Two Cellos

"What? No!" Imaani laughed. "I just wanted to give you guys some space. I'm glad business is booming. Are you free tomorrow afternoon? I'll come over for an hour and then pick up Natasha from school."

Soon, music teachers from different public and private schools in the area were calling the academy and requesting the trio to play assemblies for them. Some school boards that were further away offered them a nominal fee to stay in motels overnight while they hit every school in the area. Ethan and Quinn were booked solid with online classes just days after each performance.

Another month later, Quinn introduced Imaani to Claire, a diminutive Asian woman with full tattooed sleeves down both arms, and a black, electric violin she wielded like a wizard. It was instant chemistry the very first song the four of them played together.

"We met in symphony," Claire told Imaani after the session, her extroverted demeanor a welcome complement to Imaani's shyness. "I was one of maybe three women Quinn didn't sleep with."

"I was one of three guys you didn't sleep with," Quinn shot back, laughing but with a crimson blush creeping up his neck. "It was nowhere near that bad, Imaani," he tried explaining to his partner whose eyebrows were arched in amusement.

"Claire loves to exaggerate everything. I dated two other musicians in symphony and married one of them. It lasted a couple of years and I think she's married to one of our guest conductors now."

"Nah, she's done with him," Claire said, taking out her bow and examining the horse hairs stretched across it. "She got an offer to play in Paris and off she went. I told you trumpet players were fast, Quinn, but you wouldn't listen."

Claire's harmonies gave the group the fuller sound Imaani didn't realize they'd been missing. The added instrument also gave Quinn and Imaani the chance to produce a more complete bass line between them while Claire took the lead in faster songs that a violin could maneuver easier than a cello.

It'd been about five months since that first concert at Natasha's school. They were on their way three hours north to play for kids in a handful of towns. It would be something of a road trip that would span almost four days.

Imaani thought Clayton wouldn't let her go, but she was thrilled when he encouraged her to take the trip, saying he would take a few days off to care for Natasha.

Ethan told them he would come up on his own early the following morning, and Claire had an afternoon rehearsal with the symphony after which she was going to drive up on her own. Imaani wasn't comfortable driving across the snowy expanse of northern Ontario as she'd lived her entire life as a city girl near Toronto, so she was grateful when Quinn asked her if she wanted to carpool.

"Did you really have to rent this monster?" she asked him as he backed a massive Ford Flex into her driveway. She stood off to the side with her duffel bag and sleeping bag, and of course, her cello case. A frigid January wind blew across her face and she instinctively ducked deeper down into her bubble jacket.

Quinn stopped the truck and opened the hatch, taking his partner's cello from her. He was surprisingly strong for such a lean guy, she thought, as he knelt into the back to lift his own instrument with one arm and shift hers in with the other.

"I got there late and it's all they had left that would fit our stuff," he explained. Plus, if Ethan doesn't have room in his car, we can pick up a few drums and help him out." After they stopped by the academy to do just that and texted Ethan to let him know which pieces they took, they were speeding up the 400 series of highways.

They were a little south of Barrie when the snow started swirling and quickly picked up into a full-on squall. Quinn slowed down and turned on the high beams, thinking it would clear up in a few minutes but soon the combination of snow and the darkening sky made for near whiteout conditions.

"Quinn, just pull over and we can wait it out," Imaani told him. He grimaced and hit the hazard lights as he went over onto the shoulder, parked, and turned off the engine.

"The car's already toasty and I don't want the big bass skin to be affected by excess heat," he explained, taking off his seatbelt and turning to her. "Good thing we took a break at the last rest stop, huh?" he added, picking up his coffee.

"It might be a longer break than we think," Imaani said, trying to see more than a few metres past the front bumper. The snow was already piling up on the hood.

"I'm fine with that," Quinn winked at her with an easy smile and unzipped his parka. "Now I get to hear all about your fascinating day." Imaani swallowed her mouthful of orange pekoe tea before grinning.

"You mean working from home? Oh, well, let's see," she started. "Between calls with developers and architects, I did all the house cleaning I've been putting off because of our shows."

"I still can't believe someone with an artistic soul like yours works in IT for a bank of all things," Quinn said. "It's so..."

"Stable? Lucrative? Important for Black girls in STEM fields to see some representation?"

