Page 38 of Counterpoint and Harmony

Chapter Twenty

Run:a rapid series of notes which are closely spaced in pitch, forming a scale, arpeggio, or other such pattern

Damian

Good luck!

The text from Charlotte makes me smile as I follow the woman at the check-in table for the competition down the hall to a practice room. I have twenty minutes to warm up before my audition time.

She gives me a polite smile as she opens the door to a closet-sized room complete with piano, piano bench, a stand, and a black orchestra chair. “Someone will be back for you when it’s time for your audition.”

“Thanks.”

With a nod, she turns and strides away, the sound of her heels retreating down the long hallway back to the entrance. Stepping inside the tiny room, I set down my case before gently closing the door, sealing myself in with my thoughts.

Last night I played through the first movement of the Dvorákin the hotel, mindful to keep my volume low out of courtesy to my neighbors. Dinner with Charlie and Lauren—Natalie didn’t join us for some reason—had been fun and relaxing, just what I needed before the stress of today.

I haven’t seen anyone this morning. Charlie insisted last night that Lauren and I order room service for breakfast so we could be focused on our performances and not have to navigate the hotel restaurant on top of trying to make it on time. She’d arranged everything, in fact, including having a car service to take us to and from the university hosting the competition. My scheduled time is forty-five minutes before Lauren’s, so we’re taking separate cars.

Undoing the latches on my case, I open it and slide my cello out, retrieving and tightening my bow, settling into my seat before pulling out the rosin to give the hair a few swipes. I start, as always, with long, slow scales. Emptying my head of all distractions. The notes line up easily, falling under my fingers, my bow drawing each one out, the instrument vibrating against my chest and between my knees.

Soon I move on to the concerto. I don’t give it a full, performance quality run-through. Just touching parts. The opening. A couple tricky spots in the middle. The ending.

When I check the time, I have about five minutes left before someone should be coming to get me. So I play simple stuff from memory just to keep the blood flowing and my hands warm. One of the pieces Charlie and I played during our first couple of dates comes to me, and I smile at the memory. Playing through it, I laugh, hearing in my head the terrible clashing chords she came up with. The way she transposed everything up a third so we played in two different keys at the same time, creating a weird effect that was sometimes pretty and sometimes cringeworthy.

Caught up in the memory, in the way it seems to bring Charlie’s presence to me, I don’t notice that they’re running late until the knock sounds on my door and a guy with spiky dark hair pokes his head in. “You’re up next. Follow me.”

Grabbing my phone, I realize I’ve been playing Suzuki pieces for more than ten minutes. At least I’m not stressing about my performance.

Two hours later, I’m back in my hotel room, restless and coming down off the high of delivering what was probably the best performance of my life.

Apparently warming up with Suzuki tunes and fond memories of playing them with Charlie puts me in the right headspace to perform.

The judges, as always, gave nothing away. But I recorded my performance on an app on my phone and listened to it afterward. I also sent it to Dr. Weber once I got back to my room. He emailed back right away with, “Awesome! Congrats!” As though my winning is a done deal.

I know Lauren’s going to give me a run for my money, though. Still, I hope it’s me.

Feeling caged in my room, I make a spur of the moment decision and head down the hall.

After a quick knock on the door, it opens to reveal Charlie. When she sees me, her eyes light up and a wide smile stretches across her face. “Hey! Come in.”

My own face stretches into an answering smile, and I step inside.

“Well? How’d it go?” she asks as she closes the door.

A low laugh escapes me. I’m happier than I’ve been in a really long time. “Great. That’s probably the best I’ve ever played the Dvorák. The best I’ve ever played anything.”

Her response to that is to launch herself at me, her arms going around my neck as she lets out a happy squeal. “I’m so proud of you!”

My arms wrap around her out of instinct, but I don’t let go, enjoying the feel of her body against mine. She’s slimmer than she was before, but still curvy. Almost without my consent, my hands slide down her sides, over the swell of her hips, my palms finding their way to her ass.

Her breath catches as she looks up at me, her initial excitement morphing into something else. Something far more pliant. And seductive.

Ducking my head, I take her lips in a kiss. I don’t really mean for it to be a long, deep kiss, but that’s what happens. She responds immediately, kissing me back, pressing herself against me, her arms tightening around my neck.

I don’t remember whose tongue gets involved first, or maybe we do it at the same time, but our tongues are sliding together, mine sweeping inside her mouth before retreating and letting her into mine. It’s not a duel, neither of us fighting the other for control. More like a dance. Give and take, moving in time together.

We always did seem to find our rhythm quickly. Whether it was music, dancing, or making love.

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