RUSH (City Lights, #3)(71)

“No puns in my presence!” Regina strode up. She held a tall glass filled with ice and bubbles. “Noah Lake,” she said, holding the drink to him. “Pellegrino with lime because this is a fancy f*cking party.”

He took it with thanks and my heart felt ready to explode with happiness…until Regina turned to me. “Conroy. You’re up. Let’s do this.”

My joy turned to nerves, and I felt Noah’s hand slip into mine as the radio music went silent. Regina announced to the room that the entertainment portion of the party was about to begin. Noah took his sunglasses off, leaned in, and kissed me softly and that was all the reassurance I needed.

Regina, a pianist, had an old Steinway set up next to the makeshift stage. On the stage itself were three little fold-up chairs and a drum set. I grabbed my violin case and took a seat next to Melanie who propped her cello against her knee while we rosin-ed up our bows. After a hug for me, Mike Hammond (who really was the spitting image of Rob Thomas) took up behind his drums, while Felicia Strickland, in braids, black vinyl, and combat boots, tuned her guitars—one electric, one acoustic.

The knowing smile was back on Melanie’s face. “So. You and Mr. Lake seem really cozy. How’s that going?”

“Slowly,” I said. “We’re taking it slowly. Or trying to. For lots of reasons.”

“The least of which, you work for him and you live together.”

“There’s that,” I said and chose not to elaborate.

“I’m assuming you followed my talk-to-him advice? Or was it the good old ‘put-his-hands-on-your-boobs’ trick after all?”

I laughed incredulously. “What is with you tonight? You’re smiling like a fiend.”

“I can’t smile?”

“You don’t smile,” I corrected. “Not this much. What’s up?”

“Sssshh,” Melanie winked. “Show’s about to start.”

Regina had quieted down the crowd, and my stomach lurched to see the entire party—more than fifty people—staring at us in anticipation. My eyes sought Noah. He’d put his sunglasses back on and stared straight ahead, but I could tell by his body language he was listening intently.

“Ladies and gents,” Regina began, “if you’ve been to one of my parties before, you know how we roll: your favorite TV themes played at your request by my own in-house band, so to speak. You’ll notice the lack of sheet music in front of me and my peeps. That’s because this is musical improv and if we don’t know it, we’ll fake it. And if we can’t fake it, we drink!”

Cheers and whistles from the crowd.

“If you haven’t been to one of my parties before, prepare to have your ear drums fellated—oh, I mean blown by the talent assembled here tonight.”

Regina introduced us, and I realized at that moment how much I missed being among my own kind, on a stage, working in part to create something together.

“So, without further ado…who’s got a request?”

“Game of Thrones!” someone in the back called.

“Naturally,” Regina sat on her piano bench facing out, as she didn’t need to play this round. “Melanie…if you would?”

Quickly, I mentally recalled the theme, listening to the music so that the notes arranged themselves in my mind as if on sheet music. Melanie looked around at us, as the cello took the lead. We all nodded our readiness and she began to play the first strains. I came in on the second stanza with the descant, a higher echo of her undertone. We played the first movement, then again the second time with Mike’s bass drum and Felicia’s guitar. Then the theme repeated, this time with my violin rising and taking over from Melanie’s cello.

We were far from a whole ensemble, but I thought we nailed it. And when it ended and the cheers and applause were filling the loft, I realized I’d had fun. More than fun. I was performing again, making my violin sing for a rapt audience. I felt the old thrill of it, and hope swelled. Maybe, I thought, it’s not lost after all.

We went on like this for an hour or so, with Regina playing a haunting solo rendition of the X-Files theme on her piano. Felicia plugged in her electric guitar and we did a cover of the The Munsters that drew a noise complaint from the neighbors. We tried—and failed miserably—to recreate the Simpsons theme, but that song had too much going on, and we were all forced to drink a peppermint Schnapps shot as punishment. Finally, we closed the round with The Walking Dead.

The crowd went crazy and I had a moment of panic trying to recall my part until Regina produced her own violin and began the theme, and I found the right note. I played the eerie whine right on cue and the place erupted again.

“Not bad, Conroy,” Regina said. “I think you’ve got a future in this business.”

She moved off to attend her guests and Melanie swooped right in. “I’m proud of you.”

“I feel good,” I whispered. “I feel…almost like I was.”

She clapped her hands to her mouth. “Oh, Charlotte. That’s wonderful. That’s everything.”

I rejoined Noah and Anthony—and Zach. I sighed gratefully to sink onto the couch. Noah held my hand but said nothing, a strange little smile on his face.

“Char!” Anthony cried. “I never knew! Girl, you gotta get on stage.” He looked to Melanie who’d joined us. “All of you. Start your own symphony if you have to.”