Play it by Ear Read online

  Play it by Ear

  A Replay Novel

  By K.M.Neuhold

  Synopsis

  Lando

  My muse is gone, and I haven’t written a word of music in over a year. Every time I close my eyes, all I can see is Dawson. Nine years ago, just before Downward Spiral’s first major tour, I met my soulmate and then I walked away. Now that I’ve finally tracked him down again, things have changed. I’ll have to make him fall for me all over again. But is it possible I put our single weekend together on a pedestal or could Dawson really be The One?

  Dawson

  A traumatic brain injury nine years ago left me deaf and with spotty memory of the first twenty years of my life. When one of the biggest rock stars in the world shows up and seems to know me, I’m not sure what to believe. Is it possible he’s telling the truth when he says he’s been in love with me for nine years, even if I can’t remember ever meeting him?

  ***Play it by Ear is the second book in the Replay series. Each book in the series will focus on a different band member getting a second chance at love. Each book can be read as a stand-alone.

  Copyright

  Play it by Ear© 2018 by K.M.Neuhold

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Book and Cover design by Inked Design

  Cover Image by © lenets_tan

  The cover model is in no way associated with the content of this story or the characters therin

  Track 1: Side A

  Tears of a Muse

  Lando

  The blank pages taunt me cruelly. No matter how many times I put the tip of my pencil to the paper, it remains blank. Have you ever felt like your entire life depended on your ability to do something that you suddenly couldn’t do? Not that I’m going to die if I can’t write. But if I can’t do this, the band will be dead, and I might as well die along with it.

  “Just write,” I command myself, putting the tip of the pencil to the paper once more. “It can’t be that difficult. You’ve written three dozen songs, if not more. Just put one word in front of the other until you have enough words to fill three minutes or so.”

  I drill the tip of the pencil into the paper, but still no words come.

  “Goddammit,” I roar, snapping the pencil in my fist and throwing the pieces to the ground. “Dammit, dammit, dammit.”

  A familiar resentment simmers in my chest. If Lincoln wasn’t such a mess, I wouldn’t be in this position. When we signed our first contract with Epic Records a decade ago, Lincoln and I agreed we’d share the responsibility of writing music. How many songs has Lincoln written? Two. Two fucking songs in ten years while I sit here with an ulcer over needing to get a whole album written in the next few weeks.

  “Fuck you, Lincoln, and fuck me, too,” I mutter, heaving myself off the couch and heading to my kitchen to grab another beer.

  How’s this for the wild Friday night in a rock star’s life? Drinking beer and berating myself in my deathly quiet penthouse.

  I wander over to the window that takes up the entire east wall. City lights twinkle like stars all around, but when I tilt my head to see the actual stars, there’s nothing but hazy light polluting the sky.

  I lift the bottle of beer to my lips and gulp down half of it in one go. None of this was how it was supposed to be. When we started this band, we were nothing more than best friends sharing a love of music. When we were signed by Epic, we were all so sure this was going to change our lives. We weren’t wrong. A decade later we have seven albums, three of which went platinum, we’re a household name, our songs—my songs—are on every radio station. We’re living the dream. So why does it feel so empty?

  I rest my palm against the frigid glass of the window and wonder for the millionth time what the point of all this is.

  The shrill sound of my phone ringing makes me jump. I reach into my pocket and see Archer’s name on the screen. There’s only one reason our band manager would be calling me after midnight on a random Friday.

  “Is he okay?” I ask as soon as I answer. My voice sounds flat to my own ears, and I wonder if Archer notices it. I feel wrung out physically and emotionally. I’m a battery with only ten percent life left and no charger in sight.

  “He’s in the hospital,” Archer replies, sounding just as exhausted as I am.

  “How bad is it?”

  “Not sure yet. They’re pumping his stomach. It looks like he drank a liter of whiskey. I found him asleep on his balcony, damn near frozen.”

  “On his balcony?” I put my hand back on the freezing glass and shiver. “It’s like twelve degrees outside.”

  “Yeah,” Archer agrees.

  “What do you need me to do?”

  “Nothing tonight. I just wanted to let you know, and I was hoping I could swing by to talk after he’s out of the hospital. Maybe tomorrow evening?”

  “Yeah, any time,” I agree. “Do you want me to call Benji and Jude?”

  “It’s okay; I need something to do to distract myself while I wait. Thanks though.”

  “No problem. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  I hang up and gulp down the rest of my beer. Sometimes it feels like these aren’t the lives we were meant to live. We all got off track somewhere. I can pinpoint exactly where my life split into a before and after. I’ve written a dozen songs about him. I’ve stayed up nights thinking about him. I’ve gotten drunk and cried over him. I hardly know him, but in nine years, I haven’t been able to shake him. What I wouldn’t give to go back and do something differently. Maybe I’d never leave him. Maybe I’d beg him to come with me. I don’t know what I’d do, but it wouldn’t be this.

  I toss the empty bottle in the recycling and amble to my bedroom, stripping out of my clothes as I go. Maybe I’ll dream some damn lyrics and save my own ass. More likely I’ll dream of him.

