Play it by Ear (Replay Book 2)

by K. M. Neuhold

  Dawson watches my lips intently as I sing the new song I wrote for him called “Meant to Be”.

  I’ve written him a lot of songs over the years, but of all of them, this one has to be my favorite. Those other songs were made of dreams, this one is pure hope.

  Dawson smiles as a few stray tears escape to streak down his cheeks. I keep strumming but pause singing to kiss them away.

  When I finish, Dawson signs something I haven’t learned yet. He laughs at my confused expression and then takes pity on me.

  “It’s beautiful,” he says, doing the sign again so I can try to memorize it.

  “You’re beautiful and perfect, and I love you.” I set my bass aside and kiss Dawson until we’re both breathless.

  “Tattoo,” Dawson mutters against my lips when I work the button on his pants open.

  “Fuck,” I mutter. He’s right, if we start this now, we’re going to be late for my appointment. After I mentioned wanting to get a tattoo to Dawson, I brought it up to Benji in a text conversation a few days later to ask for an artist recommendation. He told me he’d fly in his new bestie tattoo artist from Seattle. I told him that was insane, and his response was Why be a millionaire if you can’t blow money flying in experts for every little thing you want?

  Dawson climbs off my lap and I groan as he reaches into his pants to adjust his erection. Then he grabs his phone out of his pocket and sends me a message.

  Come on, Benji flew this guy in to do your tattoo. We can’t blow it off. Although if you changed your mind about the quote, I totally understand.

  “I haven’t changed my mind about anything, dimples. I just got distracted by how good our bodies feel together.”

  We live together now; we have the rest of our lives to get wrapped up in each other.

  “We do live together,” I agree, warmth flooding my veins.

  Benji lives just a block over, so once we’re decent again, Dawson and I make the walk to Benji’s building.

  I greet Benji’s doorman, and Dawson looks around the building lobby with the surprise again. He’ll get used to seeing what money can buy, the rest of us have.

  Just like my building, the elevator opens right into Benji’s penthouse. The sound of music and laughter greets us when the door opens. Benji is our keyboardist, but he can play just about any instrument you put in front of him, and it sounds like right now he’s rocking out on his Sitar he picked up a few years back.

  Out of the four of us, I think Benji is the only one truly enjoying what all this money means. Not that he’s out of hand by any means, but he’s…happy like the rest of us haven’t been.

  I was surprised when I talked to Benji, and he told me he was coming back to the city already. I’m not sure if that means he couldn’t seal the deal with whoever he had his eye on or what. Considering he never even told me who it was, I couldn’t begin to guess.

  “Lando, get your ass in here. I need vocals,” Benji calls out, and I chuckle.

  Dawson’s looking around wide-eyed. Compared to my place, Benji’s home is like a whole different world. He has a love for collecting things—tribal masks, books, instruments, art, sculptures…his place is like a cross between a museum and a hoarder’s dream home. I suppose it doesn’t surprise me that he likes to collect people too. Everywhere we go, he’s always finding people he has to know—chefs, make-up artists, tattoo artists. He loves to brag about knowing the best in every business and having them on speed dial for when the occasion arises. Which is why I wasn’t entirely surprised that he insisted on flying a tattoo artist in to do a simple tattoo for me instead of just telling me who in the city would do good work.

  I put my hand on Dawson’s shoulder and lead him down the hall, following the sound of music and voices to Benji’s music studio. I peek my head in to find Benji on the floor with his Sitar as expected and a tattooed man leaning against the wall, watching Benji play with humor in his eyes. I vaguely recognize the man from the secret show we played in Las Vegas last year. Benji had spotted him and his friends in the crowd and loved their ink. So, he had one of the bouncers bring them backstage after the show.

  “Hey,” the man greets when he spots us in the door. “Lando, right?”

  “Yeah. I’m sorry, I’m totally blanking on your name.”

  “Royal.” He offers his hand.

  “And this is Dawson,” I introduce him to both Royal and Benji.

