Staring at the blinking cursor on the blank Word doc, I hate myself a little. I did manage to write one sentence yesterday, but I deleted it immediately. It wasn’t right. It felt flat and pointless. Probably because I have no idea what I’m trying to write.
I know I had amazing ideas for groundbreaking stories to share with the world. But I don’t know where they are now. I think the accident fucked with the part of my brain that knew how to create beautiful sentences that stuck in your mind and rolled off your tongue. I used to be a good writer…didn’t I?
I guess it’s not that surprising that having a brain injury would rob me of my words, the one thing I’ve ever loved.
Just like my memories, it seems the harder I try to force it, the more elusive the words become. Maybe it’s time I accept that I’ll never write again.
Lando
I wake up with a familiar ache in my chest and still no words. I drag my ass out of bed and into the kitchen. The clock on the stove tells me I slept a lot later than I meant to because it’s past noon. Finding my pants where I left them on the floor, I fish my phone out of my pocket and find a text from Archer a few hours ago telling me Lincoln was fine and already at home again, and that he’d be here around one, which is in five minutes.
There’s a knock at the door, and I shake my head, smiling at Archer’s promptness. I pull open the door in nothing but my boxers and get a look from Archer that tells me he’s not amused.
“I just woke up,” I explain. “Mind starting coffee for me while I get dressed?”
“It’s what I’m here for,” Archer replies dryly.
In my bedroom, I pull on a pair of jeans and a fancy ass t-shirt some wardrobe chick from the PR firm put in my closet.
“I could kiss you,” I announce as Archer passes me a steaming mug of coffee.
“I’ll pass on that,” he smirks.
“You wound me.”
“I’m sure you’ll live,” he assures me. “Are you up for talking now?”
“Yeah, let’s get it over with,” I agree, motioning him toward the couch. Shame washes over me when he looks at the crumpled papers and broken pencils scattered around the couch. Me not being able to write is about as well kept a secret as Lincoln’s self-harm. That is to say, everyone knows about it, and no one has the balls to comment on it.
“What are we going to do about Lincoln? We’ve looked the other way for a long time, hoping this was all a phase he’d grow out of, but he’s becoming more destructive. Next time, it may be a lot worse than a quick trip to the hospital to get his stomach pumped or a few stitches,” I say as we settle on the couch.
“I agree. My concern is that Lincoln isn’t ready for help. We could shove him into a mental health facility, but if he doesn’t want help, it’ll only make the situation worse.”
“What do we do?” I ask desperately.
“Lincoln isn’t the only one I’m worried about,” Archer says cryptically.
“Jude?” I guess. Our drummer, Jude’s wild streak is a lot more fun than Lincoln’s but no less harmful.
“Yes and…”
“Me?” I croak.
“I think you guys all need to take some time away. You haven’t written a word since you broke-up with that jackass Roland last summer. Lincoln can take some time to reassess and hopefully come back ready to get help. And Jude...I’m planning to call a friend of mine to try to help Jude.”
“And what about Benji?” Poor Benji, caught in the middle of all our bullshit.
“I’d say he deserves a vacation too, wouldn’t you?”
“Absolutely,” I agree around a lump in my throat. “Is this it for us? Is the band over?”
“I don’t know.” The raw honesty in his voice makes it that much more difficult to hear. “I hope not, but things need to change.”
I nod in agreement.
“Who’re you calling to help Jude?”
“Bennett,” Archer answers in a clipped tone.
“Wait, your ex-fiancé?” My eyes go wide, and I smile at the way Archer fidgets in his seat. One drunken night ages ago, Archer told me all about his ex. They weren’t engaged in the traditional sense since same sex marriage wasn’t legal back then, but they wore rings and promised each other it was forever.
“He’s the best in the business,” he defends.
“Sure, he is,” I agree with a knowing smirk. “Why’d you guys break up anyway?”
Archer rubs his hand down his face and shakes his head at me.
