The Gift

by A. F. Henley

  Doren

  He moved away from the bed slowly, regretfully. He would have loved nothing better than to climb back in and rest beside August all afternoon. He couldn't though. No matter how peaceful the regular draws of August's breath as his chest rose and fell. No matter how soothing the relaxed beats of August's heart.

  No, there was music to be played and stories to be heard. Songs were being whispered into Doren's head that he hadn't heard before. Someone had sent him an army. And he had to find out why.

  Cooper

  He sat and tuned his bass while they waited, humming to an old rock tune that rolled out of the radio in a growly yet somehow still soothing hum. It was a great day—finally. The sun was back in all its righteous glory, burning away the dreariness of the rainy past, promising redemption with a host of happy birds and buzzing bees. Dawson and Geoff were in the corner, joking about Doren's retreat, but they were just jealous. Or they weren't. Maybe they actually had an issue with the fact that Doren liked to swing both ways. Who knew? Who cared, really? Cooper had his own opinion of that. And that opinion was: get it where it's offered, and give it where it's wanted; luckier still if you happened to stumble on somebody as gracious as August seemed to be.

  Not that such a thing would happen to him. For some reason the only hopefuls he seemed to turn the heads of were the crazy groupies that only touched his dick with the hopes that they'd make it past him and into someone else's bed. Such was the life of a mere instrumental musician: always second or third along the ladder. Could be worse though. He was still better off than the roadies.

  Cooper was just debating the possibility of sparking up another mood enhancer when Doren came back through the door and shut it behind him. And if the delay had got everyone wondering, the look on Doren's face confirmed it. Cooper smiled at him, pleased as punch that Doren appeared not only relaxed but also pleased, and coaxed a long, mournful pull from his bass. "Ready, boss?"

  Doren returned the smile and cocked an eyebrow. "Do you need a couple of minutes first?"

  Cooper's expression twisted into a full grin. What? Could the bugger read minds, too? "Nah," he said. "I'm good for now. Playing gets the blood flowing just as well as the weed does."

  Doren sat beside him and pulled out the folded paper.

  "So, Coop," Doren said, his voice low, the words obviously meant for them and them alone. "You smoke a lot?"

  Cooper shrugged, dropping his eyes to the guitar. "No more than the next guy."

  Doren waited until Cooper looked at him. "Not this guy."

  Cooper chuckled, strumming the strings. "Why would you? What do you got to smoke away, right?"

  Doren reached for the strings and stroked them to match Cooper's last note. "You got something you're trying to smoke away?"

  Cooper shrugged again. "We all got things, right?" For some reason he felt oddly scolded and the last thing he wanted was to get off in a bad way with Doren.

  Doren laid his head back against the wall and closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. Cooper watched the expression on Doren's face soften into something that seemed oddly pious, and yet startlingly hot at the same time. "You want to talk about it?"

  "No."

  That was an easy answer. Talking about what he did with the smoke was the last thing Cooper wanted to do. A person just doesn't talk about some things. One definitely didn't tell his new boss, a rising king in the industry that one wanted—no, needed—to be part of, that half the time you walked around thinking you were crazy. One sure didn't tell him that one had spent his childhood listening to voices that weren't really there. You didn't tell him that the only way to quiet the mumblings in your head was to numb them out with weed, or drown them out with music.

  No, sir. You sure didn't.

  He took a quick glance at Doren's face, the hum coming from Doren's lips strangely familiar. Like, something he'd heard before, but just couldn't place. Maybe something from when he was a kid? An old TV show or a chord from a song his granddaddy used to play on that crazy harpsichord?

  Then, watching Doren's face, even with his eyes closed and seemingly expressionless, Cooper almost could have sworn that Doren never really needed it to be said anyway. So Cooper did what he never did; he shook the lock off the gate and inched it open. He heard Geoff mentally cursing at the last note tried, he heard Dawson thinking about a sore foot, he even heard Curtis musing about what August would feel like, how different that might be to the chicks he'd known, and Cooper shot Curtis an ugly look. The pig.

