. She makes me feel as though I have everything to live for again—as though I want to do this until the day I die.

Our voices tumble over each other, play hide-and-seek with each other, until we hit that perfect harmony, those few breathtaking notes before the grand finale of the song and the show.

We belt out the last chorus together. Our fingers meet and we hook them together before grabbing hold of each other’s hands—not to let go of any time soon. All the while, Cleo’s blue gaze is trained on me. All her delicious attention is on me.

“I should have kissed you long ago,” we sing in unison. We hold the last note, Cleo’s voice high and strong, mine low and gravelly with life and age.

In that split second between the song ending and the audience erupting again, I hold up my free hand and ask for silence.

“And then I did,” I say into the microphone.

The audience holds its collective breath. I close the last of the distance between Cleo and me. Inside, I’m smiling, bursting into the widest grin, while my lips find Cleo’s.

For everyone to see, I kiss her. I pull her close and press my lips to her. We might be on stage, but this is not a stage kiss. It’s real, releasing all the energy we created by singing this duet, and all the duets before. I open my mouth to Cleo and let her all the way in.

The crowd whoops and howls. I make out some applause from the wings. But I’m not doing this for anyone else. I’m doing this for us. For all the emotions that are blossoming in my heart.

I’m kissing Cleo because I should have kissed her long ago.

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