Chapter 6: The Violinist Who Played for Strangers
The apartment was a shoebox carved out of a building older than most countries. Jordan had found it through a listing that promised "authentic Roman charm" and delivered instead a single room with a cot, a hot plate, and a window that opened onto a courtyard where someone was always yelling about something. The walls were the color of old teeth. The ceiling fan spun with a wobble that made him dizzy if he stared too long.
He couldn't sleep.
The heat was the problem. Rome in late June was a furnace, and the apartment had no air conditioning, just that wobbly fan and a window that let in the sounds of the neighborhood—scooters, laughter, someone's television blaring a game show. He lay on the cot in his underwear, staring at the ceiling, his mind running through the same loops it always ran through.
Becca and Chloe. The train. The way Becca had looked at him afterward, like he'd given her something she hadn't known she was missing. The way Chloe had watched, her eyes dark and knowing, like she'd seen something in him that he hadn't seen himself.
He wondered if he'd ever see them again. Probably not. That was the thing about travel—you met people in the cracks of time, and then the cracks closed, and they were gone.
He sat up. The cot creaked beneath him.
Fuck it.
He pulled on jeans and a t-shirt, grabbed his wallet and keys, and headed out into the night.
Rome at midnight was a different city than Rome at noon. The tourists had retreated to their hotels, and the streets belonged to locals—old men playing cards outside cafes, teenagers smoking on stoops, women in heels click-clacking across cobblestones with the confidence of people who knew exactly where they were going. Jordan walked without direction, letting the city pull him along.
He passed a gelato shop, a church, a fountain where someone had thrown in a hundred coins. He passed a group of Americans arguing about directions, a couple kissing against a wall, a man selling roses who looked like he hadn't slept in a week.
And then he heard the music.
It was coming from below street level—a low, mournful sound that seemed to rise from the stones themselves. He followed it down a narrow staircase, past a sign that said "VINO" in faded letters, and through a door that opened into a basement bar.
The place was a cave. Literally—the walls were rough-hewn stone, and the ceiling arched overhead like the inside of a barrel. Candles flickered on tables, casting shadows that danced across yellowed newspaper clippings pinned to the walls. The air smelled like wine and dust and something older, something that had been fermenting for centuries.
At the far end of the room, a woman was playing violin.
She stood on a small stage, her body swaying, her bow arm moving with a precision that seemed almost mechanical. But her face—her face was something else. Sharp cheekbones, dark eyes, lips pressed into a line that could have been concentration or could have been boredom. Her hair was black and cut short, almost boyish, and her fingers on the strings were calloused, the nails bitten down to the quick.
She wasn't playing a song. She was building one—looping phrases over each other, layering melody on top of melody until the room was filled with a sound that was both chaotic and beautiful. Jordan stood by the door, watching, not moving.
The bartender appeared beside him. "You want wine?"
"Sure."
"What kind?"
"I don't know. Whatever's good."
The bartender—a man in his sixties with a face like a walnut—poured something red into a glass and slid it across the bar. "That's a Barolo. You'll like it."
Jordan took a sip. It tasted like cherries and leather and something else, something he couldn't name. "Thanks."
"You're American."
"Does everyone know?"
"You have that look." The bartender wiped down the bar with a rag that had seen better days. "What brings you to Rome?"
"I don't know. Running away from something. Running toward something. I haven't figured it out yet."
The bartender nodded like that made perfect sense. "Most people don't figure it out until they're dead."
The violin player finished her set with a long, drawn-out note that hung in the air like smoke. The small crowd—maybe a dozen people scattered across the tables—clapped politely. She bowed, once, and then stepped off the stage.
She walked straight to the bar.
"Whiskey," she said. "Neat."
The bartender poured. She drank it in one swallow, then set the glass down and looked at Jordan.
"You've been staring at me for the last twenty minutes."
"I was listening."
"Same thing." She signaled for another whiskey. "You're American."
"Why does everyone keep saying that?"
"Because you are. It's not an insult." She took her drink and turned to face him fully. Up close, she was older than he'd thought—late twenties, maybe thirty. There were lines around her eyes, and a scar on her chin that looked like it had come from something sharp. "What did you think of the music?"
"I thought it was beautiful."
"That's a boring answer."
"I'm a boring person."
She smiled. It didn't reach her eyes. "No, you're not. Boring people don't come to places like this alone at midnight."
