Page 46 of Broken Chords
Chapter Nineteen
Allegrezza:joyfulness, cheerfulness
Charlie
A knock on my practice room door pulls my head up and around to see Damian’s face peeking in the window. He’s smiling. I smile back and squeeze around the piano to push the door open.
“Hey! You done?”
He nods, pulling me close for a hard kiss. “Done.”
“I take it you’re happy with the recording.”
“Yes. That’s the best I’ve ever played the Dvorák.”
Still propping the door open, I pull back an inch. “Perfect. I’m sure you’ll make the short list for the contest.”
He chuckles, a sound of self deprecation. “I don’t know about that. These things are fiercely competitive. But I should have a fighting chance. My cello professor was thrilled with my performance, so that’s good.”
“That’s awesome. Hang on. Let me grab my stuff and put away the piano. Then we can go celebrate.”
Damian stands in the door, propping it open while I slide my glasses back onto my face, pack my books and loose sheet music into my bag, close the keyboard cover, and fold down the music stand. “Alright. Let’s get out of here. Go crazy. We need to blow off some steam. Between midterms and you recording your audition, I have a ton of nervous energy I need to burn off. You?”
He grins. “Sounds good. What did you have in mind?”
Stepping past him as he holds the door for me, I look him up and down as he pulls it closed, testing to make sure the handle is locked before we head for the stairs. “How do you feel about dancing?”
He laughs, the sound echoing through the open staircase and wide lobby that’s more concrete walls and hard tile, giving plenty of hard surfaces for sound to bounce around the space. “It’s been a while since I’ve been dancing. But I’m up for it. Any particular place you have in mind?”
I nod, threading my arm through his as we walk down the stairs. “I found a salsa club downtown. They have lessons for five dollars and then open dancing. I’ve always wanted to learn to salsa. Let’s go. My treat.”
His grin is pure happiness. “Look at you, big spender.”
I shrug. “I don’t hear you turning me down.”
He laughs again, leading me to my car. “I’ll meet you at your house in about half an hour. If we’re going dancing, I need to change into something better. You should change too. Wear something with a twirly skirt.” His eyes skate down my body, bringing heat everywhere it touches at the possessive glint in his eyes. “If you have any of those tiny yoga shorts, wear those under the skirt. Unless you have an exhibitionist streak I don’t know about and you like flashing your panties while you dance.”
His voice dips low on the last sentence, making me want to squeeze my thighs together. “Thanks for the tip. I have some of those shorts.” My exhibitionist streak is strictly limited to quick costume changes backstage and the tiny, sparkly outfits picked for me for my shows. But all of those are designed to stay put so there aren’t any wardrobe failures in the middle of all the singing and dancing. I do not want pictures of my private parts splashed all over the internet. While my mom is always after more publicity, that isn’t the kind of publicity she wants either. I can’t say any of that out loud, though.
He nods. “Good. I’ll pick you up in thirty. We’ll grab a quick dinner, take the dance lesson, and go dancing.”
He waits until I’ve buckled myself in before he leans down, kisses me deeply, then pulls back and closes the door. Standing off to one side, he lifts a hand as I pull out of my parking spot and head for home.
Lauren’s car is in the driveway when I pull in, but she’s not in the living room when I get inside.
“Lauren! Do you have a twirly skirt? I don’t think I do.”
She pops out of her bedroom, eyeing me up and down. “A twirly skirt?”
“Damian and I are going dancing. He recorded his audition for the Gem State Concerto Competition today. He said it’s his best performance of the Dvorákyet. So we’re going out to celebrate.”
A few different emotions cross her face in the span of a second. “Good for him,” she says softly.
I stop in the middle of putting all my things away to really look at her, and it dawns on me what her problem is. “When do you record yours? Are you guys competing in the same category?”
She bites her lip and nods. “Yeah. Strings. I record tomorrow.”
“Oh.” Damn. I want them both to do well. But if they’re in the same category, if one wins, that means the other loses. I swallow. “Well, good luck.”
