Play it by Ear (Replay Book 2)

by K. M. Neuhold

  I haven’t been to Miami since before my accident. The last time I can remember going was the summer before I graduated. I went with a guy named Tim, who I was seeing at the time. Tim and I broke up about a month later rather amicably. Nothing remarkable that should be making me jittery.

  I shake off the weirdness and climb into bed with a smile. A week at the beach will be nice, even if it is December. Then, when I get back, it’ll be Christmas. Parker and I will have a nice dinner for Christmas Eve and then spend Christmas Day together watching movies and eating cookies.

  Before I can forget, I grab my phone off my nightstand and put in Miami Vacation on the whole block of days next week. Since I don’t have day by day planned, I’ll have to add those in as I figure them out.

  I set my phone back down and snuggle under my blankets, quickly drifting to sleep with a smile.

  Lando

  My knee jiggles as I look out the tiny airplane window and wait for the flight to finish boarding, so we can get the hell to Miami already. I should’ve taken Archer up on his offer to get me a private flight. For some reason, it felt wrong to go back to Florida that way.

  I’m not sure why I’m anxious. It’s not like I’m going to step off the plane and find Dawson waiting for me at the gate.

  The beach house I had Archer rent—the same one Dawson and I shared—will be empty of the man I haven’t been able to stop thinking about. Even if I do happen to run into Dawson by some miracle, what will I say? I gave him my number before I left, and he’s the one who never called. It was a fun fling to him and as soon as I was on the plane again, he was over it. Now, I’m going to be the weird, clingy dude showing up years later and insisting that what we had was more than one hot weekend. Great, always want to be that guy.

  I wonder if Lincoln made it to Wisconsin without any problems, and if Archer was right about some time away making Linc realize he needs help. All we can do is hope, I guess. And I hope like hell Lincoln will realize he needs help before it’s too late.

  But I’m not supposed to be worrying about Lincoln right now. I’m supposed to be clearing my mind and finding my words again. Whether I find Dawson or not, hopefully some time alone in a little house on the beach will be good for me. Even if I’ll see Dawson in every room.

  The flight seems to creep by painfully slowly and no matter how many times I remind myself that chances are slim to none I’ll run into Dawson, my heart refuses to get that memo and continues to beat wildly.

  At the airport, I’m quick to grab my bag and hurry out before I attract any attention. I don’t have it as bad as Lincoln and Jude do with the paparazzi, mainly because I don’t typically do anything interesting. And luckily, no one knows where I am at the moment aside from the guys and Archer, so no one is sparing me a second glance. I’m just some dude with a scruffy beard and sunglasses as far as they’re concerned.

  When I pick up my rental car, the woman at the desk pauses when she sees my name on her computer screen. But luckily, she doesn’t say anything about it, just smiles more widely and gives me an upgrade.

  Memories assault me as I drive to the beach house. I can see Dawson in the passenger seat singing along with the radio to a Britney Spears song at the top of his lungs. I chuckle at the memory of him turning to me, raising his sunglasses, and saying, “It’s Britney, bitch.”

  The image makes my chest ache with longing. Surely, I’ve built Dawson up onto some impossible pedestal, right? After all, I knew him for such a short time, maybe it was all an act. But that doesn’t seem true. He felt so real and genuine. He felt like everything I never knew I wanted.

  I blink in surprise when the beach house comes into view. I must’ve been lost in memories longer than I realized.

  I climb out of the car and jog up the steps. When I open the front door, it’s like a punch in the gut. It’s exactly the same. I half expect Dawson to call to me from the bedroom, announcing that the bed is the perfect height to bend me over comfortably.

  I toss my bags down and kick off my shoes. Then I head back out the back door, straight onto the beach.

  The warm sand shifts beneath my feet and finds its way between my toes. A pleasant breeze blowing off the ocean ruffles through my hair and fills me with a strange sense of calm. It’s about seventy which is heavenly compared to New York right now. But it’s not as warm as I thought it would be. I suppose it is December.

