In Harmony (8 page)

There was enough of a mixture of fashion that Natasha, Clarissa and Jasmine just about blended in. I, in my jeans, boots and sweatshirt, looked decidedly underdressed. And hot. I shrugged off my thick, winter coat, debated, then took off my sweatshirt and hung the whole bundle over a bar stool. That left me in the strappy top I’d been wearing underneath, which showed more skin than I was used to.

“Anyone see the target?” asked Jasmine. She was working her way through the
24
boxed set, in between episodes of
CSI
. Her dream role was a part in a police drama.

I searched the crowd. “No,” I said, worried. What if he didn’t show up? I looked at my watch—I needed him on board and in Harman’s office in less than twelve hours. Could he be in his dressing room? Did they even
have
dressing rooms, in a place like this?

“I’ll do a sweep,” Jasmine told us. “You three work the bar.” And she was gone into the crowd, male heads turning to follow her.

Clarissa sighed and led us off to the bar to get beers. I made the mistake of standing between them and that left me feeling short and graceless. They had confidence and style and legs that went on forever, and I had…what, exactly? Music. And that was in danger of being ripped away from me.

At that moment, the band finished their last track and the room erupted into applause. As they launched into their Facebook, Twitter and buy-our-music plug, I suddenly saw him waiting by the side of the stage.

He was in the same tight jeans he wore at Fenbrook, but he’d stripped down to a black vest. A cherry red electric guitar was slung around his neck, its varnish gleaming.

The band cleared the stage and he stepped on. There was polite applause, and then that Belfast twang I was getting to know came through the PA. “Thank you, thank you. I’m Connor Locke. This is called
Ruth.
”

And then, for the first time ever, I heard him play.

When I first learned to drive a car, I was incredibly nervous. I had to think about every movement, run through checklists in my head to make sure I was braking when I should, checking the mirrors when I should. Years later, the movements had become automatic, but they were still precise and controlled. Turn head left. Look in mirror. Indicate. Pull out. My playing was the same—every movement had to be exactly right.

Connor’s playing wasn’t like that at all. It was…
lazy.
Not bad-lazy. Relaxed-lazy. Lazy like driving with one hand on the wheel and the other around a girl.
Effortless.

Something stabbed through me, something totally unexpected. It took me a few seconds to realize that it was jealousy.
That’s ridiculous! It’s a completely different style of music, on a completely different instrument.

And yet…did I ever look that relaxed and carefree while playing?

The music surprised me, too. I’d been expecting thrashy guitar solos, but this was slow and almost sad. As he got to the end of the intro, he leaned forward and started to sing.

I was right at the back of the crowd, near the bar. I took a step forward, to see around a tall guy.

Long way from home, plane ticket and a guitar

Twenty dollars, four leaf clover and the courage of youth

Met you rum-drunk and said I was a rock star

You kissed me, made me coffee and said your name was Ruth.

Ruth.
The tattoo on his arm said “Ruth.” His voice was incredible, his Irish lilt turning the words into little silk-wrapped shots of hard silver that soared and curved and then hit you in the heart.

The music was all deep, rolling chords, smooth as butter, and then his hand suddenly whipped down the strings and the guitar wailed as he launched into the chorus. He had his eyes closed now, which meant I got to look at his face properly without worrying about him looking back at me.

His hair was messy, as usual, like he’d run a hand through it and declared it ready. It looked soft and glossy, like it’d feel amazing against the sensitive sides of your fingers if you stroked through it.

I hadn’t noticed before how long his lashes were. They softened what would otherwise be a hard face, with his strong jaw and angular cheekbones. With his eyes closed—just for a second—he looked vulnerable.

I was bad for you, you were bad for me

Twisted love, needed my daily fix of you

Everyone said it but we couldn’t see

Held your hand, you cried but you knew it was true

I realized with a shock that I was at the front of the crowd. How had that happened? I’d only meant to move past one person, to get a better look! I’d just kept pushing through without being aware of it, as if drawn to—

That’s stupid,
I reasoned.
Of course I wasn’t.

And then Connor opened his eyes and saw me. I looked around in a panic, resisting the urge to run and hide. The top I was wearing suddenly felt flimsy and insubstantial. Every square millimeter of my exposed skin was alive and tingling. And then I met his gaze.

The first thing I saw was surprise. He actually blinked, as if not quite believing it was me. Then, as he continued to sing, he threw me a questioning look. There was none of the swagger and arrogance I’d seen at Fenbrook. This was simple and direct:
What do you want?
But there was a little of that Irish sparkle in his eyes, too. Did he like the fact I was there? No, that was crazy. More likely it amused him.

He held my gaze and I swallowed. I felt like I was inching out over thin ice with nothing but cold blackness below. I wanted to flee back to the safe world I’d always known.

But there was nothing to go back to. He was my only hope.

My head seemed to weigh about a thousand pounds, but I forced myself to inch my chin up and stare levelly back at him. I swore I saw him blink again, as if he wasn’t ready for that.

And then a smile touched his lips, and he gave me just the tiniest hint of a nod, as if he approved.

The song ended, and there were cheers and applause and stamping feet. I forgot to clap, and he didn’t seem to acknowledge the audience at all for a second, still staring into my eyes.

Then he looked away, and I did too, my face going hot for no reason whatsoever. He smiled and waved to the crowd, back to being the performer again—if he’d ever stopped. More likely, that momentary connection had been my imagination.

I looked up just in time to see him disappear through a doorway behind the stage. A bored-looking guy was sitting in a plastic chair, half-blocking the doorway and watching warily for interlopers. I hurried back to the bar.