"Yes. Yes. I was going to say all those things and I wasn't going to mention how sinfully boring it sounds," Quinn nodded vigorously.

"It's also sinfully boring," Imaani admitted. "Which is why the highlight of my day was sheeting the bed." Quinn laughed mid-sip and spent the next 30 seconds coughing, which made Imaani spring forward to rub his chest and back.

"Oh my gosh, I'm so sorry," she apologized. He was mildly aware of the electric sensation that sparked down his body as soon as she touched him over his sweater, but tried to stop coughing first and foremost.

"Did you have to say it that way?" he finally asked between clearing his throat, still laughing. "You put fresh sheets on the bed."

"Exactly," she smirked, her hand still stroking his chest. "I sheeted the bed. You say 'I vacuumed the carpet' so why not use a noun as a verb here too?"

"Because!" Quinn giggled.

"Don't 'because' me, you native speaker," Imaani jokingly scolded him.

"Native speaker? How do you hear the last name 'Michaud' and think my first language was English?"

"Well, French is also highly respected here in Canada," Imaani countered. "They put me in English as a Second Language classes as a kid because I still had a slight Swahili accent. But I spoke perfect English! So you better come up with a proper rule as to why I can't sheet the damn bed!"

That set Quinn off all over again and he fell back against the driver's seat backrest chuckling between the occasional cough.

Imaani enjoyed the sight of him letting go and waited until he finally settled down, his cheeks slightly pink. She took a sip of her tea and peered at him overtop the rim.

"Wow, talk about losing your sheet."

Quinn collapsed against the steering wheel with fresh laughs, his face now fully crimson.

"It's not even that funny, Red," Imaani said, amused.

"It is when you love stupid puns," Quinn replied, breathless and wiping away a tear. Suddenly, his smile faded. "Hey, did you turn off the hazards?" he asked his partner. "Or did I when I had a fit just now?" He pressed the dashboard buttons with no response from the car. "Oh, no, no, no," he muttered, turning the key in the ignition, just to hear the engine wheeze repeatedly.

Tabarnac, he swore inwardly in the Québecois vernacular, frantically trying the key again as it became clear the car battery had died. Imaani was already on the phone calling CAA's roadside service, but grimaced and sighed, resting the phone in her lap.

"There's a prerecorded message," she told Quinn. "There's already a 4-hour wait for towing, flat tires, and battery boosts." She put the phone to her ear again and spoke to someone about getting on the waiting list, telling them what vehicle they were in and their approximate location.

"I know it's all we can do, but we're stuck here and the car is going to cool down fast," Quinn said. "Maybe I can walk back to the rest stop."

"Are you kidding me?" Imaani asked in horror. "You'd be risking your life in the dark, especially if some car doesn't see you walking along the shoulder." She paused, then turned toward the back of the truck and sighed. "I guess this is where my Girl Guide training comes in handy." Quinn wasn't sure if she was joking again.

"You were a Girl Guide?" he smirked.

"I know, it was the whitest activity I could have picked but my best friends were in a troupe and so I..." she shrugged. "Anyway, we learned survival training on camping trips. It's minus-15 out there today, Red. We have to make a plan now before we get too cold. Leave your shoes and jacket here in the front seat and follow me into the back."

Quinn was perplexed but at least one of them knew what to do in an emergency, he reasoned. He managed to scrunch his frame enough to scoot into the massive cargo area, where Imaani was already opening up her sleeping bag. She instructed him to move the instruments over enough that they had room to spread it out, then unzipped the side.

"Is this far enough to the--" Quinn turned around, only to see Imaani taking off her sweater while seated in the sleeping bag, then moving to lift off her t-shirt over her head. "What--Imaani, what--" he swiveled to look away from her, dumbstruck, his face growing hot. When he slowly turned his head again, she was clad only in a black bra and matching panties.

"Relax, Red," she told him. "Four hours is enough to freeze in this weather, so we have to share our body heat while we still have it. Take off everything but your underwear and get in here with me. This is a quality winter sleeping bag that I bring on trips like this, just in..."

Quinn stopped hearing any words after she'd ordered him to strip and get into bed with her.

"Red!" Imaani exclaimed, snapping him out of his stupor. "Hurry and get in here; I'm already chilly. And bring your clothes. We can stuff them at the bottom so we're not putting on freezing cold clothing when help finally shows up."