  I walk along the water’s edge for a little while before heading back to the house and sitting on the porch to watch the sky grow dark as night settles over me.

  My fingers itch for my bass, but I left it back in New York. If I can’t write, why keep torturing myself with it? I’m doing as Archer said and taking a few weeks off. Maybe that will coax the words out of hiding.

  My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I pull it out to see Archer calling.

  “Hey,” I answer.

  “Do you think I made a mistake sending Lincoln away on his own? What the hell was I thinking letting someone who’s suicidal go to a cabin in the woods all by themselves?”

  “Um…yeah, maybe not the most brilliant decision of all time.”

  “Fuck. You’re supposed to reassure me, not confirm my fears,” he complains, and I laugh.

  “Sorry. Do you want me to call him and check in?” I offer.

  “Nah, I just called. He sounded down, but not as low as he gets sometimes. I made him promise to call if he’s feeling bad, and I’d send someone out to be with him.”

  “I’m sure he loved the idea of you sending a babysitter,” I say sarcastically.

  “What the hell am I supposed to do?” Archer snaps.

  “You’re doing everything you can,” I assure him. “Maybe you need this vacation as much as the rest of us. Relax, let someone else worry about you for a change.”

  Archer snorts a laugh. “Yeah, if you find someone who wants to pamper me, send him my way.”

  “Will do. Hey, maybe Bennett—”

  “Please don’t go there,” he groans.

  “Why not?”

  “Because he looks amazing, and he’s just as arrogant and appealing as he always was. But nothing’s changed.”

  “You never know.”

  Archer sighs. “I suppose I should let you go enjoy the beach. If you need anything, give me a call.”

  “I will. Thanks, Arch. You enjoy your time off too. Bye.”

  “I’ll try. Bye.”

  I hang up and lean against the porch railing, looking at the dark house again. If I listen hard, I can almost hear Dawson laughing, moaning, singing. But then the noise of the ocean and the gulls drown it out, and I remember I’m all alone here.

  Track 6: Side B

  Cerulean Blue

  Lando

  We stepped into the small beach house Archer rented me and dropped our bags.

  “Mmmm good, plenty of rooms for us to christen,” Dawson declared and my skin heated. I couldn’t decide if he was really that eager to jump between the sheets or if he was simply the kind of person who used sex as a way of finding comfort in a strange situation.

  “Why don’t we think about dinner first? Maybe even hit the strip of beach we have all to ourselves this weekend?”

  “Food sounds good,” Dawson agreed. “You like seafood?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Awesome, I know a great place. It’s not too far, if you want to walk?”

  “Lead the way.” I gestured to the door and followed Dawson out.

  I had the strange urge to reach for his hand as we walked down the beach toward civilization. This wasn’t a relationship; it was a weekend fling. But did that mean I couldn’t indulge in a little affection outside the bedroom? I’d never held someone’s hand before. God, how pathetic was that? But the truth was, in high school I was shy and didn’t date. I’d hooked-up with a few people last summer after we signed our contract with Epic before we went on tour. And you don’t usually hold hands with hook-ups.

  Before I could finish over analyzing the situ
ation, Dawson’s hand was slipping into mine. He twined his fingers around my own. And when I looked at him in surprise, he smiled up at me with an open, guileless grin.

  “I’m kinda touchy, hope that’s okay?”

  “It’s perfect,” I assured him, my own smile forming.

  “What’s your favorite food?” he asked conversationally.

  “Chocolate cake.”

  “Mmmm, good choice. Mine is a tie between key lime pie and lobster. The problem is, growing up in Florida spoiled me for most key lime pie and seafood anywhere that doesn’t have an ocean.” He wrinkled his nose as he talked, flailing his free hand around animatedly.

  “I bet,” I agreed with a chuckle.

  “Favorite color?” he asked next like he was going down a mental checklist.

  “Purple, but more lilac purple than dark purple.”