  “Finally, you can stop moping around about this guy,” Benji teases and Dawson side eyes me with a smirk.

  “I wasn’t moping,” I tell Dawson.

  Sure, he signs, the sarcasm written all over his expression.

  Benji sets his instrument down and stands up, brushing his pants off.

  “Look what I had Royal do for me this morning before you got here,” Benji says, pulling his shirt up and then turning around to show me a huge tattoo covering his back. It looks like a whole field of wildflowers.

  “Wow, that’s incredible. I’m just glad you got some serious work done because I was feeling really silly about you flying him across the country just so I could get a quote done.”

  “Even if it was just the quote, you wouldn’t hear me complaining. Having Benji fly me and my partners out on a private flight for the weekend. …this is kick ass. I must’ve said the right prayer to have gotten tight with Benji here, thank fuck for that.”

  “You’re talented as hell, no prayers required,” Benji assures him.

  “Benji let me set all my stuff up in the living room, so why don’t you come with me so we can get a font picked out and get this ink going.”

  Royal pulls up a website for me to pick a font and then he puts the quote onto some kind of transfer paper.

  “You’re a virgin, right?” he asks when I jump at the cold squirt of some minty scented antiseptic he uses on my forearm.

  “Uh…”

  “Tattoo virgin,” Royal clarifies with a smirk, and Benji laughs from his spot on the couch beside Dawson.

  “Yeah, first tattoo,” I agree.

  “Don’t worry; you’re in good hands.”

  He applies the quote to my skin, pressing the paper to get a solid outline laid down, and when he peals the paper off, I tilt my head to admire it.

  Whatever souls are made of, his and mine are the same.

  “Is this quote from something?” Royal asks.

  “Wuthering Heights. Dawson picked it,” I explain, nodding at him.

  Royal glances back at Dawson and smiles.

  Tell him not to fuck it up, Dawson signs at me and winks. I’m thrilled to realize I understood the entire sentence as I relay it to Royal.

  “I’ll do my best,” Royal quips. “As a tattoo artist, I’m obligated to warn you about getting a tattoo for someone you’re dating. We have to take a sacred oath and shit to let people know that couples tattoos are cursed.”

  “I’m not worried about it,” I tell him, then I dip my head, so Dawson won’t be able to read my lips. “I’m going to marry him as soon as I’m sure asking him won’t freak him the fuck out.”

  Royal chuckles. “Congrats, man. In that case, let’s get you branded for your man.”

  The tattoo is quick, and when it’s over, I revel in a sense of rightness, having words Dawson loves on my body. Maybe one day I’ll have an original quote of his on my skin.

  I thank Royal and give him a generous tip, even though I’m sure Benji already paid him an obscene amount of money.

  “We might hit the club later; let me know if you want to meet up with us,” Benji offers, clapping me on the shoulder. “I’ve gotta show my new best friend and his men a good time while they’re here so that they’ll come back often to feed my ink addiction.”

  “You’re going to run out of skin sooner or later,” I warn Benji, and Royal gasps, putting a hand over his heart.

  “Blasphemer,” Royal declares dramatically.

  “I can see why Benji has taken to you so quickly,” I chuckle.

  “What do you think?
” I ask Dawson. A club doesn’t really seem like his scene, but I don’t want to assume.

  Dawson shrugs.

  Decide later? He signs and I nod in agreement.

  “I’ll hit you up if we decide to go out later. But right now, Dawson and I have some unfinished business back at my place.”

  Benji and Royal both catcall at us as I drag Dawson out of Benji’s apartment with a smile.

  Track 30: Side A

  It’s About Damn Time

  Dawson

  Staring out the massive window with a cup of coffee in my hands, I watch the city go by down below. Do any of those people know how fragile life is? Maybe they’re better off not knowing. I was better off before back when I thought I was invincible. I wish I was still the fearless person Lando remembers when he looks at me, but I feel like every day I’m taking steps to be that person again. Over the past two weeks since I moved to New York, I’m remembering some things I hadn’t before. I remember now what I was like back then, and I miss that me. I miss the brazen feeling of never fearing death, only fearing not living enough. I want that back more than anything. Maybe I’ll get there one day, or maybe I won’t. All I can do now is keep my feet moving in the forward direction.