“This is no longer a conversation between manager and band member, and no one else needs to know what I’m about to say. Understood?”
I make an X motion over my heart. Who would I tell anyway? Jude and Lincoln couldn’t care less about Archer’s gossip, and Benji only like gossip that has something to do with himself.
“It’s in the vault,” I assure him.
“We loved each other very much, but we weren’t compatible in the bedroom. Outside the bedroom we couldn’t have been more right for each other. Both passionate workaholics who loved travel and good wine, enjoyed the same music and movies. He was my best friend and an excellent life partner. But we couldn’t get past the bedroom issue.”
“What like you both only liked to top or something?” I guess.
“That was part of it, yes.” Archer nods. “There was something more though. Bennett had a bit of a dominant streak that didn’t work for me. He wasn’t looking for a full time D/s relationship, but he craved more control in bed than I was willing to give him. He had an itch I simply couldn’t scratch, and it wore on both of us, knowing that I couldn’t ever be enough for him.”
“Oh shit, that sucks.”
“Yeah, it does. I still love Bennett, which makes it all the worse to know I’ll never be the right man for him.”
“You guys broke-up like twenty years ago. Things change, people change. Maybe that wasn’t the right time for the two of you.”
“Some things change, not this,” Archer says sadly. “And I think that’s enough dragging up my depressing past.”
“Sorry. I do agree with you about the time away part of things. A break would be good for all of us. But what about the tour?”
“I canceled it. Lincoln isn’t in any shape to go on tour. He’s hanging on by a thread, and Jude’s not doing much better. We’ll reevaluate things after you all have a chance to clear your heads.”
“I think I might go to Florida,” I say without thinking. The words hang in the air between us and make my soul light up in an unexpected way.
“Do you think that’s a good idea?”
Another poorly kept secret is the man I barely knew but fell in love with anyway.
“Maybe it will help me get closure. Or maybe it’ll just inspire me to write again. Who knows?”
“If that’s what you think will help,” Archer sounds skeptical but doesn’t argue.
“Yeah, I do. Thanks for giving us a break.”
“You know I’d do anything for you guys.”
“Back at ya, Arch.”
Track 4: Side B
Don’t Fight the Impulse
Lando
As we disembarked the plane, I desperately searched my mind for some way to keep the sexy, interesting, perfect man from walking away from me without so much as a backward glance.
We’d spent the entire three-hour flight talking, laughing, and flirting. Okay, he was doing most of the flirting, but that’s only because I have zero skills. He was obviously interested, but how creepy would it be if I put off going to New York for a few days?
“Listen—” I started at the same time Dawson said, “I was thinking—”
We both laughed, and Dawson waved for me to go ahead.
“This is probably going to sound crazy, but I don’t really have to be in New York until Tuesday morning,” I rushed out nervously. “Would you think I’m a total nutjob if I asked you to stay for the weekend? With me, I mean.”
A smile spread across Dawson’s face before he
schooled his features.
“Hmmm,” Dawson pretended to think about it, tapping his chin. “Would there be sex?”
I let out a surprised, choked laugh.
“Uh…yeah, there would be sex.”
“Um-hmm.” Dawson continued to stroke his chin. “And what would this sex entail exactly?”
“Jesus,” I chuckled. “The sex can entail whatever you want. Just tell me you’ll spend the weekend with me?”
“Let’s do it,” he agreed. “I was just busting your balls.”
“I get the feeling I’m going to have my hands full with you.”
“Both hands full if you’re lucky,” he teased with a bawdy wink.
“I need to make a call really quick, okay?”
“I’ll grab our bags and meet you back here in a few minutes?”
I nodded and told him what my bag looked like. Then I felt my smile slip, and my expression become serious again. I reached for Dawson and pulled him close. My breath caught as his ghosted across my lips, my full beard tickling his cheeks. His nose bumped against mine, and my stomach swooped with excitement just before his lips pressed against mine.
