“How’s the beach?”
“Good, I walked around for a while last night and then sat on the porch for a long time. It’s nice waking up to the sound and smell of the ocean.”
“That’s awesome. Are you planning to leave the house at all?” Benji asks.
“Hmmm, debatable,” I joke. Of course, I’m planning to leave the house. How could I possibly run into Dawson if I stay cooped up this whole time? “I was thinking of hitting a bar tonight.”
“Nice, go get laid. It’s been ages since you’ve gotten any.”
“Glad to hear you’re keeping track for me.”
“Someone has to,” Benji deadpans.
“What about you? Up to anything fun?”
“Just got in last night, hanging out with London in a little while. Just having a chill time, you know?”
“Good, you deserve it.”
“Thanks, you too. I just thought I’d check in, but it sounds like I’d better let you get up and get some coffee and breakfast.”
“Yeah, coffee is a must. But call me again soon, okay? I want to hear how your time off is going.”
“Same, man. Talk to you later,” Benji agrees.
“Bye.”
Now that he’s mentioned coffee, my brain is on a one-track mission to get some. I passed a little coffee shop just up the road from here on my way in, might as well check it out. I roll out of bed and comb my fingers through my hair and then pull on a t-shirt and a pair of shorts before heading out the door.
I tilt my head back and let the sun wash over my face as I walk down the road. It’d be impossible not to be in a better mood out here in the sunshine than I was in the cold, gray New York December.
A few minutes later, I step into the coffee shop and get a weird jolt in my stomach when I see all the Christmas decorations and signs announcing holiday specials. It’s only eight days until Christmas. How could I have forgotten that? Probably because it feels like a different universe down here. It almost doesn’t seem possible that Christmas could exist somewhere with so much sun and sand.
This will be the first Christmas I’ve spent all alone. Usually, we’re on tour or at least the band is together. I gave my parents a trip to Europe this year for Christmas, so the option of going to stay with them over the holiday isn’t even there. Maybe I’ll get a gallon of eggnog and rum and pass the holiday completely blitzed.
“Hi, how can I help you?” the teenage girl behind the register greets me.
I order an iced vanilla coffee and a blueberry scone. There’s a brief flicker of recognition in her eyes as she looks at me, but it doesn’t seem to quite click. Thank god for that. It’s worse for Lincoln. No one ever mistakes the lead singer.
With my coffee and breakfast in hand, I take my time walking home, enjoying the weather. But eventually, I end up back at the quiet beach house.
I sit down on the porch and pull out my phone to scroll through Instagram, hoping some pictures of cute cats will bolster my spirits a bit. It doesn’t work.
Track 8: Side B
Sweat Like Candy
Lando
Inside the beach house, we wasted no time fusing our mouths together. Our hands tore wildly at each other’s clothes, not caring about the errant sounds of ripping fabric as we focused on the sole mission of getting naked.
My cock throbbed painfully in the confines of my jeans; every inch of Dawson’s skin I exposed drove me wilder. His flesh was a heady combination of soft and rough patches, coarse hair, and delicate smooth expenses.
I dragged my lips from his and explored his jaw, throat, and shoulders, memorizing every subtle flavor as it burst on my tongue. Dawson’s fingers tangled in my hair like he thought he needed to anchor me to him. As if I could ever pull away. My body craved him, my soul called out for him.
“Bedroom?” he panted, his voice rougher than I’d heard it before.
With my hands around his waist, I backed him toward the nearest room, hoping it was the bedroom, never pulling my lips from his skin. I peeked my eye open and spotted a bed, score.
When the backs of his knees hit the bed, he grabbed me around the middle and dragged me down with him. Our mouths found each other again, our tongues tangling as we swallowed each other’s sounds of pleasure. Our cocks lined up perfectly, thrusting against each other, slick with pre-cum.
Dawson’s hands roamed over my chest, pinching my nipples, scratching my stomach, touching everywhere like he was trying to memorize me just as much as I was him. He reached around and grabbed the globes of my ass in his hands, massaging and tugging them apart so the cool air against my hole made me whimper and moan.