  Doren snagged back Cooper's attention immediately, opening his eyes and seeming to solder their gazes together. The rest of the minds in the room quieted. All Cooper could hear was the music that Doren sang in his own. He heard Doren recite the lyrics, the rhythm of the tune, the way it would fall, and Cooper's heart jumped in his chest. It was good. It was going to be awesome!

  Without missing a beat Cooper dove deeper, picked up a musing about hunger, a thought about grabbing a beer, and stumbled over the part of Doren that still lingered on the bed in the adjoining room. With a start, and an awkward laugh, Cooper almost pulled back, embarrassed.

  "Wait. Don't go."

  Cooper's heart started beating so hard he thought for sure he was going to have an all-out attack. He really needed to cut back on the weed. No, he really needed to smoke more. No, they needed to just start playing the music because this was stupid. People didn't hear other people's thoughts. They sure as fuck couldn't read other people's minds. That shit was just Hollywood, not real life.

  "Are you sure?"

  It was like Doren was talking right into Cooper's head. Christ and the Virgin Mary. He knew Doren was different. He knew it the first time they'd met—hell, the first time he'd heard Doren's vocals. Was that why he'd been hired? Had someone known? After all, he was skilled at the bass but so were thousands of other people—people who also had the benefits of good looks and brains.

  "Doren?" His mind reached out timidly and their brains connected.

  "It's okay, kid," Doren answered silently. "It's not a curse. It's a gift."

  Geoff

  He watched Doren and Cooper against the other wall and it made him unreasonably furious. It looked like the two of them were nodding off together. And, God, Cooper looked like a freaking moron, staring at Doren like the man was delivering a cardinal speech or something when Doren wasn't even talking. Sharing a moment much, you freaks? Whatever. They could just go right ahead then. Just go ahead and get all personal like the rest of them were nobodies. Hell, why didn't they start holding hands and skip down petal-littered paths too.

  He gritted his teeth and turned his head away before he let his brain tumble over the "fag" word that it wanted to. Because it didn't bother him, the gay stuff. Not really. That wasn't what was pissing him off and he knew it. The real reason was that it always seemed like he ended up being the odd man out. No matter where he was or what he was doing, how good he was at it or why, someone always managed to make him feel like a big, fat loser. And that made him want to beat stuff furiously.

  As if on call, Geoff felt the energy flood to his knuckles and he hissed his annoyance. How was he supposed to play now? When his hands were gripped so tight the blood wouldn't flow into them right and everything from forearm down shook like he was freezing to death? He hated it when he got like that. How many times had he ended up in shit because he couldn't get control over the need to smash something with his fists?

  He set down the guitar as gently as he could manage, his jaw locked, and stalked out to the patio. If he didn't hit something he was going to lose it.

  He saw the garbage bin piled high, trailing flies looping and diving above the mound of trash, and figured that would do about as fine as anything would. He walked around to the back of the metal bin, stepping over fallen bags and litter, his hands itching for the relief of expulsion, then squared up both fists and let them fly, breathing heavy as his knuckles jammed into the metal side, crunching and caving the hard surface.

/>   The first one was always the most satisfying; the second one took off the pressure; the third hit was just for fun. Geoff stepped back, spreading his fingers wide as the energy ebbed out of them, breathing like he'd run a ten-mile race for his life.

  "Well, now ..."

  Geoff looked up, startled, and stared directly in Doren's amused face. "Feel better?"

  Oh, and wasn't that just great. No doubt Doren thought he was a complete nut-job. He tried for casual, shrugging, "I just needed to let off some steam."

  "Something piss you off?"

  For a moment Geoff struggled to find the right answer. "No, yes, I don't know. I guess something must’ve. Sometimes I just need to hit shit."

  "You don't know if something pissed you off?" Doren raised his eyebrow, adding quotations to his words with his fingertips. "You 'guess something might’ve'?"