  Track 2: Side B

  Plane Crazy for You

  Lando

  I wrinkled my nose at the stale airplane smell that hit me as I boarded. I wondered if private planes had this same dirty feet smell and if I’d ever have a chance to find out. With the upward trajectory of the band, I was hopeful I would. But I didn’t like to count my chickens. I was nineteen and already unable to believe the life I’d stumbled into as a rock star.

  I settled into my seat and pulled up the blind to look out the little window. It was a dreary, gray day outside—a perfect reflection of what was going on inside my head.

  I’d been feeling on edge on the heels of our first tour as openers for a huge rock band. Lincoln had been strange, first so depressed he was hardly getting out of bed, to suddenly partying every night with Jude, not sleeping, irritable all the time...I thought he was taking coke like Jude was, but after a month or so, he was suddenly himself again. I couldn’t make heads or tails of his behavior.

  Then, I’d gotten a call the weekend before from my mom telling me my dad was in the hospital after a heart attack and needed to have bypass surgery. Our last album was already wrapped, and it was a little over a week before we’d be leaving for our first tour as headliners, so I flew home for his surgery. Everything went well, but I couldn’t shake the image in my mind of my dad pale in that hospital bed.

  The click of the overhead compartment drew my attention from the window to inspect the person I’d spend the next few hours sitting beside. My gaze roamed over a beautiful
man with curly brown hair sticking out from under a red beanie, a black leather jacket conforming to his slight frame, striking blue eyes. As a slow smile stretched over his lips, two little dimples appeared on his cheeks, and I had the strange impulse to dip my tongue into each one.

  “Is it just me, or does tape on an airplane seat not instill much confidence?” he joked pointing at the duct tape on the arm of his seat.

  “I’m sure they’ve used a lot of duct tape to keep the engines in place,” I assured him solemnly.

  “I hope so.” He slid into the seat beside me and a vanilla scent wafted around me and beckoned me to lean forward and sniff him to fill my lungs with the delicious odor.

  “I’m Lando.” I offered my hand, and he took it.

  “Dawson,” he replied. “You live in Florida or going on vacation?”

  “Connecting flight actually. I’m heading to New York.”

  “Ah.” He nodded in understanding, a hint of disappointment behind his eyes. “I’m moving home. Just finished college and trying to figure out what the hell to do with myself now that I’m officially an adult.”

  “What did you major in?”

  Dawson gave me a wary look like he was preparing himself to be mocked.

  “I got an MFA in Literature. I know, it’s probably the most useless degree ever when it comes to finding a job.”

  “Are you a writer? Or just a lover of the written word.”

  “Both,” Dawson sighed with a happy smile. “I love words. I love the way certain words sound, the way the perfect sentence can flow from your tongue or your pen. Language is beautiful and inspiring.”

  “It is,” I agreed. “I’m kind of a writer myself.”

  “Kind of?” he asked with an arched brow. “Either you write, or you don’t.”

  “I write songs,” I explained. “I’m in a band.”

  “Mmmm, excellent pick-up line,” he purred, and my skin prickled with heat. “Are we talking garage band or what?”

  “Not exactly,” I muttered, running my fingers through my long beard.

  “Oh shit, are you famous, and I’m just not recognizing you? Wait, if you’re famous, what are you doing on an airplane that’s held together by duct tape?”

  “I don’t know if we’re famous,” I hedged. “We just finished a tour opening for Next Weekend, and our first solo tour starts next week.”

  “Oh my god, are you in Downward Spiral?”

  “Yeah.” I felt the blush creeping into my cheeks, but the admiration on Dawson’s face made me a little smug as well.

  “That’s so fucking cool. You wrote “Cherry Lane”?”

  “No, I didn’t write that one. I wrote the rest of the songs on that album.”

  Dawson’s smile widened. “Can I tell you a secret?”

  “Sure,” I chuckled.

  “I thought the rest of the songs were better than “Cherry Lane”,” he confessed. “I mean, it was okay, but the rest of the album was so much...more. They’re poetic and captivating. They’re original and beautiful.”

  I felt my blush deepening, my cheeks burning now.

  “Thank you,” I mumbled.

  “Sorry, I’m gushing,” Dawson apologized. “Too bad you’re only going to be in Florida long enough to catch another flight.” His voice was wistful and his heated gaze full of promise. Something inside me told me to put off the flight. I didn’t really have to be back in New York until Tuesday. What could it hurt to spend a weekend with a fun hook-up?

  Track 3: Side A

  Pour Me Another Drink

  Dawson

  I wake up in a foggy haze, blinking away the remnants of a dream that’s fading away in wisps like smoke. There was something about the dream that felt too real, too familiar. But it’s gone now, and I can’t call it back. It’s a feeling I’ve grown used to in the past nine years.

  A light flickers from my living room, and I smile. My sister’s way of announcing her presence. Having a light attached to the doorbell is one of the many gadgets that’ve been devised over the years to make living alone possible for me.