“Please,” I begged around his tongue in my mouth.
“You don’t have to beg, baby. I’m going to fuck you so good, you’ll be ruined for anyone else.”
I groaned in approval. “I’m going to be pissed if you’re all talk.”
Dawson barked out a laugh and gave my left ass cheek a hearty smack. “Why don’t you get on your hands and knees for me?”
I scrambled off him and onto all fours. “Condoms and lube are in my bag on the floor.”
“Were you planning to get lucky on your trip?” he teased.
“I was a boy scout—always be prepared and all that jazz.”
“Good policy,” he agreed, climbing off the bed to grab supplies from my bag.
The bed shifted under his weight as he crawled on behind me. The distinct sound of the lube bottle clicking open and the squelch of Dawson squeezing some onto his hands made me shiver and my cock flex, seeking friction.
I rocked my hips back in a silent plea, and one of Dawson’s hands came to rest on my lower back and then slid down to the swell of my ass cheeks and parted them again.
“God, you have a pretty hole,” he praised, his lubed finger teasing the rim and making my breath catch. “All pink and tight. It’s desperate for my cock, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” I whined in agreement, squirming against his finger in an attempt to get him to put it inside me.
Instead of pushing inside, a second finger joined the teasing around the outside. Fuck, I needed it, needed him filling me, stretching me, marking me so I’d remember this night forever.
“There we go,” Dawson praised as my hole softened under his teasing, his two fingers finally slipping inside.
The stretch and burn only lasted a second before I was thrusting against him, needing his fingers deeper, harder, and so much more.
“Please, please, just fuck me.”
“Are you sure?” he asked, testing the pliancy of my hole by scissoring his fingers.
“Yes, fuck yes,” I rasped.
I whimpered when his fingers disappeared. But the sound of the condom package being torn open quieted my protest.
When the thick head of his cock pressed against my entrance, I stilled, my fists balling the sheets and my head hanging low between my shoulders.
Dawson pushed inside slowly enough to drive me out of my mind, every inch seeming to take an hour to breach me. The sharp bite of fullness only made it better.
Before he was even all the way in, he pulled out sharply, and I wailed indignantly at the sudden loss.
“Shh, it’s okay, baby. I just want to see you. Flip over,” he instructed, patting my thigh encouragingly.
I rolled onto my back, my breath ragged and my balls aching. He wasted no time hitching my legs high and thrusting back into me. This time he entered me in one jarring thrust that nearly made me come on the spot.
Sweat clung to our skin as we writhed together in the moonlight, grunting and cursing as our orgasms crept closer and closer. Dawson’s head was thrown back as beautiful cries fell from his lips, my ass squeezing his cock tight. My ankles rested on his shoulders as he fucked into me, dragging his length over my prostate with every thrust.
“Dawson, please,” I gasped, clawing at his arms.
He grunted an acknowledgement of my pleas and fucked me harder, making my body shake and my throat raw
with the sounds he was drawing out of me. My legs fell from his shoulders and locked around his hips as he leaned forward, and his fingers twined with mine, pinning my hands to the bed and making me sob with the need to jerk myself, chase my orgasm.
“Please, please, please,” I whimpered as each thrust pushed me closer to the edge.
Dawson’s lips found mine again, but we were both too far gone to manage any practiced kissing, it was all bumping mouths and nipping teeth as our breath mixed and our moans formed a beautiful symphony.
I squeezed around Dawson’s rigid cock like it would somehow keep him inside me longer, brand him there forever. And when the head of his cock dragged along my prostate once more, I couldn’t keep from coming. A strangled cry escaped me as my balls tightened, and my erection gave a deep pulse, painting both of us with my thick release.
Dawson wasn’t far behind me, throwing his head back and nearly howling with pleasure as his cock throbbed deep inside me, and I could feel the heat of his release through the condom.
