Play it by Ear

by K. M. Neuhold

  I shake my head and then tap out a message to him.

  Not at you. I’m pissed as hell that I can’t remember it. Sorry, but I’m kind of freaking out right now. I’ve been wondering for nine years where I was that weekend that I didn’t tell my sister or anyone else about.

  Lando reads the message and then types back.

  When was your accident?

  The evening of August 8th, 2009. It was on my way home from Miami, apparently.

  Lando puts a hand over his mouth, and his hand tightens around his phone. For a second, I think he’s going to throw it or possibly punch something. Instead, he stumbles back until his back hits the side of the building, and then he sinks down to sit on the ground.

  Are you okay? I type.

  His phone lights up, and when he reads my message, he looks back up at me with a sad smile. He shakes his head, and my heart aches for him.

  Part of me wants to crawl onto his lap and find a way to comfort us both. A larger part of me wants to run like hell and not face any of this. I’ve wondered for nine years what happened, but for some reason I’m terrified to find out.

  I have to go. I type.

  Can I see you again? Tomorrow?

  My stomach gives a little jolt as I read his message. I can almost hear the sad desperation in the question. None of this makes sense.

  Okay. Text me. I agree.

  I watch Lando’s shoulders relax before he types out a reply.

  Sleep well.

  You too.

  It’s not a long walk back to the house, and it passes in a blur as my thoughts continue to run in dizzying circles. I can’t begin to process everything that happened tonight. I go out to have a drink and possibly find a warm body for the night, and instead, I meet my celebrity crush Lando Meyers and apparently not for the first time.

  I strip out of my clothes and climb into bed, my body heavy with exhaustion. I can’t decide if I’m hoping to wake up to realize this was all a dream or not.

  As hard as I try, I can’t make things add up. I spent a weekend naked with a freaking rock star, and I can’t remember it? How unfair is that? And what was with the look in Lando’s eyes? He looked gutted that I couldn’t remember him. But it was just a weekend fling, right? People forget hook-ups all the time. On that note, why does he even remember me?

  The thoughts run around my head until I’m ready to scream. I’m not sure if I’m glad to finally have solved the mystery of where I was that weekend, or if knowing just made everything more complicated.

  I pull up my calendar and my thumbs hover over today’s date, not even sure how to succinctly describe what just happened. I type and delete several times before settling on Met Lando Meyers, he says we spent THAT weekend together. Staring at the entry, I realize Parker will see this if she bothers to check my calendar. I consider deleting the entry and leaving it as simply went to the bar, but the thought of having an incomplete entry is like ice in my veins. What if something happens and I forget about him all over again?

  I leave the entry and hope Parker doesn’t bother to check. As far as I know, she doesn’t usually read my calendar unless I ask her to put something on there. The reason she has access is in case something were to happen and I was unable to check or remember it even exists.

  I stare up at the ceiling. Shadows dance along the dark surface as I desperately try to pull Lando’s face into my mind from somewhere that isn’t a fantasy or a magazine cover.

  There’s a brief flash of a smile, nearly hidden behind a scraggly beard, and the memory of a husky laugh. But I can’t be sure they’re real. Maybe they’re just wishful thinking. I don’t understand how any of this is real.

  I take a deep breath and close my eyes, trying to pull up anything more concrete. The harder I try, the further the memories seem to slip away.

  I’ve spent nine years wondering where I spent that weekend, and it’s safe to say if I had another hundred years to ponder it, I never would’ve come up with having spent it in bed with a rock star.

  And after all that wondering and losing sleep over it, I finally know. So why does it feel so…unsatisfying? Maybe part of me thought that if I knew, then all my memories would instantly come flooding back. Or maybe it was because part of me knew that weekend was significant and instead of getting all the information tonight, I just walked away like a coward.

  Lando

  If my mind wasn’t spinning so far out of control, I might’ve chased after Dawson when he walked away. As it was, I couldn’t do much other than watch his retreating form and long for everything to be different.

