Summer (Four Seasons #2) (12 page)

I notice the blood pouring from his hand, then, dripping onto the floor. “Babe, you’re cut. Here, let me look at it.”

Luke shakes his head, holding his hand away from me. “All good. Give me a second. I’m gonna clear this up.”

“I can help.”

“You’re naked. You’ve got nothing on your feet. I don’t want you getting cut, too. I’ll be okay, just give me a moment and I’ll be out. We can grab a bite to eat together before I have to go if I’m quick.”

He looks stressed out, but I know him. He really does want to fix this himself, and he’s definitely worried about me getting hurt. “All right,” I tell him. “I’ll throw some clothes on and see what we have in the kitchen.”

He nods, bracing himself against the counter, staring at the mess on the floor. “Thanks, beautiful. I’ve got this handled.”

M. J. Rafferty
 
MD, PHD,
 

Suite 8, 2365 Wellbeck

Beachwood Canyons

CA 90068

Patient: Lucas Andrew Reid

D.O.B: 10/06/1989

Past treatment files: XXSEALEDXX

Permissions: Granted

Current Medications: Triazolam
 

Session Record

Since diagnosing Lucas with PTSD, we seem to be making progress. His sleep pattern is improving somewhat, though not without the aid of the sleeping pills that I have now prescribed him.
 

Lucas’s relationship with his father continues to prove problematic. Typical of all victims of child abuse, Lucas harbors intense feelings of self-hatred and poor self-worth. He has spoken of deserving the treatment he received from his father. Working with him to break the mental associations of sex and violence will take time, but I am noting gradual progress.
 

Lucas’s willingness to participate fully in sessions is improving. His eagerness to steam ahead and ‘fix himself’ by the end of each of our sessions shows commitment on his part, however I have explained to him that rushed healing of deep psychological issues rarely ever lasts.
 

I will continue to monitor his progress, and I have tentatively agreed to a secondary weekly session. Should this prove counter-productive, Lucas has agreed that we will step back and regroup.

Michael Rafferty.

TWELVE
 

LUKE

I throw myself full-force into writing. Cole and the guys are depending on me; I’ve realized I can’t allow another day to slip by while I sulk and feel heart sore over a situation I, myself, am responsible for. I made the damn decision to let Avery go and now it's time to man up and be done with it.
 

The apartment I’ve rented is in Irvine—a nice enough area, but my place is tiny. There’s barely enough room to swing a cat. For the past six years, I’ve sent the majority of my paychecks home to help support my mom and put Emma through nursing school. I’m lucky enough that I have savings and I can continue to do that for them, but that means I’m living on a budget out here right now. Who gives a shit about the high life anyway? It's just not me. I pour another cup of coffee and head out onto the balcony—four feet wide and eight feet long. Enough room for two small chairs and a miniature table.
 

I sit down, placing my coffee and the notepad on the table, watching the burnished golden curve of the sun climb up over the horizon. Mother Nature is a fucking badass. There’s nothing more awesome than witnessing the start of a new day. I can appreciate the beauty of it, which is oddly a little reassuring. Recently I’ve felt like I’m becoming increasingly numb to my surroundings, but this spectacular show somehow manages to get through to me. It’s beautiful.
 

I wish I could describe the music I’ve been writing in the same way. As it stands,
dark, black, depressive,
and
angry
are all far better descriptors. And they’re
good
. It may sound like my ego’s swelled to disgraceful proportions, but that’s not the case. A musician has to know when he’s producing good work. Normally, when I hate a new piece, it means it inevitably ends up being the best thing I’ve ever written. And right now, I despise every single last one of these new fucking songs. I want to gather up the crumpled sheets of paper, covered front and back with hastily scrawled out black ink, and I want to throw them over the side of the balcony and let them fly on the wind into the oncoming fucking traffic of the streets below. I never want to see or hear them again.
 

Butler says they’re brilliant.

