Play it by Ear

by K. M. Neuhold

  I pull my phone out of my pocket and write a message to him.

  Did you find any words tonight?

  Lando’s eyes light up as he reads the text, and he nods excitedly. “I wrote a new song.”

  That’s so great! I wish I could hear it. It breaks my heart to know I’ll never get to hear the songs he’s written.

  “Me too, dimples.” He kisses my cheek and then buries his nose in my hair and holds me close for a few minutes.

  Just as I start to fall asleep against his shoulder on the couch, Lando gets up and tugs me along with him. He pulls me against his chest, and his breath ruffles my hair. When he starts to sway to music I can’t hear, I tilt my head up to look at him.

  I don’t have my phone, and I don’t particularly want to walk away from him to get it, so I settle for my rarely used voice.

  “What are we doing?”

  He smiles down at me, taking my hands and looping them around his neck and then putting his arms around my waist.

  “Dancing,” he answers.

  A frown tugs at the corners of my lips.

  “I can’t hear the music,” I complain.

  “That’s okay, there’s no one here to see if we’re off beat anyway.”

  My heart clenches and any part of my heart that hadn’t yet been surrendered to Lando is now his.

  Track 24: Side A

  My Life Doesn’t Belong to You

  Lando

  I whistle as I make coffee for Dawson, imagining what it will be like if he agrees to come to New York with me. I can get up early and make coffee for him every morning if it’ll make him happy. I think I’d do just about anything for Dawson.

  I sent the lyrics I wrote last night to Archer, and he was over the moon that I’d finally written something again. It was such a relief to sit at the bar and have words flow from my pen. I was so sure they were gone forever. Archer was right: Dawson is my muse; he always has been. Somehow, he unlocks the words.

  My phone vibrates on the counter, and I wonder if Dawson is texting me from bed.

  Benji: Um, dude…did you see this?

  There’s a link at the bottom of my message, and I groan. What sort of bullshit are the gossip rags spinning these days?

  I click on the link, and my blood runs cold as soon as I read the headline. Forget “Cherry Lane”: Meet Dawson Hayes, the Man Who Inspired the Rest of Downward Spiral’s Vast Song Catalogue.

  This can’t be happening. How could they possibly have found out about Dawson? Even if we were spotted together, the only people who know he inspired so many songs are the guys and Dawson himself and none of them went running to the leeches with that information.

  I steel myself and scroll down to the actual article, my pulse pounding louder in my ears with every word I read. It’s all there about Dawson—speculation about how and when we met, his accident. I click the next arrow to keep reading, and I clench my jaw so hard I nearly crack a tooth. There’s an image box with a screencap of our text messages.

  Dawson: Is that song about me?

  Lando: Yes.

  Dawson: Are any others about me?

  Landon: Yes.

  Dawson: Which ones?

  Lando: All of them.

  “Fuck,” I roar, clutching my phone hard against the urge to fling it against the nearest wall. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

  Dawson stumbles out of the bedroom with a happy smile, completely unaware of my outburst until he takes me in—fists clenched, face no doubt red with rage.

  What’s wrong? he signs and momentary happiness at understanding the sign overshadows my anger.

  “I’m really sorry,” I say helplessly, sinking down onto the chair I was sitting it before my outburst.

  Dawson’s eyebrows pull together with concern.

  What’s wrong? he asks again.

  I almost don’t want to show him. I want to keep us in a bubble where the outside world and its bullshit can’t reach.

  “Remember when I lost my phone?” I ask, and he nods with a wary expression. “I think someone found it.” I slide my phone in his direction, to let him see the article.

  My stomach twists itself in knots as he reads from my phone, his frown deepening by the second. When he holds it out for me to take back, his hand is shaking.

  Instead of grabbing my phone from him, I grab his wrist and pull him close.

  “I’m so sorry,” I say, and he nods absently, pasting on a fake smile. “Dimples, you have no idea…”

  “It’s okay,” he whispers, and I can hear the lie in his voice.