The kiss was sweet and slow, not as rushed and perfunctory as I was used to. This was an exploration, an introduction, a promise of all the things yet to come.
“I’ll be back,” he said in a daze when I released him.
My heart was hammering erratically as I watched Dawson make his way to baggage claim. I could hardly believe he’d agreed to spend the weekend together.
I pulled my phone out and dialed Archer.
“Lando, how’s everything going? Flights going smoothly today?”
“Yeah. Listen…I just got off the plane in Florida and was about to catch my connecting flight. But I was thinking, maybe I’d spend the weekend in Miami and catch a plane to New York Monday?”
“Oh?”
“With everything going on with my dad, I could use a few days to clear my head.”
“Of course. I’m sorry I didn’t think to suggest it myself. I’ll book you a beach rental and get your flight switched. I’ll text you the details and see you Monday evening.”
“Thanks, Arch.”
“You’re welcome. Enjoy your weekend.”
I glanced over at Dawson, sashaying my way with a smile splitting his face and a suitcase in each hand.
“Believe me, I will.”
Track 5: Side A
Last Call
Dawson
I know people wonder how a deaf person can be a bartender. I’d argue that a deaf person is the ideal bartender. No matter how loud it gets, it doesn’t bother me, I can’t hear any complaints, and people feel bad for me, so they leave big tips. In all honesty, it works well. I hand customers my notepad and they write down what they want. The perfection of the system is in its simplicity.
I may have lost my memory, my hearing, and my words but at least I’ll always have pouring booze for strangers.
I finish making a mojito and set it in front of a pretty blonde woman, earning a smile in return. I check that everyone else is still doing well, and then I work on prep—lemons, ice, you get the picture. It’s a Tuesday night, so it’s mainly regulars. Which is good because they leave excellent tips and don’t need too much attention. They mostly want to be left alone with their drinks, and I’m happy to do just that.
I sigh as a heaviness settles over my heart. I’m sure it’s just the dim lighting in the bar putting me in a mood. The stale smell of alcohol is making me think of how stagnant my life is. I don’t know why I even bother to put my day to day life into my cloud calendar at this point. All it ever reads is work or home with Parker. I can’t remember exactly what my plan was after graduation, but I have the sneaking suspicion this wasn’t it.
I lean against the bar and watch the television in the corner. They’re talking about Downward Spiral on whatever gossip show this is. I read the captions as they scroll across the bottom of the screen. The story is something about the lead singer, Lincoln Miller, disappearing and speculation he might be in the hospital after another suicide attempt or in rehab. Apparently, the band has canceled their upcoming tour and there’s speculation that they may not re-sign their contract with the record label. A picture of the band appears, and my breath catches at Lando’s easy smile. Could I possibly be more pathetic?
A hand tapping my arm startles me. Luke, one of the regulars, gives me an apologetic look and points at his drink. I blush a little at having been caught so lost in my pathetic crush and hurry to refill Luke’s beer.
The strange thought crosses my mind that I wish I could text Lando and ask if he’s okay. Jesus, what’s wrong with me? Having a crush on a celebrity is one thing, but having weird fantasies about texting him, comforting him, knowing him on a personal level...that’s getting into crazy stalker territory. If I’m not careful, I’ll end up like one of those freaks who’re convinced they’re in some sort of relationship with a celebrity they’ve never actually met.
I pass Luke’s fresh beer to him and focus my attention on wiping down the bar rather than feeding my addiction by watching the television.
A few hours later I’m flopping down onto my bed in my dark apartment. I tear off my shirt and fling it somewhere, then I kick off my pants and underwear and toss them as well. The cool sheets feel nice against my skin, hot from running around the bar for the past few hours.
I close my eyes, and the smiling image of Lando fills my mind’s eye, making my cock thicken and shift against my thigh. Pathetic, pathetic, pathetic, I chant as I reach for my growing erection.
