Page 27 of The Duet

I pull Cleo close as our kiss deepens. She curls her arms around my waist. The tip of her tongue darts into my mouth. I groan in the back of my throat. She smells so fresh and clean, whereas I’m drenched in sweat from the show. I could see it as a metaphor for the difference in our ages, but I refuse to. Because all I want is to lose myself in this kiss. Free myself, the part of me that’s been holding onto all this grief and darkness, in Cleo’s arms.

Her hand sneaks under my top, her fingernails scrape along my back. My skin breaks out in goose bumps. She’s lighting a long-lost fire in me. Because I may have been with other women since Joan died, but none of them have made me feel like this. And Cleo and I are only just kissing.

I know that in this kiss we carry over a lot of what goes on between us on stage. Maybe it’s even a logical consequence of singing that song together. I’m sure this kiss means very different things to each of us because we are different people in very different stages of our lives, but fuck, it feels so good to hold Cleo in my arms. To renew this kiss again and again, to allow myself to choose this pleasure again and again, because a pleasure it is. Pure joy courses through me as our lips lock and our tongues dance. Her hand snakes higher up my back. My top’s riding up. Does she want to remove it? Does she want to take this a step farther?

Post-show sex is just a fond memory for me now, although I wouldn’t mind refreshing it. There’s nothing like adding an orgasm to the blissful high that’s so unique to performing. The combination of the two used to be somewhat of an addiction.

But when I lower my hand to Cleo’s behind, her phone’s buzzing in her back pocket. And there’s an insistent knock on my door. We have obligations and my days for a quick, exhilarating fuck backstage are long gone. Touring has changed. Everything is timed—and time is money.

“Oh, fuck,” I moan into her mouth.

“I have to go,” Cleo says.

“I need to get ready for… stuff.” I don’t have my full wits about me yet. I just want to pull Cleo back to me, plant my lips on hers again, because, by god, doing so felt even better than performing.

“Can I come to your room later?” she asks.

“Yes.” I nod vigorously. “We should probably talk.”

She looks me square in the eye, a hint of smile on her lips. “I’m not coming to your room to talk, Lana.”

Jesus. This girl. How did I even resist her for this long?

As though saying it isn’t enough, she kisses me again. It’s soft yet full of intention, full of all the things she brings to the stage. She’s right. More talking is the last thing I want to do.

“I’m going now,” she says, but instead of leaving, she kisses me again, as though now that we’ve started, stopping would be foolish.

“Go,” I urge her when we break for air. “We have all night.”

She gazes deep into my eyes as she flicks the tip of her tongue over her lips, and I can feel it all the way in my core.

“Go,” I repeat, because someone—probably Andy—is still knocking on my door, although I want her to stay right where she is.

She nods and without saying another word, opens the door.

“Oh,” Andy says after Cleo has strutted past him, “I thought you were in the shower.” He gives me a once-over. “But you haven’t showered yet.”

I glance behind him at Cleo making her way to wherever she needs to be, wondering what on earth I have unleashed in myself.

Cleo keeps texting that she’s on her way up, but she’s been doing that for the past forty-five minutes and she still hasn’t materialized. She’s leaving me too much time to think this through. I don’t know what to do with myself. I’ve re-arranged my hair a dozen times. I even switched T-shirts, which is utterly ridiculous. I know that all Cleo will want to do as soon as she walks through my door is hoist whatever top I’m wearing over my head and be done with it.

I stand in front of the mirror and take a good look at myself. I’m not going into this blind with lust. I know who I am, and I know who Cleo is. The biggest difference with last night, when I gave her my little speech—when I was still able to do that—is that I’m allowing myself whatever it is that’s going to happen between us. And something is going to happen. The anticipation beats wildly in my veins.

Where is she? Did she get a better offer? I grin at my reflection. With the way Cleo was going on about me last night, and how she sang to me earlier on stage, it’s highly unlikely.

Cleo is so many things for me. She’s the woman I sing a song with. She’s a performer who I have the same chemistry with as I had with my late wife. She’s the stunning front woman of an amazing band. She’s a person who has loved our music for a long time. She’s gorgeous and gifted and a hell of a singer. All these things have played their part in bringing me to this point.

Another text.

One minute away, it says.

I take a deep breath, and another. I’m doing this. I’m going to let Cleo into my room, and we won’t be doing a lot of talking.

There’s a soft knock. I can’t rush to the door quickly enough.

“Hey.” Already, Cleo looks so different to me—like the woman I want more than anything else.

I pull her inside.

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