  Dawson

  It’s surreal reading about your life from a magazine article. It was all there right down to newspaper headlines from my car accident. It’s like everyone thinks they have a right to talk about me and my life. It’s like I’m not a real person. And if they have those texts between Lando and me, they must have the rest of them. They read the sweet and sexy things we’ve texted each other over the week before he lost his phone. They saw moments of fear and insecurity written in those texts. They saw my life and showed it to the world.

  Is this what it’s like to date someone famous?

  I want to text Lando that I need a little space to think, but I’m afraid to send the message. What if someone sees that one day too? What if they see everything else we’ve sent? They already feel entitled to my life. Where does it end?

  I grab a piece of paper off the counter, crinkling it with the force of my hand.

  I need a little time alone, I write and hand it to Lando before heading to my bedroom and closing the door behind me.

  I crawl between the sheets and pull my blanket over my head, hiding away from the whole world. No one can see me and speculate about me here.

  If I stay with Lando, move to New York with him, it could be like this all the time. The whole world will feel entitled to know things about my life. Can I live with that?

  I pull out my phone and read the article again, my stomach churning at all the detail. Someone spent a lot of time digging deep into my life. I feel like a zoo animal, everyone in the world pressing their nose to the glass and pointing at me.

  The only upside is that there’s nothing in the article about the weekend we spent together nine years ago. There’s only speculation about how we met. If there had been details about the weekend I still can’t remember, I would’ve gone well and truly ape shit over it. If I can’t know about that weekend, they shouldn’t get to either.

  Seconds after I set my phone down on the bed beside me, it vibrates. I almost don’t look at the message, afraid it’ll be Lando asking for reassurances. My stomach pitches thinking about him sitting in the kitchen, wondering if we’ll be okay. Right now, I don’t have those reassurances for him. I don’t know if I can deal with this being my life.

  When I finally check my phone, it’s a message from Parker.

  Parker: Did you see the article? Are you ok?

  Dawson: Yeah, I’m fucking fantastic.

  Parker: Cool it with the sarcasm; I’m trying to be nice.

  Dawson: Sorry. This sucks, P. They don’t have a right to all those details about my life.

  Parker: I know. It’s really unfair.

  Dawson: Yeah.

  Parker: I didn’t know all his songs were about you. That’s…he’s really into you.

  I wince at that message. I know she wasn’t trying to make me feel worse, but she definitely did.

  Dawson: Yeah…I’ve gotta go. I’ll talk to you later.

  Parker: Text me if you need me.

  I hide out in my room for another hour or so before I venture out again. I find Lando sitting on the couch, watching TV, looking just as miserable as I imagined.

  “Dimples, I am so sorry. I should’ve been more careful with my phone. I never thought...”

  I sit down beside him and put my hand over his mouth to stop him. I shake my head and then rest my forehead against his shoulder.

  We sit like that for a few minutes while I gather my thoughts. Then, I
grab a pad of paper off the coffee table and write a note for him.

  It’s not your fault. But I’m not sure I can handle living this life. I need some time to process all of this.

  “You’re breaking up with me?” Lando asks when he reads my note.

  No, I’m evaluating everything. I need to think some things through before I can decide about New York or anything else.

  Lando nods, his face sad and his shoulders slumped. I wish this were easier. If he were just a gorgeous, sweet man who wasn’t famous, this would be a lot simpler.

  Lando

  A few hours after finding out about the article, I drop Dawson off at work. I don’t ask to stay this time, no matter how badly I want to. He needs time to evaluate things.

  “Fuck.” I punch the steering wheel and lean my head back against the headrest, my eyes squeezed shut after I watch Dawson disappear inside the bar.

  What the fuck am I going to do to convince him to look past this celebrity bullshit and move with me? It’s funny, most of the guys I’ve dated in the past nine years would’ve creamed their pants to have an article written all about them. Dawson isn’t interested in that part of my life and that’s part of what always made him different, special, right for me.