When he collapsed beside me, I pulled him into my arms and nestled my nose against his cheek. Droplets of sweat clung to his skin, and I couldn’t resist adding this taste to my memory as well. My tongue darted out to gather a few tangy droplets, and Dawson’s chest rumbled against mine with a laugh.
“Did you just lick me? I must be salty and gross.”
“Nuh-uh, your sweat tastes like candy.”
“Why do I feel like those are song lyrics?” he teased.
“Maybe they will be.”
Track 9: Side A
Broken Memories
Lando
I step into the crowded bar and tug my baseball cap lower, hoping like hell it’ll hide my identity well enough. I slide onto a bar stool and flag down the bartender.
“What can I get for you?” she asks with a wide smile, leaning over to give me a full-on view of her cleavage, no doubt hoping it’ll increase her tip.
“Something with tequila in it.”
“Coming right up.”
I sigh and stroke my fingers through my beard, tugging a little at the ends. My gaze wanders around the bar, taking in the other vacationers and likely a few locals. I picked this bar because it didn’t strike me as a trendy bar. I didn’t want to go somewhere that would be overly crowded.
The bartender slides a drink in front of me. “Tequila sunrise, enjoy.” She winks at me and I nod in thanks.
I sip the drink and am pleasantly surprised by the fruity concoction with a bite of tequila at the end. I continue my visual perusal of the bar, the straw between my teeth and my knee bouncing to the beat of the song playing from the speakers overhead.
My gaze snags on a man sitting at the end of the bar, slightly hunched over his drink. His dark curls are the first thing that catch my attention. My heartbeat picks up speed, even as I try to tell myself that millions of men have dark, curly hair. It’s highly unlikely to be Dawson. My heart isn’t interested in hearing any of that, insisting that the man I’ve been losing sleep over for almost a decade is within grasp once again.
Without thought, I slide off my stool, abandoning my drink. I stride over to the man, my hands shaking.
The closer I get to him, the surer I am that it’s him. If his slim build and ratty red converse weren’t convincing, the Shakespeare quote tattooed on his arm would be.
“Dawson?” I ask in a shaky voice. He doesn’t react, so I clear my throat and try again. “Dawson?” Still nothing. Maybe I’m wrong? Or maybe he’s lost in thought and that’s why he’s not responding?
I read the words tattooed in delicate script along his forearm: The course of true love never did run smooth. I can’t walk away without knowing for sure
I feel like a bit of a creep as I reach out. My fingers graze his shoulder, and he jolts. His head turns slowly, and my heart explodes into a gallop. As his face comes into view, I nearly choke on my tongue. It’s him.
I open my mouth, not sure what I’m supposed to say. Why didn’t I plan something to say? Fuck.
Dawson stares at me blankly and then raises one eyebrow in question. He doesn’t recognize me. I’ve been obsessing over him for nine years, and he doesn’t even remember me. Could I be any more pathetic? Bile rises in my throat. I want to melt into a puddle of shame and slip through the cracks in the floor so he’ll stop looking at me.
I bite down on my bottom lip and run my fingers through my beard, wondering if I should say anything or just turn and walk away before this gets any more awkward. He squints and tilts his head and then his eyes go wide.
He spins around on his stool so his whole body is now facing me. He gestures wildly with his hands, a manic smile on his face.
I try to understand the flurry of movement as his fingers and hands flail. It takes a few seconds before I realize it’s sign language.
“Dawson?” I ask in confusion. Is it possible this is just someone who looks remarkably like Dawson.
His eyes go wide again, and he stops moving. He glances at his hands like he’s just now realizing what he was doing. He turns back around and waves at the bartender. She approaches with a smile, and he starts making a gesture like he’s writing in the air.
She pulls a notepad out of her apron and holds it up. He nods frantically and holds his hand out. She offers him a pen as well.
He scribbles something down and passes the notepad to me.
Holy shit, you’re Lando Meyers. How do you know my name??
I blink at the words, trying to process them. This is Dawson. But it’s not.