I take a long drink of my coffee, allowing my thoughts to wander. It's been three weeks since Butler busted my balls over the lack of new material. He said he wanted two new songs by the end of that week. I gave him three, just to show him I could. I write a new song every day now. I’ve left a pile of sheet music on Cole's dining table—more songs than he can realistically look at in any one day.
 

Some are good. Most of them are great. When I was hanging out at Cole’s place every day, the guys would continually take turns kissing my ass, which got very old very quickly, so now I don’t go over there unless I really have to. I can see it coming on the horizon as well—the huge deep-and-meaningful Cole is just
itching
to have with me. He's the only one who seems to understand that the dark shit I’m pouring out onto paper has to physically come from somewhere inside me, that it’s a reflection of my very
soul
. I don’t want to talk to him about it, though. I don’t want to talk to
anyone
.
 

I lean back and close my eyes, letting my emotions bleed into the current piece I’m working on. I can see Avery running from me, her long blonde hair flying behind her. She turns and looks back over her shoulder, accusation all over her face, eyes piercing me through to the core. She must be so hurt and confused. She must hate me so much by now.

 
A huge part of me wants to comfort her, but then again, the sick, twisted part of me wants to push things further, to have her hate me some more. That way she will never come back to me. She will never forgive me, and in turn, I’ll never be able to destroy her life.
 

I continue to hum as I close my eyes, the pen tapping on the paper in front of me.
 

I catch up with her and reach out, pulling her flush against me. The curves of her body are addictive. I can’t stop touching her, feeling the satin of her under my fingertips. If she were real, I would kiss her. I would press my lips against hers and I would never come up for air. I would happily die with my body formed against hers, our limbs intertwined and locked together. If she were real, I would take hold of her and I would never let her go.
 

But this version of her isn’t real. Nothing is anymore. My music is all I have. I'll give myself over to it fully.
 

If I lose that, I am nothing.
 

******

“We're going out tonight whether you fucking like it or not.” Cole pushes at my chest as I stand in his living room. I wrapped up the song this morning. I would have spent the rest of the day fucking around on my acoustic for the sheer pleasure of it but Cole called me over, telling me we had urgent business. Fool that I am, I believed him. Now, it turns out that I’ve been roped into a surprise drinking session.
 

Fuck. My. Life.
 

“Fine. Shit. Whatever.” I give him attitude for the first time in three weeks. I hate going out and Cole knows that. The cop within will never be able to head out and slam shots for hours on end in that kind of environment. I’m always on the alert, looking for trouble, waiting for a fight to explode or someone to get fucking shot.

“Dude, the pussy is epic out there. What the hell is wrong with you?” Pete laughs, shoving his fingers through this hair, probably trying to tame it into some form of style.

“So I hear,” I tell him. Pussy never has and never will be a huge concern for me. I was celibate for three years because I didn’t love my ex before Avery. Why the hell would I go out and sink my dick inside the first pretty girl I come across, just because she’s willing? It’s never sat right with me. It’s never felt like the right thing to do. I know that makes me an exception to the rule where most guys are concerned, but hey. I don’t want my fucking dick to fall off. And sex isn’t about coming for me. It’s more than that.
 

Jesus. If these guys could hear my inner monologue they would cut my dick off and confiscate it simply for letting the side down.
 

Anyway, I’ve already decided that I’ll slip out of an exit when their backs are turned. We’ve been playing gigs every other night in local clubs, trying to get the band’s name out and on the streets while we’re recording, and so far it appears to be working. People are starting to recognize us.
 

Weird.
 

I was accosted at the grocery store by a gaggle of screaming girls earlier this week, and that wasn’t the first time. It’s so goddamn surreal—I can barely believe this is my life anymore.
 

“So, yeah. We’re going,” Cole tells me, punching me in the arm this time. “No getting out of it.”

“Not yet, though. You guys need to hear this.” I pick up the electric guitar I’ve left here for our practice sessions and loop the strap over my head.
 

“Hear what?” Butler walks in from the balcony, a cloud of pot smoke following him. “Don’t worry, it’s legal, mister police officer,” he says, grinning. “I have trouble sleeping.”
 