"What do they do?"
"They go to the bars near the Trevi Fountain and take selfies." She finished her second whiskey. "I'm Camille."
"Jordan."
"Jordan." She said it like she was testing the weight of it. "Are you going to buy me another drink?"
"Are you going to let me?"
She laughed—a short, sharp sound. "I might."
He bought her another drink. And another. They sat at the bar, not talking about anything important—music, travel, the heat—and he watched her hands, the way they moved when she talked, the calluses on her fingertips from years of pressing strings.
"You play professionally?" he asked.
"I play whatever pays. Weddings. Funerals. Corporate events where people ignore me and drink too much champagne." She shrugged. "Sometimes I play for myself. In places like this."
"Why here?"
"Because the acoustics are good. And because the bartender gives me free whiskey."
The bartender, who had been pretending not to listen, snorted. "I charge you half price."
"Same thing."
Jordan finished his wine. The room was starting to blur at the edges, and he realized he was drunk—not falling-down drunk, but the kind of drunk that made everything feel possible.
"Do you want to get out of here?" he asked.
Camille raised an eyebrow. "That's forward."
"Sorry. I didn't mean—"
"I know what you meant." She stood up and grabbed her violin case from behind the bar. "Let's go."
They walked through the streets in silence, side by side, not touching. The city was still alive—a couple arguing in a doorway, a cat slinking across a wall, the distant sound of a radio playing something old and Italian. Jordan led her to his apartment, up the three flights of stairs, through the door that always stuck.
The place looked even worse at night. The wobbly fan, the cot, the stack of books on the floor.
"You live here?" Camille asked.
"It's temporary."
"Everything's temporary." She set her violin case in the corner and walked to the window. "Is there a roof?"
"There's a terrace."
"Show me."
The terrace was a small square of concrete on top of the building, surrounded by a low wall that overlooked the courtyard. From here, the city spread out in every direction—a circuit board of lights, orange and white and red, the dome of St. Peter's glowing in the distance like a beacon.
Camille stood at the wall, looking out. The night wind moved through her hair, and for a moment she looked almost peaceful.
"It's beautiful," Jordan said.
"Yes."
He stood beside her, close enough to feel the warmth of her body. She smelled like whiskey and rosin and something floral—jasmine, maybe.
"I don't do this," he said.
"Do what?"
"Go home with strangers."
She turned to look at him. "Neither do I."
"Then why—?"
"Because I wanted to." She reached up and touched his face, her calloused fingers rough against his cheek. "Is that not enough?"
He didn't answer. He kissed her instead.
It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was hard and demanding, her tongue pushing into his mouth like she was trying to claim something. He grabbed her waist and pulled her closer, and she made a sound low in her throat—not quite a moan, not quite a growl.
She broke away first. Her hands moved to his shirt, unbuttoning it with quick, efficient movements.
"You don't waste time," he said.
"I don't like wasting anything." She pushed his shirt off his shoulders. "Take off your pants."
"Bossy."
"You have no idea."
He took off his pants. She looked at him—at his cock, already hard, already aching—and smiled that same smile, the one that didn't reach her eyes.
"On your knees," she said.
He blinked. "What?"
"I said, on your knees."
He knelt on the concrete. The stones were rough against his skin, but he didn't care. She unzipped her skirt and let it fall, and then she stepped out of her underwear and stood in front of him, naked from the waist down.
"Eat me," she said.
He leaned forward and pressed his mouth to her cunt.
She was already wet—slick and salty, and she tasted like something he couldn't name. He licked her slowly, from bottom to top, and she grabbed his hair and pulled him closer.
"Harder," she said. "Use your tongue."
He worked his tongue against her clit, fast and firm, and she moaned—a real moan this time, not the polite sounds he'd heard in the bar. Her hips moved against his face, and he reached up and grabbed her ass, holding her steady.
"That's it," she breathed. "Don't stop."
He didn't stop. He licked and sucked and pressed his tongue inside her, tasting her, breathing her in. She came with a shudder, her fingers twisted in his hair, her thighs trembling against his ears.
She pushed him away after a moment. "Good."
"Thanks."
"Now fuck me."
He stood up, his knees aching from the concrete. She turned around and bent over the wall, her hands gripping the edge, her ass presented to him like an offering.
"Hurry up," she said. "I don't have all night."
He pushed into her.