“You’re Dawson Hayes?” I clarify, his eyes glued to my lips. He nods cautiously, his expression turning suspicious. “You majored in English Lit, and you love the color blue like the Indian Ocean?”
His expression slowly morphs from cautious to suspicious and a little freaked out. He snatches the notebook back from my hand and writes something before handing it back to me.
How the hell do you know so much about me? Is this some weird prank Parker is playing?
My heart sinks even further. It’s really him but also not him. He can’t hear? Or he can’t talk? I can’t tell which at this point but it makes me sick to my stomach to know something clearly happened to him that I didn’t know about. And he doesn’t remember me. All these years I’ve been pathetically mooning over him, and he completely forgot he ever met me.
Dawson
My mind is racing, trying to make sense of what’s happening. My celebrity crush is standing within touching distance of me in a bar in Miami. Not only is he standing here, he’s talking to me like he knows me. How does he know me? Parker isn’t a prankster, and even if she was, how the hell would she get a celebrity to go along with it? And most importantly, why does he look so sad? He doesn’t look like he’s playing a joke. He looks heartbroken.
Without thinking, I reach out and put my hand on his forearm, wanting to comfort him. Lando’s eyes meet mine, and my breath catches. He’s even more gorgeous in real life than in the pictures I’ve seen. I’m touching Lando freaking Meyers. He’s standing here, his skin warm against my palm, his t-shirt clinging distractingly to his biceps, his scruffy beard tempting me to run my fingers through it.
I take the notepad back and write another note.
I was in a car accident and lost a lot of memories. Have we met before?
Lando’s eyes go wide when he reads my note. “Are you okay?”
I shrug and make a so-so gesture with my hand. I point at my ears, and he nods in understanding.
When did we meet?
This time I hand him the pen to write the answer in case he’ll have some sort of long winded explanation of our meeting.
I still can’t believe this is possible. I somehow met the man I’ve been obsessing over from afar, and I can’t remember it? Was it in passing? Did I fanboy all over him and embarrass myself? It must not have been too bad if he’s approaching me in a bar of his own free will.
He hesitates before he writes down his answer and passes i
t back to me.
My blood freezes in my veins as I read the words on the page. I shake my head, unable to believe it.
August 6th, 2009. We spent the weekend together, the note reads.
My hands start to shake so badly, I drop the pen, and it rolls away. I stare at Lando, my heart galloping and my brain whirling. The mystery of where I was that weekend is finally staring me in the face. Somehow, inexplicably, I was with Lando Meyers. But it’s not inexplicable, I suppose. He knows exactly what happened. He knows everything I’ve wondered about for nine years.
“Are you okay?” he asks, his eyebrows scrunched in concern.
I make the wobbly gesture with my hand again, and he purses his lips and then jerks his head toward the door.
I slide off the stool and follow him outside, gulping in lungfuls of salty sea air. Once we’re out of the bar, I bend over and put my hands on my knees. Lando’s large hand rubs soothing circles on my back and causes goosebumps to erupt all over my skin. When I’m not freaking out, I’m going to be really embarrassed that I fell apart like this in front of my ultimate celebrity crush.
Holy shit…some of the pieces start to slot into place, and my heart beats impossibly faster. The way Lando looks at me, the casual way he’s touching me, we spent a secret weekend together.
I stand up, and Lando drops his hand.
“Did we fuck?” I rasp. I rarely talk out loud because it’s disconcerting as hell to not be able to hear my own words as I speak them. Not to mention having no clue if I’m talking at a reasonable volume or not. But desperate times call for desperate measures.
He winces, looks down at his feet, and then nods.
I’ve had sex with Lando fucking Meyers, and my brain couldn’t manage to hang on to those memories? Fuck you very much, brain damage.
When he finally looks back up, his eyes are filled with sadness and a hint of guilt that really doesn’t belong there. I pull out my phone and hand it to him. It takes him a few seconds to get the hint, but he enters his number in and then hands it back to me.
“Are you mad?”
Play it by Ear Page 4