I wrap my hand around my shaft and tug myself to full hardness. That’s when the image of Lando morphs. It’s no longer like a photograph from TV or a magazine. This image is hazier, almost like a memory. Maybe it’s from a dream? Or maybe my brain is taking a real memory and putting Lando’s face over whoever I was really with.
I stroke myself slowly, imagining Lando spread out on a bed, the moonlight bathing his skin, and his head thrown back as he cries out in ecstasy. My cock is buried deep in his tight ass, and pre-cum is dripping from the head of his erection.
I jerk myself hard, imagining that it really is Lando’s ass wrapped around me rather than my own hand. I buck up into my fist and my balls draw up tight. The Lando in my mind is clawing at my ass as ragged cries fall from his lips. I can almost feel his hot cum splattering against my chest…but sadly, it’s my own as my orgasm barrels through me.
I let out a long breath and blindly reach for any article of my discarded clothing to mop up my release, trying not to feel the shame of jerking it to a celebrity crush like I’m fourteen years old.
This is becoming more pitiful by the day. I need to get back out there and start dating again. It’s not that I haven’t dated since my accident. But I haven’t found anyone exciting who’s also okay with the idea of dating a deaf dude with memory gaps. Parker says it’s not about my handicap, it’s about my shitty attitude. I told her to go fuck herself.
I roll onto my side and pull the blankets up to my chin, feeling a bit of a chill that seems to be somehow coming from inside me. And sleep drags me under.
I put a t-shirt to my nose and sniff it because I can’t remember which pile of clothes was clean and which was dirty. It smells okay, so I pull it over my head. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the light flicker in the living room, announcing that Parker is here.
I check the mirror over my dresser and run my fingers through my unruly curls.
I give Parker a smile in greeting as I step out of my bedroom, and she does the same. Then she strides across the room and pulls me into a tight hug. I wrap my arms around her waist and hug her back. When she pulls away, I watch her lips as she says Happy Birthday. I can see the glossy look of unshed tears in her eyes, and I pat her on the shoulder, hoping to hold her weeping at bay.
I understand why she’s emotional. It feels like yesterday that I woke up in a hospital bed with Parker asleep in the chair beside me. I
was terrified when I looked around, unable to understand where I was and having no idea who the woman asleep beside my bed was. Then I realized I didn’t even know who I was, and I freaked out. A nurse rushed in and sedated me. The next time I woke up, some things started to come back to me. I remembered my name and that Parker was my sister. And over the next few weeks, more memories returned.
My mom sobbed when they found out I was deaf and that I might never recover all my memories. I cried too.
I understand why my birthday makes her emotional. I almost didn’t have any more birthdays and that’s an impossible thing to forget.
Ready for dinner? she signs after releasing me from the hug.
I nod enthusiastically.
Parker drives us to my favorite seafood restaurant and after we order, she passes me an envelope.
Thank you, I sign, and she waves me off, motioning to the envelope like she can’t wait for me to open it.
I slide my finger under the flap and tug it open. Inside there’s a birthday card that says a bunch of sappy shit that totally doesn’t make me cry. And then I find a loose piece of paper with a Miami address on it.
What’s this?
A vacation. I rented you a beach house for a week in Miami. Maybe some time away will inspire you to write again?
My breath catches at how thoughtful her gift is.
When is it for? I’ll have to get off work.
Already taken care of. I talked to your boss and got you next week off.
I set the card and paper down and go around the table to hug my sister. Then I kiss her cheek and mouth thank you again as something warm settles in my heart.
Parker drops me off back at home after dinner, and there’s something nagging in the back of my mind I can’t shake. My stomach is fluttering, and my heart is pounding. It’s like my body is having a physical reaction to the idea of going to Miami, but my brain doesn’t know why.
Growing up two hours from Miami, I’ve been there a hundred times, and there’s nothing I can remember that should be making me this anxious and excited about spending a week there. That’s the key though—nothing I can remember.
Play it by Ear Page 2
