“Is this okay?” I asked, and she nodded.
“Hm,” she said rejoined her on the bed. “This doesn’t feel right, though.”
“What’s wrong?”
She smiled at me. “We’re not on a couch.”
I laughed and gave her a playful smack on the ass. I grabbed her waist with one hand, the middle of the toy with the other, and slowly guided it into both of us as I pressed my hips towards her.
Soon we’d gotten the toy all the way inside. Ken
dra grasped my hand where it held onto the dildo, and we worked a rhythm, pumping it in and out between us.
“Fuck,” I moaned, doing everything I could to delay my orgasm.
“Oh, fuck,” Kendra moaned. “Don’t stop. Don’t stop, I’m going to come soon…”
We kept going, our thighs pushing together, moving in perfect synchronization. Kendra cried out my name, and shouted that she was about to come. Climax hit me too, rocking over me like an unrelenting tidal wave of pleasure. We collapsed onto the bed together, the haze of the orgasm thrumming through my body. I wrapped her up in my arms and pulled her against my chest, nuzzling my nose into her neck.
“You tired?” I whispered to her.
She shook her head. “Are you?”
“Not one bit,” I said.
“Go again?”
“Go again,” I agreed.
That night, I learned just how much stamina drummers had.
Kendra continued to do her performances down at the Riverwalk, often spending the entire day there playing. Kaitlyn and Brianne joined her whenever they were free, and I would walk over whenever I needed to give my brain a break from work. In the evenings, Kaitlyn and Brianne would come over to the condo to practice for their upcoming show, sometimes with their girlfriends Emily and Margie in tow. The other girlfriends and I would drink wine, watch them practice, and then cook dinner, after which we’d all go to the garden terrace on the rooftop of the building and eat. There was a fire pit up there, and we’d lounge around together chatting about our lives. Occasionally, we invited Kaitlyn and Brianne’s group of friends to come over for dinner and drinks, and we’d all sit on the rooftop while the three musicians played for us.
Progress on my work was going better than I could’ve imagined. I was still in the planning phases, drawing out detailed charts and maps of how I wanted the system to run, but I was happy with the ideas I was coming up with. I also decided that if I was going to take this project all the way to greatness, I needed people to help me. I hired a user interface designer to help me with the visual aspects, and an assistant software engineer to bounce ideas off of for the code. I also gave Denise Hoover a call to ask if she would be available as a marketing and business consultant, and she agreed to come work on her off hours.
In the last few days leading up to the show, Kendra skipped going to the Riverwalk to stay at home and practice. I continued to work, using noise-canceling headphones so I could focus, and sometimes sat and listened to her while taking a break. Kendra was practicing her fundamentals, or rudiments, which I’d never seen her do before. The rudiments were a series of forty basic drumming patterns which formed the foundation for all the more complex stuff. All the playing I’d heard before had been loose and free, and her demeanor had matched that, but with these drills she became tensely focused. Her eyes never closed like they usually did when she got into the groove. I could see her grinding her teeth, her forehead dotted with sweat.
“Everything going alright?” I asked her, two days before the show. I set my headphones on top of a stack of prints of user interface mockups and went to the kitchen to pour the both of us glasses of water. Kendra sat at her drum set, looking weary and tired.
“It’s not perfect,” she said.
“What’s not?”
“Oh, nothing.” She sighed and wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. “I’m just struggling with the higher BPMs. I keep screwing up, not getting the tempo right. Dr. Adler always used to get on my case about it. I guess I’ll always have this issue.”
“Come on. You know that’s not true. Besides, you sound fucking amazing when you play your performances. Isn’t that what matters?”
“I shouldn’t be screwing up like this in the first place. I should be nailing it every time. I don’t know why I can’t.”
I handed Kendra the glass of water. “You’re thinking about him, I bet. Your old mentor.”
“I can’t help it. I bet every student her thoughts about what criticisms their teacher would say to them when they’re playing. It’s always in the back of the mind.”
“He’s not your teacher anymore. You don’t need to worry about what he’d think. Everything you do is from your own ability as a musician. I used to think about what my teachers would say too, and I had quite a few who I really respected. But after a while I realized, what good was that doing me? I was at a point where I knew my own skills. I knew what I was capable of, and knew my ideas were valid. I stopped making decisions based on what my teachers would’ve wanted me to do, and just did what I thought was right. And you know what happened? My teachers stopped being mentors and started being colleagues. They came to me for business advice.”
Kendra nodded. “I don't know. I’m trying.”
She was being held back by this specter of her old mentor. I could tell that she’d heard what I said, but she didn’t really, truly understand what I’d meant. She didn’t how to apply it to her own situation. She was trapped in that student mindset, and it was holding her back from rising to the next level in her abilities.