  With an odd feeling of childishness, I breathe on the frigid glass and then use my finger to draw a little heart in the fog I create on the window. I smile for a second before I wipe it away.

  Can I be brave again? Is that still in me? I did go bungee jumping, and I moved to a different state on little more than whim. But what can I do today that will keep me moving forward?

  I suppose I could start by going somewhere by myself while Lando is meeting with his band manager today. Maybe I could even skip putting it in my calendar? The thought sends a spike of nerves through me, making me even more determined to at least try. I’ll just walk down to the end of the block and get a coffee. Maybe sit and people watch for a while.

  I nod with resolve and set down my now cold cup of coffee and head to the bedroom to get dressed. With a smirk, I pull on one of my Downward Spiral band t-shirts and then snap a quick selfie to send to Lando.

  I slip on my shoes and grab the key off the counter that Lando gave me after I moved in. This is the first time I’ve left the penthouse alone, so it’s the first time I’ve needed it. I take a deep breath before I step onto the elevator. It’s no big deal; it’s a walk to the end of the block. So why does it feel like I’m jumping out of an airplane?

  There was a time when jumping out of a plane sounded like fun. No wonder I was able to write compelling stories back then, I was able to imagine a world full of nothing but possibilities and excitement.

  I step onto the elevator and lean against the back wall as it descends to the lobby of the building. There’s nothing inherently frightening about going out by myself. I’ve been independent for years in Florida. But there’s something symbolic in the act, like stepping outside the building and onto the streets of New York all alone means I can do anything. It’s the first baby step to getting my life back. I know I told Lando that the person I used to be died in that car accident, but I don’t think that was ever true. Lando saw that person in me still, and I want him to be right.

  The door man gives me a friendly wave as I pass, intent on the large front doors. I push through them and am immediately slapped in the face by frigid air. It would be easy to go back upstairs and save all this symbolic rebirth stuff until the spring. Lando already said he didn’t care if I worked or not. I could sit up in that penthouse and write some bullshit blog no one would read and tell myself that counts as moving forward.

  It’s disconcerting as hell to see so much activity—cars, buses, people, birds—and not be able to hear any of it. You’d think I’d be used to it after all this time, but it takes on a whole new level of strange to be somewhere like New York and not be able to hear a single sound.

  Determined to see my pathetic adventure through to its conclusion, I turn in the direction of the nearest coffee shop and head off with a determined stride.

  The smell of coffee and pastries beckons me as I get close. I can almost imagine coming down here with my laptop and writing in one of the oversized chairs I can see through the window.

  I step inside and enjoy the warmth that wraps around me. I approach the counter and pull the little notebook out of my back pocket, so I can write down what I want.

  “What can I get you?” the barista asks. He’s a cute, young looking guy. I can almost imagine he’s me if I’d come to New York with Lando all those years ago. He looks so full of optimism and excitement.

  I give him a smile and write down my order and pass the notebook to him.

  Are you deaf? he signs.

  Yeah.

  So is my brother. Do you want anything other than the coffee? Danish? Breakfast sandwich?

  A breakfast sandwich sounds good. Egg and sausage. Thanks.

  No problem.

  I pay and take a number the barista gives me and go in search of an open table. When I sit down, I have the urge to pull out my phone and scroll through social media or text someone, out of pure habit. Instead, I watch people around the coffee shop.

  One of my favorite ways to find inspiration for a story back in the day was to go somewhere and listen in on conversations, then make up stories about what they meant or who the people were. I can’t hear, but I can still eavesdrop. I watch the woman at the next table talking to her friend whose back is to me. I can only see one side of the conversation, but it’s almost better that way. She’s telling her friend a story about how she accidentally ended up in a cult just after college.