  He doesn’t remember me. He doesn’t remember a single second of the weekend I’ve obsessed over for the better part of nine years.

  When I finally manage to drag myself off the ground, the only thing I can focus on is getting a whole damn bottle of tequila and taking it back to the beach house to drown my sorrows and confusion.

  When I get back, with my newly purchased bottle of Jose Cuervo in hand, I kick off my shoes and plop down in the damp sand, just out of reach of the tide, and I uncap the bottle. I cringe at the burn of alcohol sliding down my throat, and I tilt my head back to look up at the moon.

  I wonder what Lincoln was thinking when he was laying on the lounge chair on his balcony, drunk and freezing. Did he want to die? Did he just not want to feel anything anymore? Did he even care? Then my train of thought shifts to an image of Dawson severely injured, maybe trapped inside his car. Was he conscious at any point? Was he afraid? Did he think of me? Did he blame me for being the reason he was on that road at that exact moment? If he could remember me, would he regret having spent that weekend with me?

  I take another deep gulp and use the back of my hand to brush away some of the dampness on my cheeks.

  I don’t care that Dawson isn’t the same as he was. My heart still knows him. But does any part of his heart still know me?

  Track 10: Side B

  Couldn’t Forget You if I Tried

  Lando

  Warm lips against my skin dragged me from a pleasant slumber. Waking with the scent of sex and sweat hanging in the air made my morning wood throb as I sought Dawson without opening my eyes. My fingers brushed through the rough hair of his chest, and he shivered as I grazed one of his peaked nipples.

  “Mmmm, I was going to drag you out of bed for an adventure, but if you’re going to get handsy, I may need to rethink that plan,” he murmured with a lusty edge to his gravelly voice.

  “No reason we can’t do both. I can be very quick with the proper incentive,” I assured him as I found his straining erection and wrapped my hand around it.

  Dawson buried his face against my neck, and his hitched breath fanning over my skin gave me goosebumps. I slowly tugged him from root to tip, and his tongue swept along my throat. I shuddered with pleasure as Dawson grabbed my leg and hitched it over his hip, to get closer, our erections lining up perfectly and stealing the breath from my lungs.

  I adjusted my grip, so it was around both our cocks and increased my rhythm. Dawson licked and nibbled at my lips, the taste of my cum still on his mouth from the previous night. I bucked my hips, thrusting into my fist. His pre-cum trickled onto the head of my cock and made me ache for release.

  Dawson’s hands were all over me, touching, teasing. His fingers ghosted over my back and down to my ass. I moaned against his lips as they slid into my crease and danced over my tender hole.

  My balls were tight and heavy as I thrust harder against his cock. When the tip of his finger slipped inside me, I groaned from deep in my chest, and my cock throbbed against his, coating him with my cream.

  Dawson wasn’t far behind, the fingers of his free hand digging into my bicep as his pleasure pulsed through him, adding to the sticky mess I already made.

  “Damn. Are you sure you can only stay through tomorrow?” Dawson lamented breathlessly with a smile on his lips, his wild hair now limp with sweat.

  “What’s the adventure you have planned?” I asked
in my best attempt to change the subject. The thought of leaving was a lead weight in the pit of my stomach, but what other choice was there?

  “We’re going on a fan boat ride in the Everglades,” Dawson revealed.

  “That sounds awesome. Want to grab a shower first?”

  “No, I’d rather go out into the world sticky with cum,” he quipped, rolling his eyes and earning a bite to the side of his neck, making him giggle and squirm.

  “Race you to the shower,” I suggested, jumping out of bed before Dawson could respond.

  “Cheater!” I heard him call as I sprinted to the bathroom laughing all the way.

  I made it into the shower a few seconds before Dawson jumped in after me, not even bothered by the cool water washing the sweat and cum off our skin.

  Once the water warmed up a little, I picked up the soap and started washing Dawson’s shoulders and chest, watching as the suds slid down his belly and clung to his still half-hard cock.