“Cole shoves coke up his ass like it’s going out of fashion. A little pot smoke isn’t going to bother me,” I say.

Cole gives me the eyes, like I’m embarrassing him in front of his friends. He gives Butler a broad smile, shrugging his shoulders. “I’d love to say it’s not true, but it is. Anyway, Luke wrote a new song. He’s convinced this is the one we’ve been waiting for.”
 

“Yeah, fuckers even got the video figured out in his head.” Paul adds his two cents, which is about the depth of his investment.
Ever
. God love him. “Hey, do we
get
a music video?” he asks, like the thought just occurred to him.

“If the song performs well on poling, yes. Let’s hear it first. We’ll figure out the rest later.” Butler motions for me to start playing. I feel like I’m his personal performing clown. Still, this is the nature of the beast.

I do what I always do. I close my eyes and I shut him out. I play like I’m alone and this is only for me. Like my ears are the only ones hearing the chords and the transitions, the pain and the anguish.
 

I think of Avery.
 

I'm sporting a painfully hard erection by the time I'm done, and my blood is pumping violently in my veins. The guitar hides what’s going on in my pants, but it can’t hide how visible worked up I am, how fast I’m breathing.

“Fuck me,” Butler mutters. “You all right, kid?”

I blink a few times, clearing my vision as I look around at everyone. The shock on their faces tells me all I need to know.
 

Yeah.
 

This is the one.
 

This is the one that will make us.

******

“I fucking hate you,” Cole mutters as he drives us to the club. Butler is almost bouncing up and down in the back seat, the fat little bastard making me smile. His excitement is contagious. Performing for a living was never my dream, but helping these guys realize
their
dream admittedly feels pretty damn good. It’s slowly becoming the only light in the darkness for me.
 

“What now?” I say, letting my head loll against the passenger seat headrest.
 

“I tried writing for
years
. I worked on that
Girls Got Guns
song for, like, four months and you guys trashed it. And you spit that fucking magnificent romper stomper out in a morning.
I. Fucking. Hate. You
.”

“You don’t. You love the shit out of me.”

“I know I do. But still.”

“You have to be the one running after the girl, though.” Butler leans forward. “I'm thinking black hair, not blonde. Dark haired women are far sexier to the universal man.”

“No,” I respond. I’m ignored, of course. Nothing new.
 

“Universal man? What the fuck does that even mean?” Cole glances at me as we pull up to the club. “Universal man...”

“Don't be dense. It means some guys like blonds, but the majority of men will go for a dark-haired girl. We're using a brunette. Big beautiful ass, too. It needs to bounce as she's running away.”
 

I feel sick.

I clamber out of the car and slam the door, the blood literally fizzing in my veins. “
No
!”

Cole stares at me through the windshield. He climbs out and leans against the driver’s side, his door still open, his elbows supporting him against the frame of the car. Inside, Pete, Paul and Butler remain jammed in the back seat, stock still, staring out at us. “No what, man?” Cole asks quietly.

“I'm not doing the video. I sing and I play. That’s fucking
it
.” I turn my back on him and head in the direction of the club I didn’t even want to go to. A long line of people—male and female—glance at me. I don't give any of them the time of day, but I can sense the eyes roving over me. I walk right past them and into the club without stopping to talk to the bouncer; the huge wall of muscle doesn’t stop me. Our names are probably on some kind of bullshit arbitrary list. God knows if he recognizes me. Maybe he senses that I’m not in the mood to be questioned and he’s decided to leave well enough alone.

Walking to the bar, I reach up and tug down the baseball cap I’m wearing. It's rare that I bother with one. I hate attention, though, and as luck would have it it's usually
me
everyone recognizes. Cole and the guys join me almost immediately—he must have valeted the car—and we get beers in silence. I can tell Butler wants to say something but he must have been warned to keep his trap shut by the others. He holds his tongue. I head for a table in the back, and the others follow.