  I slip out from between my sheets, beads of sweat already clinging to my skin. It’s ten in the morning for Christ’s sake, it should not be this damn hot yet. I know I’m in Florida, but it’s December for fuck’s sake. I pull on a pair of basketball shorts and a clean tank top and head out into the living room to see my sister, Parker.

  I got coffee, she signs at me, and I mouth thank you back at her, holding my hands up like a prayer so she knows just how grateful I am.

  I slept like shit, I sign.

  Bad dreams?

  I can’t remember. I think it was memories that slipped away again as soon as I woke up, I admit with a sad sigh.

  When I first woke up from the coma, after a car accident that nearly killed me, I had almost no memory at all. I didn’t recognize my mom or sister, couldn’t remember who I was or where I was. Over a few days, most things came back to me, but not everything. The doctors told me the patchy bits in my memory might come back one day…or might not. But after nine years, I’m not holding my breath that I’ll ever get them back.

  I don’t mind that I’m missing sporadic memories from childhood. What bothers me is no one knows where I spent the weekend before the accident. I can’t remember anything in the year leading up to it but I know I was finishing up my last year of college. It’s all accounted for, more or less. Except that weekend. I’m told I was on my way home from college when I called from the airport to say my plans had changed, and I would be home after the weekend. Parker says I sounded excited but wouldn’t give any details on where I’d be all weekend. It’s the one thing I’ve strained myself to remember. But the harder I’ve tried to remember, the further out of my grasp those memories seemed to slip.

  It’s a strange feeling, like walking into a room and being unable to recall why you’re there. That’s how it feels whenever I try to bring up that weekend. It feels like something important happened, and I’ll never know what it was.

  My sister taps me on the shoulder to get my attention and passes me a bowl of cereal she poured for me. I roll my eyes at her mothering. I’m deaf, not quadriplegic. I’m perfectly capable of getting my own cereal and every other damn thing I need.

  That crash took two things from me—my memories and my hearing. The doctors told me the hearing might return as well, but after the first year with no sign of any change, they admitted it was unlikely I would ever hear again unless I was willing to try a risky, expensive, experimental surgery.

  It’s strange how much most people take hearing for granted. The annoying sound of an alarm clock, birds chirping just outside the window, traffic, music, laugh tracks on old sitcoms…They’re all gone. More than anything, I miss the sound of words, the flow of language off someone’s tongue. And I miss music more than I thought I would.

  I take the bowl of cereal to the couch and pick up the copy of Music Insider I left sitting there. It’s a special edition with the members of Downward Spiral. I smile and run my finger along the outline of Lando Meyers’ face, grinning from the cover of the magazine. A little thrill goes through my chest and straight between my legs. I fully admit, I have a pathetic crush on a celebrity I’ve never met, so sue me.

  I just wish I could hear their music. I can’t remember ever having heard them play, but the obsession I have with them has to mean I’ve heard their songs at some point, right? It’s weird how the brain can do that, hang on to something so tightly without remembering why.

  I do like to crank their songs and turn up the bass, to feel it pounding in my chest. And I read their lyrics, appreciating the poetry and jealously wondering who Lando loves so much he can’t stop writing about the man.

  Parker plops down on the couch beside me, and I set the magazine down.

  Do you work today? she asks.

  I nod and wave my phone at her.

  Sorry, I know I should’ve checked your calendar.

  Always check the almighty ca
lendar, I joke back.

  If only the people in my MFA program could see me now—brain damaged, working at a bar, and unable to write a single word. I was such a smug little shit back then, so sure I’d write a book that would change the world. I haven’t written a damn thing in nine years. Eat your heart out, Dickens.

  Do you need a ride? Parker checks, and I roll my eyes. I give her my favorite sign—the middle finger. She shakes her head at me and then gives me a kiss on the cheek before getting off the couch.

  I’m taking you out for dinner tomorrow for your birthday. I’ll pick you up at six. Wear something nice. Do you need anything from me before I take off?

  I give her a thumbs up and then shake my head to let her know I don’t need anything.

  When she leaves, I enter the plans into the calendar on my phone immediately. Then, I slump back on the couch and look around my place. I should get some Christmas decorations up, but it’s kind of depressing that Parker and I would be the only ones to enjoy them.

  I don’t dare tell Parker how lonely I get sometimes, she’d just start in about how I’m too picky with men. She says I’m holding every man up against some perfect guy I dreamed up at some point. She’s right, but I don’t know exactly where I came up with this archetype of the perfect man. Sometime during the year that’s completely lost, I would guess. Before that I dated pretty indiscriminately, content to have fun with anyone who managed to turn my head.

  Dating is overrated anyway.

  I get up off the couch and walk around tidying my apartment for a while, trying to entertain myself. Normally I’d read, but I’m feeling amped up today for some reason. This used to be what I’d refer to as my writing mood, but it’s been awhile since I’ve been able to get any words down. At least any words that were worth writing.

  Still, I try when I get in this mood. I grab my laptop and settle back onto my couch. It’s like flipping a switch—all the energy I was burning with moments before suddenly vanishes in the face of an outlet.