  What the hell? How do you accidentally end up in a cult? I wonder. And just like that, a story starts to swim in my mind.

  The barista brings my order over, and I sign thank you before leaving. I had intended to stay for a while, but with words running through my mind for the first time since I can remember, I need to get home and see if I can write.

  Lando

  I’m not sure why I’m nervous when I get to Archer’s place. He’s been my closest friend for nearly a decade. And all he wants to do is talk about where my head is at about the band moving forward. He mentioned he met with Linc yesterday, and I’m interested to hear how that went.

  With Dawson by my side, I’m open to keeping the band together. But it’s going to take a lot more than sheer force of will. Things are going to have to change.

  The elevator opens, and Archer is already pulling his apartment door open, no doubt given a heads up by his doorman.

  “Archie!” I tease.

  “Orlando!” he shouts back, and my smile turns into a glare. “You started it.”

  “Truce?”

  “I’ll be good if you will,” he chuckles. There’s a lightness about him I’ve never seen before and it gives me hope for the future of the band.

  I step into Archer’s apartment and find myself surprised to find no one else here. Not that I expected any other band members.

  “How’s Jude doing?” I ask in as casual a tone as I can manage.

  Archer narrows his eyes at me and shakes his head. I should’ve figured he’d see right through me. “You’ll have to wait to satisfy your craving for gossip because I invited you over to talk about the band not my love life.”

  “So, you admit you’re sleeping with Jude?” My eyes go wide with unrestrained glee. This really is the gossip jackpot.

  Archer’s face flames and his cheek twitches. “I didn’t say that.”

  “You basically did,” I argue just to get under his skin.

  “Why don’t you tell me about your young man?” Archer prompts in an attempt to change the subject. And dammit if his awkward phrasing doesn’t do the trick.

  “My young man? Easy on the slang there, pops. I assume you’re referring to Dawson?” I chuckle. “He’s adjusting to the city and things are going well between us. It’s not perfect but pretty damn near.”

  “Glad to hear it,” Archer says as I follow
him to the kitchen, the smell of fresh coffee beckoning us. “And if the band stays together?”

  “He may come on tour sometimes.”

  Archer holds up a coffee mug in question. I nod and slide onto one of the stools lining the breakfast bar.

  “Have you written anything?”

  “A few songs,” I tell him, but a familiar irritation prickles under my skin. “What about Lincoln? I’m guessing he wrote just the one song, and I’ll be left to take care of the other ten or so. Then, of course the song he threw together while holed up in his Unabomber cabin will win a Grammy, while the songs I slave over for the next few weeks will be merely passable.” Archer’s smile widens unnervingly as I rant. “What?” I snap.

  “It’s about damn time. I was starting to wonder if you’d ever stand up for yourself. Are you planning to share these feelings with Lincoln?”

  That deflates me a little. “I hadn’t planned on it. It’s all the same shit, different day. What would yelling at him accomplish?”

  “It might make you feel better, for one thing,” he points out. “And it may open Lincoln’s eyes for another.”

  “Isn’t he too fragile and shit for me to yell at him? God forbid anyone do anything other than treat Lincoln’s feelings like Grandma’s fine china.”

  Archer laughs, a deep rumble from his chest like that’s the funniest thing he’s heard in his life.

  “Where has this Lando been for the last ten years? Maybe if you’d had this fire all along, Lincoln and Jude would’ve been afraid to go so far off the rails.” Archer shakes his head, still laughing. “I think we’ve coddled Lincoln long enough. He’s on a difficult road, but one of recovery. He can handle you telling him he needs to carry his own weight.”

  “Okay, I will then,” I resolve.

  “Good. Now, tell me about Dawson.”

  When I step off the elevator, I’m surprised by the sound of furious tapping at a keyboard. I go in search of the source, smiling at the idea of Dawson writing again after so long.