She was tight and hot, and she gasped when he bottomed out. He grabbed her hips and started moving—slow at first, then faster, his balls slapping against her thighs.
"Harder," she said. "Fuck me like you mean it."
He fucked her harder. The city hummed below them, and he could hear his own breathing, harsh and ragged. She was moaning now, her head thrown back, her fingers white-knuckled on the wall.
"You feel so good," he said.
"Shut up and fuck me."
He shut up and fucked her.
He fucked her until his legs ached and his breath came in short gasps. He fucked her until the world narrowed to the point where their bodies joined. He fucked her until he couldn't think, couldn't feel, couldn't do anything but move inside her.
She came again—a long, shuddering climax that made her whole body go rigid. And then he came too, spilling into her, his vision going white, his heart pounding in his ears.
He pulled out and stumbled back, gasping.
Camille straightened up and turned to face him. She was flushed and sweaty, and there was a smile on her face—a real smile this time.
"That was good," she said.
"You're welcome."
She pulled her skirt back on and reached into her pocket for a cigarette. She lit it and took a long drag, then held the pack out to him.
"Want one?"
He took one. He didn't smoke—hadn't smoked since high school—but right now it felt like the right thing to do. They stood on the terrace, side by side, smoking in silence.
"You're leaving," he said.
"Yes."
"When?"
"Before sunrise." She exhaled a cloud of smoke. "I have a rehearsal in the morning. And I don't do mornings after."
"Neither do I."
"Good." She finished her cigarette and dropped it on the concrete. "Then we understand each other."
She picked up her violin case and walked to the door. She paused there, her hand on the handle, and looked back at him.
"Thanks for the fuck, Jordan."
"You're welcome, Camille."
She left.
He stood on the terrace for a long time after she was gone, staring at the city, the cigarette burning down to his fingers. The sky was starting to lighten in the east—gray giving way to pink, pink giving way to gold.
He thought about Becca and Chloe. He thought about Maren and Sofia. He thought about all the people he'd met on this trip, all the moments that had felt important and probably weren't.
He thought about his journal, still sitting in his bag, still empty of the things he didn't know how to say.
He went inside. The cot was still unmade, the fan still wobbling. He lay down and closed his eyes.
The city was waking up around him. Church bells rang. Scooters buzzed. Someone was yelling about something—a delivery, a lover, a lost dog.
He didn't sleep.
But for the first time in a long time, he didn't feel the need to.
He lay there until the light through the window shifted from gray to gold to a hard, white Roman morning. The sounds outside changed too—church bells, then scooters, then the clatter of shutters rolling up on storefronts. He got up, made coffee on the hot plate, and drank it standing at the window while the courtyard below filled with laundry and gossip.
The empty page in his journal stared at him from across the room.
He'd been in Rome for six days now. He'd seen the Colosseum, the Forum, the Pantheon. He'd eaten pasta that made him want to cry and pizza that made him want to move here permanently. He'd walked until his feet blistered and his mind went quiet. But he hadn't written a single word.
What was there to say? That he'd fucked a stranger on a rooftop while the city glittered beneath them? That he didn't know her last name, didn't have her number, would never see her again? That it had been exactly what he needed and also somehow not enough?
He closed the journal and shoved it in his bag.
The apartment was suffocating. The walls were closing in. He needed to move, to go somewhere, to do something. He pulled out his phone and opened the airline app.
Dublin. There was a flight leaving in six hours.
He booked it without thinking.
The airport was chaos. A storm somewhere over the Atlantic had grounded half the flights, and the terminal was packed with stranded passengers—families with crying children, businessmen shouting into phones, backpackers sleeping on their bags. Jordan found a seat near the gate and tried to read, but the words blurred together.
His flight was delayed. Then delayed again. Then delayed a third time.
He wandered the terminal, restless, until he found a bar. He ordered a whiskey—Camille's drink, he realized, and the thought made him smile—and sat at the counter, nursing it.
That was when he saw her.
She was sitting two stools down, a pint of Guinness in front of her, red hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. She was maybe twenty-five, with freckles across her nose and a silver ring on her thumb. She was wearing a green sweater that matched her eyes, and she was arguing with someone on her phone in an accent so thick he could barely understand it.
"No, I told you—I told you, Da, I'm not—" She pulled the phone away from her ear and glared at it. "Jesus Christ."
She hung up and took a long drink of her pint.
