Sound Effects

by L. J. Greene

  But I’m here now.

  “Jamie, why didn’t you show your dad the notebook before today?”

  And just like that, in the blink of an eye, his face changed entirely.

  “I should have,” he said with regret, “for my mum’s sake.”

  “No,” I countered abruptly. “I didn’t mean…I wasn’t suggesting–”

  God, none of this was his fault. I was instantly sorry to have asked the question. It’s just that the notebook had clearly made an impression on Ronan, as Jamie must have known it would, and I wondered if revealing it sooner would have eased some of Jamie’s worry regarding Fiona.

  Jamie lifted his other hand to touch my face. “I know you weren’t.” He took in a deep breath of resignation, and let his shoulders drop again.

  “I have five brothers, as you know.” I nodded, though I knew very little about them. “Two of them are back in Ireland, and one lives just outside of London. I think, I’ve heard, that is, one of my brothers is living somewhere on the East Coast, but none of us have talked to him in years. And my other brother, Allen, is in the military. None of us are close, nor are they close to my mum and da. Our family…well, you know.”

  Jamie stroked the side of my thumb with the pad of his own. “We’re not much of a family. We never were.”

  “Jamie,” I squeezed his hand in mine.

  “Nah, it’s just…” he began, avoiding sympathy that he did not want. “Mad as it sounds–and I know, genuine idiocy–” he said directly– “some small part of me always thought that as my da got older, maybe he’d finally want a son.”

  Jamie shrugged very matter-of-factly, though his words were anything but. He paused, gathering his thoughts, and I fought very hard to keep myself from expressing the sympathy that I deeply felt.

  “I ended my relationship with him today. Not that we had much, but…” He shook his head in inward reflection. “Our fight–that’s just men. But the notebook is a betrayal. And he’ll hate me for the weakness it gives him.”

  He took a long deep breath and let it go. “That’s why I didn’t show it to him sooner.”

  Family is a noble passion, he had said, and not from experience. Beautiful and noble.

  I had, over the months, peppered him with silly stories of my family’s raucous Christmas Eve dinners, and family vacations. He had listened with rapt attention as I told him how, until my brother and I were eighteen, my mom would sneak into our rooms as we slept and decorate garishly for our birthdays. I complained about how my mom and dad were strict about curfews and homework and Sunday dinners. And all of that must have seemed as foreign to Jamie’s experience as today had been to mine.

  “I wish I could make things easier for you,” I said, meaning it more than he could know.

  But he did know. And he smiled sweetly, as if I had just said the perfect thing. Dimples graced his cheeks sincerely.

  “You do, every day.”

  Then he took my other hand in his and studied it for a long moment. “I never wish my life were easier–” he said finally. “Only that I was better made for it.”

  That sentiment, I thought, conveyed Jamie to a tee. He didn’t spare a thought for negativity or self-pity; he only focused on action. And in doing so, he had made his life as interesting and as rewarding as humanly possibly. That quality in him is what had called to me so powerfully from the very beginning. And I loved it more with each passing day.

  “I’ve always hoped,” he continued, “that when the time came, I could be big enough to make allowances for human frailty. I want so much to believe that somewhere deep inside, my parents–both of them–had started out with good intentions; had hearts that were filled with love, but just couldn’t quite put down the bottle, or got trapped in this continual cycle of behavior. Because I can forgive them for that. And, Mel, I want to.”

  His eyes lifted to mine, and I could see that he was working hard to bury the darkness inside of him once and for all, with a certain degree of gentle compassion for his past–and no interest in going back.

  And all of the sudden, he seemed to relax and be at peace. The exhaustion left his face and the muscles of his neck and shoulders released their burdens. A light that had gone out of him for a time, now burned again with remarkable brightness. Jamie was the most resilient person I knew. And I just had this feeling–it wasn’t a sage, or anything like that–but looking at him sitting there on the arm of the couch, with a spark in his eyes that made my heart skip a beat, I just knew that everything–everything!–was about to get so much better.

  Chapter 30

  Jamie

  “OH, HOLY GOD,” I SAID out loud. I’d been flashed many times on stage, but that was distant and impersonal. Experiencing it from the proximity of Mel’s laptop felt weirdly scandalous. “Someone has just sent us a picture of her–” Well, the word that came to mind wasn’t an actual word, but eight-year-old me always felt it should have been.