  “What’s going to happen after this weekend?” Dawson asked, dragging my attention back up. “Not that I’m trying to get greedy or clingy, but will I ever see you again?”

  “I don’t know yet,” I replied, my voice laced with desperation. I wasn’t sure how I could come to need this man so much in such a short amount of time, but I couldn’t deny the hollow feeling in my chest at the thought of walking away without looking back. But how could this work? I was just starting out with the band. There would be long tours and who knew what else. I couldn’t make a commitment to someone at that point in my life. It wouldn’t be fair to Dawson or to me. “Let’s see where things go after this weekend, okay?”

  He hesitated for a moment and then nodded.

  “Promise you won’t forget me when you’re famous?” he asked with humor and an edge of fear. “I know that’s stupid to say when we’ve just met. But please promise you won’t forget this weekend?”

  “Dimples, I couldn’t forget you if I tried.”

  Track 11: Side A

  It’s Not Me

  Lando

  I tossed and turned all night, not even dragged under by the tequila I drowned myself in, images of Dawson filling my mind. My drunken brain didn’t seem capable of disentangling memories of our perfect weekend from the man who stood before me last night, looking terrified and broken. I wanted so badly to reach out and soothe him, but he didn’t even know who I was.

  My head pounds, and my mouth tastes like hot garbage. Maybe the tequila was ill-advised.

  All these years I’ve been looking back at the best weekend of my life, never knowing that Dawson nearly died before I even made it back to New York. I don’t blame him for running away last night. If it hadn’t been for me, he would’ve been safe at home that night. I ruined his life. My chest aches at the realization.

  I roll over in bed and watch as the sun starts to peek through the window. I feel hollow inside, like everything has been scooped out and thrown away. I’ve spent all these years falling in love with the memory of a man who doesn’t exist anymore.

  My eyelids drift closed and images of Dawson smiling at me, excitedly describing his favorite books, listening with rapt interest as I played for him fill my mind. It’s hard to tell now which are real memories and which were dreams of longing I’d conjured over the years. It doesn’t matter; it’s all the same.

  On my nightstand, my phone vibrates, and I reach for it without enthusiasm. Odds are high it’s more Lincoln drama, and I’m too exhausted to deal with it.

  My heart leaps into my throat when I see a new text from Dawson. My hands shake as I pull up the message.

  Dawson: Hey, sorry about freaking out last night. It was a lot to take in.

  I swallow hard, staring at the text for a few seconds before I manage to respond.

  Lando: It’s ok. I’m sorry I didn’t know about what happened.

  Dawson: It’s fine. How could you have known?

  Lando: Still…

  Dawson: Do you want to meet up and talk? I have a lot of questions about that weekend, if that’s ok.

  My heart plummets reading his message. What am I supposed to tell him about that weekend? We were practically strangers, and we screwed each other’s brains out. Oh, and we also had some ridiculously sweet moments that I’ve held close to my heart for nearly a decade. That doesn’t sound all kinds of pathetic.

  But, it would mean I’d get to see him again. Even if this wasn’t the second chance I expected, it’s still a second chance.

  Lando: Yeah. You want to grab lunch?

  Dawson: Sounds good.

  We agree on a lunch place to meet in a few hours, and suddenly, I’m lighter than I’ve been in years.

  I lay in bed a little longer, this time with a smile on my lips as I watch the sky lighten. The only memory dancing in my head now is the last morning I had with Dawson and how sure I was it wouldn’t be the last time I’d see him. It seems I was right; I just didn’t account for all that might happen in between.

  Dawson

  I’m a jittery mess of nerves as I shower and shave. I spent the entire night straining to remember anything about the weekend I spent with Lando. The only thing I could come up with were the dreams I’ve had of him. But were those memories or shadows of the way I lusted for my celebrity crush?

  There’s a sense of relief to finally know why I’ve been so obsessed with this band for years when I had no idea what their music sounded like. I assume I heard them at some point during the lost year, but I can’t remember.