  What the hell do I do now?

  I drive back to Dawson’s place to hang out until I have to go pick him up from work. In the meantime, I look up somewhere I can take him bungee jumping, and I write a song for him, because when it comes to Dawson, the words are always easy to catch.

  I don’t think it’s just Dawson making the words easier though. Everything feels different here, out from under the weight of the band. Things are falling apart, but strangely, that seems to be taking the pressure off.

  When I run out of paper, I get up to look for a fresh notebook. I’ve seen Dawson pull them out from all over the place. I start in the kitchen, opening the “junk drawer” next to the refrigerator.

  There’s a notebook right on top, which I grab and make a mental note to buy a new one to replace it before I go pick Dawson up later.

  Underneath the notebook, something else catches my eye. It’s a stack of printouts, some with depictions of the inside of the ear and others with passages highlighted. I know I shouldn’t snoop, but when the phrase experimental surgery catches my eye, I can’t stop myself from grabbing the papers and reading through them.

  After I’ve read them, I stuff them back into the drawer and try to put it out of my mind. At this point, I don’t even know if Dawson is going to be mine to worry about much longer, let alone if those papers are any of my business.

  After I finish writing and realize I still have over an hour left before I can go pick up Dawson, I sink into the couch and pull out my phone. I’m not even sure who I should call to cheer me up. I ended up calling and chatting with Linc the day after Christmas, and I still feel like kind of a dick about that conversation. He sounded so happy, and all I could do was warn him about how hard the fall might be if things went wrong with his man. I could call Benji, but I’d rather not call and complain to him. I find myself dialing Archer’s number before I can even fully decide to do so.

  “Hello?” a gruff voice that definitely is not Archer answers.

  “Uh…hello?” I reply. “Is Archer around?”

  “Yeah, hold on,” the man says and then I hear a more muffled, “Archie, one of your kids is on the phone.”

  “I told you to stop calling them that, Ben. They’re my clients, not my kids, and they’re almost thirty.”

  “They’re kids,” Ben repeats. I’m assuming Ben is Bennett, which makes this picture awfully interesting. Archer was in bed with Jude the other morning and now he’s sounding awfully friendly with his ex. I’m betting there’s a really good story unfolding at Archer’s place.

  “Hello?” Archer says.

  “Hey, Archie,” I tease.

  “Jesus, please don’t call me that,” he mutters, and I chuckle.

  “Aw, only Ben can call you Archie?”

  “Watch it or I’ll start calling you Orlando,” he threatens, and I cringe.

  “Truce,” I agree quickly, and this time Archer laughs on the other end of the phone.

  “I have lawyers on that article by the way. We’re going to find out who stole your phone and nail their ass to the wall,” he assures me without segue.

  “Thanks. I just wish there was a way to put that genie back in the bottle. Dawson was really wigged out by the whole thing.”

  “Yeah, not everyone can deal with media scrutiny and the invasion of privacy that comes with this gig.”

  “I can’t lose him over this, Arch. What do I do?” I ask, desperate for some magic answer that will make this whole thing go away.

  “I’m not sure there’s anything you can do. The situation sucks, but it is what it is. You can’t promise him this will be a one-time thing. He’s got that tragic backstory the media leeches jizz their pants over.”

  “I can’t lose him,” I say again, hearing the defeat in my own voice. “You’ve been at this awhile; is it possible to have both love and success in this business?”

  Archer sighs, and my heart sinks a little.

  “I want the answer to be yes, both for your sake and my own. But in all honesty, I’m not sure.”

  “There’s nothing I can do? Just sit around and wait for Dawson to dump my ass for lack of privacy?”

  “Tell him how you feel; be honest with him about the whole situation. And then give him some time to process and decide if all this bullshit is worth being with you or not. But in the meantime, make sure he sees you’re worth it.”