  This whole MySpace thing had the potential to be a bit unwieldy, in my opinion. But I was fascinated by it, nonetheless. Not by its capability for sending mounds of flesh to an unsuspecting Irishman, but by the sheer fact that it bypassed so many roadblocks that artists faced today–being heard, developing a following, just getting your name out there. And the comments–the direct dialog with fans was intriguing. It was such a personal connection, and one that was very different from what we experienced on stage; this was one-to-one. And for that very reason, I had the sense that ‘social media,’ as it was being called, could soon become something very, very powerful.

  I sat at Mel’s kitchen table in my sweats, fresh from a shower after work, while she and Hope circled around me, recreating another recipe from their class. I enjoyed these nights, actually. Loved the hum of activity and laughter, the aroma that filled the apartment, and the sheer domesticity of it all. More than anything, I loved the feeling of being tethered to something I didn’t want to leave in the first place.

  Hope set down the spoon from a pot of marinara she was stirring, and leaned over my shoulder, squinting at the screen. The tips of her white-blond hair tickled my forearm. “Is that a banana between her boobs?”

  I looked at her lightly freckled face in horror, and then back at the screen. I think she may have been right. Holy God.

  “Huh.” Mel came over to stand on the other side of my chair, a dishtowel slung over her shoulder, and put her soft hand on my neck. I relaxed into the sudden warmth of it, and couldn’t help staring at her flawless features and supple skin. She was so unbearably lovely.

  She tilted her head to one side, all the while stroking me with her thumb. “You kind of have to admire the composition, though. Do you think she took that herself?” Mel looked down at her own endowments. “I don’t think I could get the banana to stay.”

  Hope was in agreement. “Well, Irish, that is one hell of a proposition.” She patted my shoulder, and turned to head back to the stove.

  “I’ll pass,” I said to the screen, and promptly hit delete. Personally, I didn’t think the composition was particularly inspired, either.

  Mel stepped away, as well, to address the pile of pots they had used, leaving me to miss her hands almost immediately. So much so that I pushed back from my chair and went to stand directly behind her, pulling her hips to mine. She was tiny, but she had the most astonishing curves.

  I could feel her smile, even without seeing it, and leaned forward to press my lips to her elegant neck.

  “I’m more than happy to let you practice with my banana,” I whispered against her skin. “I might even moan a little to encourage you.”

  “How very selfless of you, front man,” she laughed, and turned in my hands to face me. Her shapely breasts crushed against my chest and I reached down to cup her arse, which fit nearly perfectly in my palms. She was grinning widely, matching my expression exactly. I took a moment to just stare at her lips, ample and slightly moist. Red.

  Quite suddenly, I was taken back in memory to another evenin
g in this very kitchen. Right here in this exact spot, I realized. And for a moment, I saw her again on her knees, her small hand wrapped around my base where she worked me with that succulent mouth. I could picture my fist tangled in her hair as I braced myself against the counter and let go for all it was worth, shouting my release.

  Just looking at her lips tonight, I felt that same shiver wrack my body as it did when she slid me spent from her mouth.

  Oh, fuck, I wanted her again.

  My cock was immediately in firm agreement, aching to be back there, skimming over her velvet tongue. Every muscle in my lower stomach contracted tightly, and the smile slipped away as my breath accelerated with my heart rate.

  She was my undoing.

  When I met her eyes again, I found her watching me, serious now. And her cheeks were flushed too, as if she was thinking of the very same thing.

  I swallowed hard, flicking a glance at Hope, who still had her back turned and was adding salt to the marinara. Mel looked over as well, and then pressed her palm firmly against my ready cock. I closed my eyes and exhaled a jagged breath.

  Admittedly, it didn’t take a lot for her to rouse me, but when she reached up and pulled my mouth to hers, and I felt her wet tongue against mine, I nearly lost it all. I squeezed her arse hard, and ground my swollen cock into her hand. The relief was–

  Hope cleared her throat conspicuously. “Uh, single girl here–wondering when it’s going to be safe to turn around.”

  Oh sweet Mary, mother of God; the relief was not nearly enough, and the timing was complete shite. To make matters worse, I looked like I was smuggling a telephone pole in my pants. I laughed in resignation against Mel’s lips.

  “The Irish aren’t ones to rush, Hope,” I teased, and rubbed the back of my neck in physical frustration. “We’re passionate about everything: ale, music, women, life–pretty much everything that involves either having fun, having an orgasm, or having no recollection of the previous 24 hours.” I glanced in her direction. “Had you not heard that?”