  “Mine is blue. But not just any blue, it’s the blue of a clear ocean…like the ocean in the Maldives, the Indian Ocean. I’ve never been, but I’ve seen pictures, and I’ve always thought it would be amazing to swim there.”

  It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him that maybe one day I could take him. But that certainly would cross the line between weekend fling and relationship.

  His inquisition continued through dinner, predictably moving from innocent questions to more risqué ones as the night wore on and drinks were served and consumed.

  “Favorite position?” he asked, leaning across the table with a sloppy grin.

  “I’ll show you when we get back to the house,” I answered suggestively.

  “Can I get you guys anything else?” the waitress stopped and asked.

  “Nope, and can you make the check quick, we need to get out of here pronto.”

  I stifled a laugh at Dawson’s eagerness, and my already hard dick ached at the promise. If I only had forty-eight hours with him, I wasn’t going to waste any of them playing coy.

  I paid the bill, and we stumbled out of the restaurant, both more than a few drinks past tipsy. Instead of holding my hand, Dawson groped my ass, ran his fingers through my hair, tickled along my stomach with his questing hands until I was breathless.

  I grabbed his arm and tugged him to a stop, desperate to taste his lips again. We’d made it back to our private strip of beach, so I didn’t feel bad about indulging myself in the sweet flavor of his tongue as it tangled with mine.

  The heavy air hung around us like a blanket and sweat clung to our skin from the humidity. I tugged at Dawson’s shirt as my fingers sought contact with his skin. His hips ground against mine, our erections pressed between us.

  “Have you ever had sex on a beach?” Dawson asked against my lips, and I groaned, burying my fingers in his curls and forcing his mouth harder against mine.

  “We don’t have any condoms or lube out here,” I told him reluctantly after a few more minutes of kissing.

  “Bummer. I suppose there’s always tomorrow night. Let’s go into the house; I’m dying to get inside you.”

  He grabbed my ass and gave it a squeeze, making me moan again.

  “Yes, please,” I agreed before taking his hand and dragging him the rest of the way up the beach to the house.

  Track 7: Side A

  Vacation from Myself

  Dawson

  I get off the bus a few blocks from the place Parker rented me for the week. I wrote down the name of the stop where I needed to get off and had checked it over and over during the long ride, worried I’d forget and miss the stop. Most days, the fear of forgetting something is worse than the actual forgetting.

  It would’ve been quicker and easier to drive here, but I haven’t driven since the accident. I’m perfectly capable of driving physically. But when I climb into the driver’s seat of a car…

  I shiver, remembering the last time I tried before Parker gave up encouraging me. I still can’t remember what exactly happened the night of the accident, but when I sit behind the wheel of a car, my lungs refuse to fill with enough air, my head starts to swim, and my heart beats so hard it makes me dizzy. I can hear shattering glass and crunching metal.

  Driving is overrated anyway. I’ve had no problem adapting my life to live without the use of a car. Hell, I’ve had to adapt to living a life without the use of my hearing; I think a car is the least of my problems.

  The sun beats down on the top of my head, making me sweat as I walk down the street. It only takes about fifteen minutes to reach the address. I find myself standing in front of a cute little house sitting right on the beach. For some reason, I expected it to be white, maybe a little bigger, and have a private beach behind it. I’m not sure where my brain came up with that image, but my heart sinks a little that it wasn’t how I was picturing it. Ungrateful much?

  I find the key under the mat as promised and let myself in. Dropping my bags, I throw open the windows to let the smell of the beach in, and then I explore the small space. There’s a little kitchen that I should really go pick up food to stock, a living room with a sliding door leading out to a back porch, and of course a nice bedroom and bathroom. It’s the perfect place to relax and spend a week of solitude. I brought my e-reader and my laptop to entertain myself, and usually, that’s more than enough to keep me happy. Why am I feeling unsettled and anxious?