  Either way, none of that explains how I met Lando, or the look in his eyes last night. It also doesn’t explain why he remembered me after all these years. Surely there’ve been hundreds of beautifully sweaty weekends with countless perfect men. I’m one in a line of many. A twinge of bitter jealousy hits me in the core at that thought, and I laugh at myself. I should be happy I had him at all, not jealous of the others who have.

  I just wish I could remember that weekend. It seems infinitely unfair that I could’ve spent hours in bed with Lando Meyers, my ideal male specimen, and not remember a moment of it.

  I watch the clock all morning, breathing a sigh of relief when it’s time to leave to meet Lando.

  It’s a beautiful afternoon to walk to the nearby seafood restaurant. This has always been one of my favorite places to visit in Miami.

  As I walk, I muse about what his favorite color is or his favorite food. I wonder if he’s ever been in love and where he gets inspiration for his music. I wonder what his beard would feel like against my chin or the inside of my thighs.

  That line of thought leaves me adjusting my erection and wondering if there’s any possibility Lando would be open to making new memories with me this week.

  When I reach the restaurant, my heart stutters at the surreal sight of Lando waiting for me. He looks up as I approach and smiles at me, making my breath catch in my throat. God, he has a beautiful smile.

  I give him a little wave, and he does the same before pulling open the door to the restaurant and gesturing for me to go ahead. I inhale the scent of fried fish and lobster, and my mouth waters. I glance back at Lando and find him sniffing the air as well.

  I grab my phone and tap out a message to him while we wait to be seated.

  You like seafood? I didn’t think to ask before, sorry.

  Lando reads my message, and a soft smile appears on his lips.

  I do. You brought me here the last time we were together.

  It’s difficult to describe the feeling of having missing memories. It’s a little like starting a movie in the middle. You can pick up most of the context, but you’ll never know how much you’ve missed out on.

  Before I can spend too much time lingering on those thoughts, the hostess takes us to a table.

  I pull out my phone and set it on the table, to communicate with Lando. Thank fuck for going deaf in the technological age. Hell, I think most people prefer that all I can do is text them.

  What’s your favorite color? I ask on
ce we’re settled.

  A little smile tilts the corner of Lando’s lips. He starts to type his answer, but I put my hand over his phone. I want to watch his lips move as he talks to me.

  It takes him a second to get the hint, but then he answers the question out loud.

  “It used to be lilac, but now it’s cerulean blue,” he says, and I cock my head to the side, wondering what shade of blue that is. His smile turns shy. “It’s blue like the Indian Ocean.”

  My heart does a little flip.

  How did we meet? I text.

  “I had a flight from Cincinnati to New York with a connection in Miami. We were seated next to each other on the plane. We talked and flirted, and by the time we landed in Miami, I didn’t want to walk away just yet. So, I called my band manager and told him I was spending the weekend here…with you.”

  My stomach aches at how sweet that sounds. I wonder what I said to charm him so thoroughly in a few short hours.

  Why? What was special about me?

  Lando’s smile turns sad when he reads this message.

  “You were snarky and funny and confident. I envied the hell out of you. I wanted to be you. Or maybe I just needed to be near you to soak it all in. I was completely taken with you.”

  With each compliment that tumbles from his lips, my heart sinks. His eyes are shining as he describes this amazing man who captured his interest, and I envy everything about that man.

  I don’t think I know that person, I text.

  “He’s still in there.”

  I frown, but before I can respond, the waitress appears to take our order. I tap the lobster ravioli option, and she jots it down. Lando orders the same as I try desperately to pull myself together. When the waitress leaves, I lift my phone back up, furiously tapping out the next message.

  What exactly is it you want from me? Surely a rock star has better things to do with his time than hang around with someone like me.

  “I just…” He looks at me with so much sadness in his eyes it’s like a physical pain in my own chest. None of this makes sense. “You say you’re different now; I want to get to know this new version of you. We’re both here, that has to mean something. Can we spend some time together?”