Quinn started to mechanically take off his sweater, clearly distracted. Part of his brain wondered how he would hide his partial erection from his partner, while the other part drank in the smoothness of her mahogany skin and the fullness of her breasts. Goddamn, she's even more stunning than I thought. The warm light of the setting Sun in the distance made her complexion glow further.

Imaani, meanwhile, was turned away and obliviously pulling on a knitted toque over her head. While she rummaged around to find an extra one for Quinn, he thought he would die as she pointed her perfectly round rump toward him.

He was now at full mast and down to his boxers, strategically holding his discarded clothes against his groin. He quickly darted into the sleeping bag as Imaani held it open.

"Is it alright if I get close?" she asked him after she pushed his things deep down in the bag.

Hestie de câlisse de tabarnac! Quinn screamed in his mind, his face keeping an even expression. Imaani was slim but her rear and hips curved out into strong, toned thighs.

Quinn couldn't stop thinking about her butt and imagined what it would be like to press his arousal against it as he spooned her. Then he thought about her fingers in his hair and her legs wrapped around his waist while he buried himself deep inside her. Fuck, you idiot, stop it! She's married!

"Well, is it?" Imaani asked again. "I know it's awkward, Red, but we're going to have to do this eventually and it'll be more effective when we're not half-frozen." She pulled out his arm and curled up against his side, tucking her face partway down into the sleeping bag.

Quinn didn't think it was possible but he got even harder when he felt her warm breath flow across his bare chest. He clenched his jaw as she put one of her impossibly smooth legs over his and one arm across his torso.

"Don't make me feel weird about this, Red; you can hold me too," Imaani said, finally sensing his discomfort. "If we put our legs together, it will help stop our toes from getting too cold."

"No!" Quinn scrambled away, alarmed that she would feel his erection if her knees travelled too far north.

"Okay, okay, relax, dude," Imaani was taken aback. "Here I thought you were the free-wheeling artist who bedded half the symphony, and you're feeling shy with just me?" Quinn couldn't help but think her smile was the brightest light in the quickly darkening vehicle.

"I'm relieved, to be honest. I'm usually the shyest one in most rooms," Imaani added. When Quinn still wouldn't look her in the eye, she tried another idea.

"Turn the other way," she ordered. "I'll spoon you and we'll have maximum body contact that way." That's the worst way to do this, except for all the other terrible ways we could do this, Quinn considered. At least she won't feel me standing at attention. He turned to his side and protectively placed his hand beneath his navel.

Imaani fit her knees to the back of his, her abdomen against his butt, and finally snaked her arm between his arm and torso while pressing her breasts to his back. Quinn bristled at the realization that her stiff nipples were poking into his skin.

She's just cold, you asshole! he shouted at himself, wondering what he had done to deserve this torture. Okay, okay, think of Bach's Cello Suite 1 in G major... think about the Marcello sonatas... his left hand moved as if on his cello's fingerboard. He squeezed his eyes shut and played the music in his mind's eye until he was softly humming it.

"What's going on, Red?" Imaani's silky breath warmed the nape of Quinn's neck. "I didn't think you were anywhere near this conservative. Think about it like us avoiding a hospital visit for hypo--"

"Imaani, I've had a crush on you since our first lesson together." The words tumbled out of Quinn's mouth before he could stop them. He swore he could feel her stiffen, but she didn't move.

"Oh," she said after an excruciating silence. "I... I had no idea. I probably should have in the last few minutes alone, though." They both gave a weak laugh and fell back into an awkward pause.

"I thought I had it under control and I did," Quinn went on. "Seeing you every week and jamming together was enough for me, and it's been even nicer spending so much time together for concerts. I liked becoming friends and bandmates. I almost forgot about it until--"

"Until I started taking my clothes off," Imaani finished with a guilty nod. "Should I... should I move?"

"No, you were right, we have to do this to tide us over until the service truck shows up," he said. "I'm not going to do anything improper, but I just wanted you to know why I'm suddenly acting so strange. Any other excuse wouldn't make sense, honestly." Another long pause ensued while Imaani chose her words, her body frozen against Quinn's.