  Well, what the hell was he supposed to say to a question like that? That he had trust issues? That it made him jealous to see Doren talking alone with Cooper? He could just imagine what Doren would say to that. "Are you gay? Do I turn you on?" Then what? Then he'd have to punch out Doren too. And wouldn't that be a perfect way to end his career. Besides, he wasn't gay in the least. He loved girls. So what if he had attention issues? He'd like to see someone else grow up as the seventh son in a family of ten boys. Yeah, it made for a bit of a competitive spirit. It wasn't until you struck out, stirred up some shit, that people started to notice you. You could grow your hair long, flash a pretty smile, you could even play a guitar like Eddy Van Halen and still nobody really gave you any mind. But when you smash someone hard enough to knock out teeth, or punch through a school bus windshield … well, then one tended to get noticed.

  Before Geoff knew what Doren was doing, Doren had reached out and grabbed his hands, turning them over and taking a hard look at them. "Your knuckles aren't even cut open."

  Why, he asked himself, did he get the feeling that Doren wasn't even surprised? It usually surprised the hell out of everyone else. For that matter, it had been enough to get him off more than one set of criminal charges. After all, who could punch clear through both sides of a classroom wall without a broken knuckle or sliced hand to show for it? Without even a bruise?

  "I barely touched it," Geoff snorted, pulling his hands away. For some weird reason his knuckles had started to tingle all over again. "It sounded worse than it was. You know, metal bin and all."

  Doren reached for the bin, running his hands along the surface. "I don't know," he challenged. "It looks like you did a pretty good job." He looked up into the sky. "You even scared away the flies." He caught Geoff's eye with a grin. "It takes a lot to scare off a fly, you know."

  Suddenly Doren grabbed for his hand again, holding the knuckles tight, rolling them together.

  "Fuck!" Geoff cried, dropping to one knee. "Let go!"

  Doren did as requested. "So how come that hurts yet you can practically punch a hole through this bin and you got nothing?"

  Geoff spoke through clenched teeth, rubbing his knuckles. "I don't know."

  Doren leaned down and caught Geoff's gaze again. He spoke so quiet, his words were almost inaudible. "I do."

  When Doren reached for him again, Geoff didn't pull away. Geoff felt the tension rise in his fists as Doren rested palms over knuckles. Power raced through his arms, bubbling out of Geoff's core and centering in his fists. As though on their own, his hands tightened. And still the power grew.

  He stared at Doren with an expression of both fear and awe. Doren's face, however, was a mask of repose. "Pick it up."

  Geoff laughed, a high-pitched, incredulous bark. "Pick what up?"

  "The bin," Doren said. "Pick it up and move it."

  "Are you nuts? I can't do that!"

  Doren held Geoff's hands tighter. "You can."

  When Doren rose Geoff followed almost without thought. And when Doren slid his hands towards the bin, Geoff's continued as if magnetized, releasing only when they came in contact with the metal surface.

  "Do it. Don't think about it; just do it."

  So Geoff stopped thinking about it. He let the sensation build, he reached for the bottom lip of the bin, and with the strength of a dozen men, power ebbing and flowing through his arms and into his fists, Geoff lifted the bin. He expected to strain, and tensed every part of himself in anticipation, until the realization dawned on him that he didn't need to. Effortlessly, Geoff lifted the entire structure, tilting it, and dumping it on to its side with a horrific bang.

  The ground shuddered underneath them as Geoff stared in wonder at his own hands.

  "Come on, buddy." Doren smacked Geoff's shoulder soundly. "Let's get the hell out of here before we're arrested."

  Dawson

  The two men surprised him when they rushed through the door, laughing like a couple of truant kids running from the principal, their faces lit was amusement, flush with excitement. Geoff practically ploughed right into him and Dawson huffed, grabbed the kid off the ground, using his massive black arms to pick Geoff up and drop him flat on the bed.

  "Oof!" was Geoff's only reply and he lay prone for a minute. When he gathered breath back into his lungs, Geoff propped himself up on his elbows and glared. "What'd you do that for, you big oaf?"

  "You ran into me and I showed my disapproval," Dawson replied, calmly settling back in front of his keyboard. "Show some caution, you little runt."

  He tried to keep the annoyance off his face as he cast a glance back at the collection of men. The day was wasting and if they intended to learn the new song by Thursday's performance, they had best get started. Too much time had been lost already. Dawson could feel it slipping past them, as if something kept tempting them away from it—trying to tease them into play when there was so much work to be done. "Are we going to get started then, or what?"