  I kick off my shoes and grab my e-reader out of my bag. Then, I head out onto the back porch to enjoy the sun while I read.

  As an English Lit major, I tend toward classics most of the time. But I do have one secret vice…glorious, filthy romance. Sometimes, I want something deep and full of metaphors with beautiful language and complex themes. Other times all I want is something full of sweaty sex and a guaranteed happily ever after. Not that there aren’t deep themes and emotions in romance too. But I’m mainly here for the sex.

  I settle onto a lounge chair on the porch and open the book I downloaded before I left. I’ve been addicted to this series about gay porn stars called the Ballsy Boys, and now I need to know if this twink is going to get the owner of the studio to be his daddy or not.

  I read for a couple of hours before my mouth feels dry and my stomach demands food. I set down my tablet and jot a quick grocery list, finding myself adding condoms and lube to the list. It’s been ages since I’ve gotten laid. What better time to correct that problem than vacation?

  Maybe after I feed myself I should hit a bar tonight, see if I can find someone fun to spend the night with. Anything would be better than another night alone with my hand and fantasies of my celebrity crush.

  This is probably why I can’t write; my life is too boring to inspire much of anything. I suppose I could write a book about a loser who’s afraid to drive a car and sits around feeling sorry for himself. I’m sure that would be an endlessly compelling read. Or, I could drink until I’m a good writer again, that seemed to work for Hemingway and Hunter S. Thompson, among countless others.

  I feel my phone vibrate against my thigh, inside my pocket and pull it out to see a text from Parker. No surprise there.

  Parker: How’s vacation?!

  Dawson: I’ve been here literally 4 hours.

  Parker: Just tell me you love it so I can pat myself on the back.

  Dawson: I love it.

  Parker: Yay! Any fun plans?

  Dawson: Thinking about trying to get laid.

  Parker: Finally, jeez at this rate I thought you were probably about to die from blue balls.

  Dawson: Thanks, sis.

  Parker: Any time ;) Have fun! Text me tomorrow to tell me about whatever hot guy you snag.

  Dawson: You want to know if I top or bottom too?

  Parker: No, thank you. Smartass.

  Dawson: Love you, P.

  Parker: Love you too.

  A smile lingers on my face as I shove my phone back into my pocket. I don’t know what I’d do without Parker.

  I add grocery store and bar to get laid to my calendar for today and then slip my shoes on and head out.

  Lando

  The light
breeze and the scent of the ocean lull me awake sometime in the early afternoon. My brain is still half in the pleasant dream I was having about laying on the beach with Dawson, and without thinking, I reach for the empty side of the bed, expecting to find him there with a sleepy smile and bedhead.

  My heart sinks when all I encounter is cool sheets. I let my eyes slowly drift open, blinking myself into reality and letting the dream drift away like waves on the ocean.

  I reach for the pillow Dawson’s head rested on all those years ago, and I pull it to my nose. I let myself pretend for a few seconds that I can still smell him there, that a thousand other heads haven’t rested on exactly that spot.

  Maybe there’s something wrong with me. Surely it can’t be normal after nine years to still want him so much. Or maybe we’ve just lost some of the old-world romanticism in our modern society. My grandpa told me once that he knew the moment he laid eyes on my grandma that he was going to marry her. He met her through friends at party that was being thrown for him and his friends who were shipping off to fight in the war. They talked all night, and he told her then that when he got back from Germany, he was going to marry her, so she’d better wait for him. They were married the week he got home and never spent another day apart in their lives.

  I know this situation isn’t anything like that. But why can’t I know just like he did that Dawson is the person for me?

  My phone rings, pulling me from my thoughts. I grab it and see that Benji is calling.

  “Hey,” I answer, my voice still hoarse from sleep.

  “Dude, are you asleep at two in the afternoon?”

  “No. I’m talking to you; how could I be asleep?” I counter.

  Benji’s chuckle on the other end of the phone lifts my spirits a bit. It’s been a long time since he’s sounded so carefree.