“I have to get backstage,” I told Natasha.

“Like a groupie?” asked Jasmine. “I can see why. He’s even better when he sings.”

“I don’t
like
him. I just need to get backstage,” I told her.

“Like a groupie.”

“
Not
like a groupie.” I sighed. “Okay, okay, how do groupies get backstage?”

Jasmine grinned. “Well, traditionally they—”

Clarissa slapped a hand over her mouth. “This is
Karen.”

“What?” I asked, bemused.

Natasha took me by the hand and pulled me away from the others. “Come on. We’ll figure something out.” We started wending our way through the crowd towards the stage and then around it to the door.

She headed straight for the doorway, as if she hadn’t even noticed the guy in the chair. For a moment, I thought we were going to make it. Then the guy put his arm across to stop her. “Performers only,” he told her.

Natasha looked down at him as if he was mad. “I am a performer,” she told him. “We’re the dancers.”

The man shook his head. “It’s all bands tonight. No dancers.”

Natasha smiled down at him. “We’re on at the end. It’s a last minute thing.” And then, without any apparent effort, she lifted one elegant leg and planted her foot on the wall behind his head, as if she was standing at the barre. Her skirt fell away from her thighs, as if by accident, and I saw the guy’s eyes flick to the bare flesh before he could stop himself. “We just need to get limbered up,” she told him. “Don’t we?”

I realized that was meant for me. “Yes,” I managed. “We have to stretch.” And I did my loose interpretation of a calf stretch, almost falling over in the process.

The guy in the chair had probably been guarding the door, or ones like it, for a decade. He knew all the tricks and had heard all the lies.

But at that moment, a ballerina’s thigh was six inches from his cheek.

“Okay,” he told us, nodding. “The room at the end’s free.” And he dropped his arm to let us past.

“How did you do that?” I asked in awe when we were out of earshot.

Natasha looked at me pityingly. “We really do need to get you out more, don’t we?” She hugged me, then pointed me down the corridor. “Good luck. I’ll see you back in the bar.” And before I could stop her, she was gone.

Part of me wished she’d stayed. But maybe it was better I meet Connor alone—it was going to be agonizing enough without an audience.

There were only three rooms off the corridor. One was a restroom. One was dark and empty. The last door was firmly closed. I raised my hand to knock, and then stopped.

What on earth was I going to say?

“I think we can help each other,” I said out loud, trying it out. Except…could I really help him? He was going to be doing me a big favor, but what could I offer in return?

Maybe I could appeal to his ego. “I thought you were amazing out there,” I tried. And then wanted to stab myself, because it sounded so fake. The annoying thing was, he really
had
been good. I just didn’t know how to say it.

“Remember how you caught me, when I fell?” I tried. “Well, I kind of need you to—”

“I like the second one,” said Connor.

I whipped around. He’d been standing behind me, having come in the same way I had.

“But you’re—” I pointed at the closed door.

“I went out there to look for you.” He had that look again, curious and amused. “So…what do you need my help with?"

***

He took me into the dressing room, which was fine. Then he closed the door, which wasn’t fine at all. As soon as the door closed, everything felt different. Alone with him suddenly became
alone with him.

My entire life felt like it was teetering on the brink: my future, because without his help I didn’t have one; my past, because without his help it had all been a waste.

He pointed me to a stool, its peeling seat patched with tape. As soon as I sat down, he moved over to me and I tensed as he drew close….

Very
close, his body inches from mine as he leaned over me. Our faces were almost touching.
Oh my God! Is he going to—

The rubbery gasp of a refrigerator door opening behind me, and the clink of bottles. And then he was leaning back and offering me a beer.

You idiot,
I told myself angrily. I took the bottle without thinking, and sat there shredding the label.

“So,” he said, opening his beer. “Here you are in my dressing room.” Again, that Irish lilt making everything sound innocent, yet filthy.

There was no delaying it any longer. I took a deep breath. “The recital…you haven’t chosen your piece yet.”

He shrugged. “Didn’t seem much point.”

“I need you to do it. With me.”

He paused, genuinely thrown by that. “Like a duet?”

“Yes. A duet.”

“You know I play
guitar
? Electric guitar. Not violin or piano or…you know. Anything that goes with a cello.”

I was surprised, for a second, that he even knew what instrument I played. Weirdly, a part of me felt flattered. Then I realized that a cello was pretty hard to miss, and I’d been carrying it on my back my whole time at Fenbrook. Of course he’d know that.

“It’s sort of an emergency,” I said. And I told him about Dan.

When I’d finished, he got up. “But why not just skip it? You’re Miss Uber-Geek—no offence. You can’t need the grades.” And then he peeled off the vest he’d been wearing.

His narrow waist flowed up into a powerful back layered with muscle and broad shoulders that reminded me of an athlete—maybe a boxer. He didn’t look like the pretty-boy male model types Jasmine posted on her Facebook page. He looked somehow raw and real, his muscles for use, not show. He was lean rather than huge, everything tight and defined, his stomach hard with muscle.

“It
is
my dressing room,” he told me.

I realized my mouth was open. Had I gasped? I had a nasty feeling I had. I tried to focus. “I had some issues with my presentations,” I told him. “I need a good recital, or I won’t graduate.” I stared at his arms. There was another tattoo above the Ruth one, a tangled clump of barbed wire, and I wondered what it meant.

He looked around for something. Hopefully a t-shirt. I was trying to keep my eyes off his upper half, but that left me starting at his crotch. “But the recital’s not for months,” he said as he searched. “And I’d have to be here to do it….”