  Doren offered Dawson a patient smile. "Don't worry, Daws, we've been working. Trust me, we've all been working."

  Dawson snorted his disapproval but kept further thought to himself. He was not the leader of this group. "Listen, Doren, I've been reading your lyrics and I don't know if you have an idea for a back chord yet but I worked this up. What do you think?" He pressed the keys and let the music tease memory back into forefront. "They're nice lyrics, warm and calm, so this kind of came to me."

  The notes from the keyboard filled the room with a soft, haunting sound. He watched Doren's face carefully for feedback. And the light didn't leave Doren's eyes. That had to be a good sign. He stopped playing and waited to hear what Doren had to say.

  "Daws! It's exactly what I wanted," Doren said reverently. "It's exactly what I had in mind. Great work!"

  Dawson nodded, carefully hiding his smile. He didn't want to come across as desperate. But he'd really liked the vocals that Doren had laid to paper. And he relished the thought of bringing it to life. "Well, it sounds a little hymnal with just the keyboard but once you throw in the rest of the instruments we can bring it back up to rock standard."

  "Don't be self-demeaning," Doren frowned. "It's awesome. Now, let's see what we can work out together." Doren sang the first verse, then they had Dawson play the riff a few more times, each one adding a touch of their own, molding and remolding the song bit by bit like a clay figure. Until Doren looked up, halting Dawson with a hand. "Curt, bud, you're not playing?"

  Curtis lifted both hands in confusion. "Uh, Doren? There are no drums in the room?"

  Doren laughed. "Don't give me that, Curt. You don't need the drums in front of you to hear the sound inside you. You're a drummer: find a beat, use your sticks, and pound yourself out some sound. At least your mind will hear what it needs to. Trust me."

  Dawson was the one to act on the challenge. He grabbed a pillow and shoved it in front of Curtis' skeptical face. Then the phone book. Finally, he emptied an ashtray and set it with the rest. "Here you go," Dawson smiled smugly. "A whole damn set of them."

  "This is stupid," Curtis said, pushing the ashtray away from him. "I'll feel like an
idiot."

  "Aw, come on, Curtis," Dawson huffed. He reached up and cupped one hand at the back of Curtis' head, ignoring the satisfied smile on Doren's face. "You can do this. Think of it as a game and stop being so damn high and mighty."

  When he released Curtis there was only one more grimace of exasperation before Curtis started thumping out a familiar beat against the pillow and the book, flipping the ashtray bottom-up to get the higher sound of a cymbal.

  "It's too soft," Curtis grumped, pointing at the pillow. "I need something harder."

  Dawson stood and grabbed a cushion from the miniscule loveseat, almost toppling Doren at the same time. He thrust it in front of Curtis. "There. Try that."

  Curtis tried again and smiled. "Better. I can work with that."

  They sat back to give Curtis a few minutes to work out the intricacies of drumming without drums and Doren drifted over to perch on the bed beside Dawson. "Nice work. You're pretty good at problem-solving, aren't you?"

  Dawson merely sniffed at the question. Sure, he'd been pretty good as a kid. Math had been a strong suit of his, especially when it came to figuring out those word problems. He never understood why people couldn't see around things; "looking around corners" was what he'd grown up hearing it called. Him and his people, his mother would say, they were good at looking around corners. The way Dawson had it figured, most of the time when someone was presented with an issue, that issue was all they could see. When what they really should have been looking at was the answer, and then finding their way back to the question.

  "That's a handy trait, Daws. Being able to see past trouble to the spot where there's a solution. There's real leadership in that, you know."

  Dawson shook his head. "I'm no leader."

  "I think you're wrong about that, Daws." Doren patted Dawson's shoulder before standing and walking to the mirror, eyeing his own reflection. It was a gesture that gave Dawson the creeps. Like Doren was using the mirror to assess the lot of them and not really looking at himself at all. There was something going on with that guy, Dawson was convinced of it. Doren had a problem. And Dawson thought that maybe, just maybe, Doren was looking for someone to help him solve his way out of it. Maybe that's what all the talking was about. Because gods knew, they were doing a heck of lot more talking then they were playing.