  “If he isn’t willing to take the baggage that comes with dating a rock star, I’ll just have to not be a rock star anymore. Because he is worth that,” I tell Archer resolutely.

  “You’ve carried the weight of the band on your shoulders for years. You’ve kept Lincoln and Jude propped up when they were content to let themselves fall into the abyss. If you can’t do this anymore, I’ll understand. We’ll all understand.”

  “Thanks, man. I don’t want it to come to that, but I’m putting all my cards on the table here for you.”

  “I appreciate that. At the end of the day, this will all shake out exactly how it’s supposed to.”

  “Yeah,” I agree. “Thanks for the talk. I’ll let you get back to Ben,” I tease once more to lighten the mood, and then I hang up before he can give me any shit in return.

  I don’t want to leave the band—if there will even still be a band after the hiatus—but Dawson will come first. Always.

  Track 25: Side A

  Fly or Fall

  After my call with Archer, I head down to the bar to pick up Dawson. The bar looks like it’s been quiet, only one car in the parking lot when I pull up. When Dawson exits the bar a short time later, he still looks tense, closed off, clearly still processing what happened earlier.

  Archer’s words from earlier ring in my mind. Tell him how you feel; be honest with him. I know he meant it in relation to this whole media bullshit, but maybe laying everything out for Dawson is exactly what I should do.

  He pulls open the door and slides into the passenger seat with a tight smile.

  Hi, I sign, and his smile softens a little.

  Hi, he signs.

  The drive back to his place is quick this time of night. When we get inside, there’s an awkwardness between us I’m not used to.

  “Can we talk?” I ask, shifting on my feet and stroking my fingers through my beard.

  Dawson nods and grabs a notebook and pen off the counter then heads for the couch. I join him, resisting the urge to pull him into my arms and make him promise me everything will be all right.

  I reach for the pad of paper with raised eyebrows, and he hands it to me. For some reason, this feels like too much to say out loud. Maybe writing it will be easier.

  I did a lot of thinking while you were at work, and I want to be upfront with you as far as where I’m at with everything. I underst
and why that article freaked you out, and as much as I want to promise you that nothing like that will happen again, I can’t. But what I will promise you is that nothing means more to me than you do. If quitting the band is what it will take to keep you in my life, I’ll do that. If I have to move here instead of taking you to New York, I’ll do that too. I know it’s soon, and maybe this is over the top, but that’s how I feel.

  Dawson reads my words, seemingly more than once, and he’s quiet and still for long enough that I start to worry I overplayed my hand.

  Eventually, he sets the notebook down and looks up at me with a hint of fear in his eyes.

  Let’s go to bed, he signs and then points at the bedroom just in case I didn’t catch it.

  I follow him with knots in my stomach. I suppose it’s a good sign I’m not being banished to the couch, but I still don’t know how he feels about what happened today or the things I just told him.

  Inside his bedroom, Dawson turns to me and gently tugs at my shirt until I raise my arms and let him pull it off. His hands tease slowly over my chest and stomach, and then he reaches for the button on my pants and rids me of those as well.

  My cock is hard and tenting the fabric of my boxers as Dawson drops to his knees and looks up at me with an expression so sweet it nearly buckles my knees.

  I run my fingers through his wild curls as he warms my skin with kisses. He cups my erection in one hand with just enough pressure to make me groan in frustration. He shoots me a wicked smile that tells me he knows exactly what he’s doing to me.

  I tighten my grip on his hair, and his breath tickles against my lower stomach as he laughs at my impatience. But he takes pity on me and tucks his fingers into the waist of my boxers to pull them down to my ankles.

  His hands return to knead my ass cheeks as he places a chaste kiss to the tip of my cock. The bead of pre-cum that was forming there clings to his lips when he pulls away, and I moan at the sight, my balls tightening and tingling. Dawson licks his lips and makes a noise in the back of his throat that’s like a caress all its own.