Jordan watched her. He didn't mean to—he was just tired, and she was interesting, and the whiskey was warm in his chest. But she caught him looking, and her eyebrows went up.
"Something on my face?"
"No. Sorry. I was just—" He gestured vaguely. "You look like you're having a worse day than me."
"Impossible." She turned on her stool to face him. "I've been in this airport for nine hours. My flight's been delayed four times. My father just spent twenty minutes telling me I'm wasting my life. And this Guinness tastes like piss."
"That does sound worse."
"What's your excuse?"
"Flight's delayed. No reason to be anywhere. General existential malaise."
She laughed—a real laugh, loud and unguarded. "Existential malaise. Are you a writer?"
"No. I'm just—" He shrugged. "I don't know what I am."
"Join the club." She stuck out her hand. "Siobhan."
"Jordan."
"Jordan." She said it like she was tasting it. "You're American."
"I keep hearing that."
"Because you are. It's not an insult." She finished her pint and signaled the bartender for another. "What brings you to Rome?"
"I don't know. Same as you, maybe. Running from something. Running toward something."
"That's vague."
"I'm a vague person."
"No, you're not." She studied him with those green eyes. "Vague people don't sit in airport bars at midnight looking like they're carrying the weight of the world."
He didn't know what to say to that. So he said nothing.
The bartender brought her pint. She took a sip and grimaced.
"Still piss?"
"Still piss." She pushed it toward him. "Want it?"
"I'm good."
"Your loss."
They sat in silence for a moment, the noise of the terminal swirling around them. Jordan finished his whiskey. Siobhan finished her pint. The clock on the wall ticked toward one in the morning.
"I need to walk," she said suddenly. "My legs are cramping."
"Okay."
"You coming?"
He blinked. "Where?"
"Anywhere that isn't here." She grabbed her bag—a small backpack, worn at the edges—and stood. "Come on, American. Keep me company."
He followed her.
They walked the length of the terminal, past the shuttered shops and the sleeping passengers, past the gate where her flight was supposed to leave and the gate where his was. The airport was a liminal space—nowhere and everywhere at once, a place that existed only for waiting.
"So what's your story?" she asked.
"What do you mean?"
"Everyone has a story. What's yours?"
He thought about it. The careful plan. The semester off. The train, the women, the city. The way everything had started to blur together into a single, endless night.
"I don't know," he said. "I thought I knew who I was. And then I left, and now I don't."
"That's not a story. That's a therapy session."
He laughed. "Fair."
She stopped walking. They were in a quiet corridor, far from the crowds, where the lights flickered and the floor was scuffed with years of footprints. She turned to face him, and there was something in her eyes—a challenge, maybe, or a question.
"You want to fuck?"
He stared at her. "What?"
"I said, do you want to fuck." She crossed her arms. "I've been in this airport for nine hours. I'm bored. You're attractive. We're both delayed. Seems obvious."
"Obvious."
"Unless you're not interested." She shrugged. "No harm done. I'll go back to my piss beer and my existential malaise."
"I'm interested."
"Good." She grabbed his hand and pulled him toward a sign that said "FAMILY RESTROOM."
"That's—"
"It's single occupancy. And it locks." She pushed the door open and pulled him inside.
The room was small and white, with a changing table and a sink and a fluorescent light that buzzed overhead. Siobhan locked the door behind them and turned to face him.
"Take off your pants."
"You don't waste time."
"I don't like wasting anything."
The echo of Camille's words hit him like a slap. But he pushed the thought away and unbuckled his belt.
She watched him with a cool, appraising gaze. When his pants were around his ankles and his cock was out—already half-hard, already twitching—she nodded.
"Not bad."
"Thanks."
"Shut up." She unbuttoned her jeans and pushed them down, then her underwear. Her red hair was a mess, her cheeks flushed, her breathing slightly faster. "Sit on the toilet."
"The toilet?"
"You heard me."
He sat. The porcelain was cold against his bare ass, and the wall was hard against his back. She straddled him, one leg on either side of the toilet, and reached down to guide him inside her.
She was wet and warm and tight. He gasped as she sank down, taking him inch by inch until he was fully buried.
"Fuck," she breathed. "That's it."
She started to move—slow at first, her hips rolling, her hands braced on his shoulders. Then faster, harder, until the toilet was creaking beneath them and her breath was coming in short, sharp gasps.
