Wow, it’s been awhile since I’ve blogged. I’d call myself a slacker, but I’m pretty much the farthest thing from that. I’m just writing a book instead, which is actually why I’m here. I thought I’d give everyone a little taste of Love Will, the book I’m currently working on. This book is a spin-off, but I’m writing it like a stand-alone, so you’ll have plenty of background info to be able to jump into the story once the whole thing is released. (Reading Crossroads, Will’s novella, is a good idea, though.)
For now, a little background is needed for those of you who haven’t read Love Like We Do. Will is a guitarist, and he’s gone on tour with a band. Peron is the bass player.
And remember from Crossroads: Will Rosser is no Jon Scott.
It’s been a great arrangement for me, really. In college, my head was in my studies all day. After I graduated, I was one-hundred percent focused on work and research. If I went home, I couldn’t turn my brain off. I’ve never been able to. To escape, I’d read more books. Learn more things. There’s never been an off switch. But on the nights I play gigs with Damon, I can slip away into the music and transcend… my presence. My being. It’s like I’m a part of something on another level of existence. It makes me feel infinitesimal and astronomical at the same time. A certain calm and numbness takes over. After shows, I’m on a endorphin high, feeling completely relaxed and focused on extending the sensation. That’s where the women come in. I meet a beautiful girl. She strokes my ego. We have a little fun, no strings attached. She gets her release, and I get mine. It puts me into a deep sleep. The post-gig-sex-sleep is the only restful sleep I get. Regular sleep doesn’t erase the day; doesn’t stop my brain.
Regular sleep is all I have to look forward to on this tour if I go through with this new Will bullshit. Is this what I want?
“I’ll just assume from your silence that you aren’t really sold on this idea,” Peron says.
“I didn’t say that.”
“No, you didn’t say anything. Silence.”
“You know how I work, Peron. Without this, silence will be a thing of the past for me.”
“Music.” I wait for him to say more. I motion for him to continue.
“You have to replace it with music.”
“I’ve tried,” I say, frustrated, leaning back against the bench so I can tug at my hair without my friend’s physical discouragement. “If that worked, I would have been healed of this affliction long ago.”
“But you never really had to do it. You’ve had your sexual crutch and you’ve used it often. Pretend it’s not there anymore.”
“Pretend my dick isn’t there,” I say with a straight face.
“Yeah,” he says right back to me.
I look briefly at my lap and then back up at him. “That one. The one that reminds me fifty times a day that he’s feeling frisky and wants some action?”
“Yeah. What, you think yours is special?”
“Well, yeah, I kinda do.”
“Ask any of the girls I’ve been with.”
“I wouldn’t even know how to find them. I guess we could put up posters or something…”
“Fuck you,” I tell him, moving out of the way to let our waitress set down our plates of food.
“Were you talking to me?” she asks.
“Oh, no! I’m sorry, no, I was…” I start, looking up to her apologetically until I realize she’s flirting with me, not accusing me of being rude. I like older women, but there’s a distinction between older women and old women. This woman’s just… old. “I was talking to him.” I point to my friend and smile sheepishly, not wanting to offend her. I take a drink of the Coke I’ve been nursing.
“My buddy here is, uh… fucked out for the night.” I choke out the drink onto my plate and Peron’s. When I recover, I stare wide-eyed at him, disbelieving what I heard. For one thing, Peron rarely curses. And another, did he really just tell our waitress I’m fucked out? Like I’m coked out? Or played out?
The waitress doesn’t stick around any longer.
“That’s not a thing, Peron. And if it were, it’s not true. I didn’t have sex with Julia…”
“I just saved you from making another mistake. Did your special dick twitch for her, too?”
“No,” I say with a bit of a laugh. “God, you’re an asshole sometimes.”
“I’m just trying to help you.” He takes a bite of his food, not paying attention to the droplets of soda on his eggs. “Like you asked me to.”
“I think you just kissed Julia by proxy. I spit on your eggs and you just ate them.”
“I’ll take whatever I can get,” he says, purposefully unfazed by my taunting.
“Brooke would hate that.”
“Not as much as she hates you…”
“You never should have told her about me. My sex life is none of her business.”
“You hit on her after a show.”
“I didn’t know who she was! It was the first time we’d met, Peron! She was just pissed I turned her away when she failed my test, anyway,” I tease him. “I don’t take drunk girls home. And man, was she drunk!”
“She has social anxiety. She was nervous to meet everyone.”
“Yes, I know she’s as fucking neurotic as you. That’s why you’re perfect for one another.”
We both focus on our food, shifting the conversation to our joint love of bacon. Their strips are so crispy here, they fall apart when you bite them. My favorite kind of bacon.
After I finish eating, I finally glance around the restaurant and see a few pairs of eyes staring in my direction. I decide to look away instead of inviting their attention with the smile.
“Listen, Will,” Peron says, leaning over the table and talking softly. “I don’t want to have to listen to what may or may not be you doing it with a girl every other night three feet away from me on the bus. I don’t want that from Damon or Tavo, either, and I don’t think they’d do that–nor would they get away with it. We all know you have your issues, right? Add that to the fact that you’re probably at least forty-percent of the draw to these shows, and you get more forgiveness than you probably should.
“But it’s gonna get old quick. So you gotta figure it out.”
© 2015 Lori L. Otto • Duplication or distribution is strictly prohibited.