"Tell me about how you grew up," she finally said, tilting her face up to the dark red waves that brushed against his ear. Quinn turned his head slightly over his left shoulder, puzzled. "Well, we could become better friends or we could lie here in silence and dwell on the ridiculous level of awkwardness in this car," Imaani rationalized.

Quinn laughed and put his hand atop hers, which was resting loosely near his chest. He told her about how he and his sister grew up in rural Québec, and how he turned to music after his mother was killed in a hunting accident.

"She, uh--I'll spare you the details, but she was caught in a trap. It actually wasn't that bad an injury. But the problem was we couldn't save her because we lived so far away from the nearest hospital, and we couldn't get her there in time. I was with her in the back of the truck while my dad drove, and she went into shock."

Imaani winced, partly wondering how a little boy could survive watching that, and partly struck by the dispassionate way Quinn told her the story. He went on and said his mother's death because of lack of accessible medical care was the reason his dad moved him and his younger sister to bigger townships.

"What happened shortly after was my aunt--my dad's sister--lost her husband as well and she wasn't able to support herself," Quinn continued. "Their parents didn't really believe in educating girls, you know? So she moved in with us, and she was so, so loving. I was young enough to sort of transfer the love I had for my mom to her, if that makes any sense at all."

"It does," Imaani said softly. "I'm glad she was there for you."

Because his father worked logging jobs in the northern Ontario lumber industry, they moved every time a contract came to an end. When he was in sixth grade, Quinn said, his aunt convinced his dad to let him to learn the cello in school.

"I got half-decent at it in high school and holy hell was it a chick magnet." He felt Imaani's stomach quake in soft laughter against his lower back. "The trouble was they thought my game with girls matched my musical skills and they were sorely disappointed."

"Oh, come on," Imaani chided. "You're tall and cute." As soon as the words slipped out of her mouth, she bit her tongue and squeezed her eyes shut. "I mean--"

"No, no," Quinn stopped her. "I haven't had a beautiful woman tell me that in about 10 years. Please, regale me with more stories of how I'm tall and cute." He looked down at her lithe, molasses fingers entwined in his pale pink ones.

"I meant," Imaani laughed, "you could date as many women as you wanted if you made the effort."

"I'm a 38-year-old band geek, Imaani," he retorted. "I'm not sure what nightclub caters to this particular demographic." Imaani laughed even harder. "Besides," he continued, "I want someone I have a connection with at this point. I don't feel the need to have kids or anything, but I am way past the stage of picking up women just to get a bunch of phone numbers."

Another silence fell upon them but this time it was comfortable instead of uneasy. Quinn was relieved to find his soldier had gone back into his barracks, but his limbs were feeling a little strained.

"Okay, my turn," he said, taking Imaani's arm off his chest. "Your back will be cold if we don't switch." He felt his partner hesitate. "I swear, I will think of Margaret Thatcher naked on a cold day." Imaani burst out laughing and turned over onto her left with Quinn following suit.

"I suppose as the inside spoon I get to tell you my story now, huh?" she asked, moving her hair up and away from his face. The subtle aroma of vanilla oil on the nape of her neck infiltrated Quinn's brain, but he tried to shake it off.

"Please do, so I can stop imagining one of Britain's most hated PMs," he said out loud.

Imaani grinned, pulling her toque more snuggly over her head as he pressed his front to her back. She placed her hand atop his as it rested on her belly, and then told him about how her family immigrated from Kenya to Canada when she was a child.

"Remember when I said I was in ESL but spoke English pretty well?" she asked. "I also happened to be the only kid in my kindergarten class who could read, and I was reading books at the third-grade level. But somehow it was deemed I needed the extra help, over kids who couldn't even recognize letters yet."

"Sounds about white," Quinn nodded, remembering how unfairly the few Hispanic and Asian kids were treated when he was in public school several decades ago. "I'm guessing you had to work much harder than them to get basic praise from your teachers, too?"

"Sounds like you had non-white friends growing up," Imaani replied, relieved that Quinn was empathetic instead of offended at her bringing up racial inequity.

"They were the other band geeks," he murmured. "At least I was white; they were alienated in worse ways than I was. It dawned at me eventually that every one of us turned to music because of one or another form of loneliness." Quinn felt Imaani slightly tense up. "Full pun intended, but did I strike a chord there?"