"You feel so good," he said.
"I know."
He grabbed her ass and pulled her closer, matching her rhythm. The fluorescent light buzzed. The pipes rattled. Someone knocked on the door—a muffled voice asking if everything was okay—and Siobhan laughed.
"Occupied!" she called.
The voice went away.
She rode him harder, her cunt gripping him like a fist. He could feel himself getting close, the pressure building at the base of his spine.
"I'm going to come," he said.
"Not yet." She slowed down, teasing him, her hips barely moving. "You come when I tell you to."
"Okay."
"Beg."
"What?"
"Beg me to let you come."
"Please." The word came out ragged, desperate. "Please let me come."
"Not good enough."
"Please, Siobhan. Please. I need it."
She smiled—a sharp, dangerous smile—and started moving again. Fast and hard, her tits bouncing under her sweater, her ass slapping against his thighs.
"Come," she said. "Now."
He came with a groan, his fingers digging into her hips, his vision going white. She came with him—a long, shuddering climax that made her whole body shake. For a moment they stayed like that, tangled and gasping, the fluorescent light buzzing overhead.
Then she stood up, pulled up her jeans, and looked at him.
"Not bad, American."
"I aim to please."
"Your flight's delayed, right?"
"Yeah."
"Mine too." She unlocked the door. "There's a bar down the corridor. I'll be there."
She left.
He sat on the toilet for a long time, his pants still around his ankles, trying to remember how to breathe.
The bar was nearly empty when he found her. She was sitting in a corner booth, a fresh pint in front of her, her backpack on the seat beside her. She looked up when he approached and gestured for him to sit.
"Get you a drink?"
"I'm good." He slid into the booth across from her.
"Your face is all red."
"So's yours."
She smirked and took a sip of her pint. "Your flight leaves at seven. Mine at eight. We've got time."
"For what?"
She raised an eyebrow.
"No," he said. "We're in an airport."
"So?"
"So—"
"So nothing." She stood up and grabbed her backpack. "Come on."
He followed her again.
The gate was empty. The flight monitors still showed the same delays, the same endless postponements. Siobhan walked to a row of seats near the window and sat down, patting the seat beside her.
"Sit."
He sat.
She kissed him—hard and demanding, her tongue pushing into his mouth. He kissed her back, his hands finding her waist, her hips, the curve of her ass.
"Here?" he asked.
"Here."
She pulled him to his feet and pushed him against the window. The glass was cold against his back, and outside the runway lights flickered in the dark.
"We're going to get caught," he said.
"Then we'd better be quick."
She knelt down and pulled his cock out of his pants.
The heat of her mouth was shocking after the cold of the window. She took him deep, her tongue swirling around the head, her hand working the base. He grabbed her hair and held on.
"Fuck," he whispered.
She didn't stop. She sucked him like she was trying to prove something, her head bobbing, her lips tight. He could feel himself getting close again—too close, too fast.
"I'm going to come," he said.
She pulled off him. "Not yet."
"You're joking."
"I don't joke." She stood up and turned around, bending over the seat. "Fuck me."
He pushed into her from behind. The seats were hard and narrow, and he had to brace himself against the back of the row in front of them, but he didn't care. She was hot and wet and tight, and she was pushing back against him, meeting every thrust.
"Harder," she said.
He fucked her harder.
The airport was silent around them—no footsteps, no announcements, no voices. Just the slap of skin and the sound of their breathing and the distant hum of the runway lights.
"Don't stop," she said. "Don't you fucking stop."
He didn't stop.
She came first—a series of short, sharp gasps, her whole body clenching around him. And then he came too, spilling into her, his vision blurring, his heart hammering.
He pulled out and stumbled back. She straightened up and pulled down her sweater.
"That was better than the bathroom," she said.
"Much better."
"We should probably get back to our gates."
"Yeah."
She looked at him—that same appraising look, but softer now. "This was fun."
"It was."
"Don't make it weird."
"I won't."
She kissed him on the cheek, grabbed her backpack, and walked away.
He watched her go. The airport was still asleep, the lights still flickering, the runway still glowing in the dark. His flight would leave in a few hours. Hers would leave in one.
He didn't know if he'd see her again. He didn't know if he wanted to.
He walked back to his gate and sat down.
The sun was starting to rise outside the window—pink and gold and dangerous. He closed his eyes and waited for the plane.