  “It’s so true!” Mel agreed lightheartedly. She gave my resentful cock one last squeeze before releasing me to sit back down at the table where I could conceal its tender state. “It makes us passion-less people feel a little lacking.”

  She went to the fridge, grabbed three beers, and kicked the door closed with her foot.

  “What is that supposed to mean?” Hope was facing us now, spoon in hand, and her question came out in precisely the incredulous tone I was hearing in my own head. It seemed to take Mel by surprise.

  “No, I’m not being self-deprecating,” she tried to clarify. “I just mean that I’ve never really had a thing like Jamie does. He has like a million passions.”

  She looked to me as if for help in explaining this.

  “I disagree,” I said, not offering any help, whatsoever. “I think you do have a passion.”

  Mel shot me a level glance. “If you’re about to say I have a passion for musicians, I will end you.” Then pointing at Hope, she added, “You, too.”

  Hope laughed, but actually, Mel wasn’t far off, in my mind.

  “Not musicians, precisely, but music.” I crossed my arms over my chest and leaned back in my chair, feeling the blood return to my head where it could be of more use for this conversation. “I think you have a passion for music. I think you always have. That’s where the fascination with musicians comes from.”

  “Well, sure, I love music, but I have no talent for it.”

  “For creating it, perhaps,” I responded directly. “But you have a passion for listening, for understanding the artistry behind it, for the instruments, for the culture. By your own admission, you’re a great admirer of music and musicians.”

  “That may be true but–”

  “I think you’d make a smashing band manager.”

  My interruption derailed her objection, and she paused, examining me. If she was expecting to see any hint of a jest in my face, she found none. I was absolutely serious.

  “You can’t just become a band manager, Jamie. That’s a huge job. It requires a lot of expertise.”

  “True. Managing a band is very much about making connections, which you don’t yet have. But it’s mostly about steering artists through the process of negotiating recording and publishing contracts, supporting them through record development process, and helping them to make smart career decisions. I think you’d be fantastic.”

  She shifted a little in her stance, serious, and still holding the beer. I saw her glance at Hope, who wasn’t laughing either.

  “But you’d need to start with something like a road manager first,” I continued, when I felt she was listening to me again. “Learn the ropes, make contacts.”

  “Still, aren’t most road managers also sound engineers?”

  “The fact that you know that is exactly what I’m talking about.”

  “I dated some musicians, as we well know,” Mel said with her perfect blend of sarcasm and irony.

  “And you paid attention because it interests you. There is no job training for road managers; most of them get their start from just being in a band. And yes, some road managers also have technical skills, but they don’t have to. You have legal and business expertise that’s every bit as valuable. And mostly, a road manager’s job is to know the venues, take care of logistics, make sure that the contractual riders are met, and that the artists and the crew are paid on time. You did all of that for us when we went up to Washington State. You were brilliant at it. And you loved it.”

  She blinked at me, absorbing the case I had laid out for her. She did love it, and I could see in her face that she was looking for a reason to disagree, but couldn’t come up with one.

  “Well, who wouldn’t?” she asked earnestly, rather than rhetorically.

  “I wouldn’t,” Hope inserted. And she was right. Touring was not for everyone. It’s a nomadic existence, with long hours, and far removed from the normal rhythms of life. But if you have a passion for music, it’s a front row seat; and it’s different and exciting every day.

  “Jamie’s right,” Hope continued. “You wouldn’t shut up about it. I think you’d be smashing also.” Hope turned to me with a sassy grin on the word ‘smashing.’ Why did Americans think that word is so funny? It’s a lovely word.

  “My parents would shit if I gave up a career in law.”

  “You wouldn’t be giving it up,” I pointed out, “just using it in a different way.”

  “Besides,” Hope said. “This is your life, Mel. You don’t live it for someone else. If you think for a minute it’s going to get easier as you get older to change course and do something you love, you’re wrong.”

  I could see the chaos in my lovely Mel’s eyes, as she processed the challenge that Hope and I laid down before her. She had long carried the career expectations of well-meaning friends and family, but what of her own expectations? What did she want? That was the question.

  Hope removed two of the bottles from Mel’s hand and opened them, offering one to me. Mel looked at the remaining bottle without really seeing it, and picked up the opener.

  “Well, it doesn’t matter. No one would hire me. I don’t have any experience.”

  “I would,” I said, holding her gaze unblinking. “I would hire you.”

  In an instant, the room fell completely silent; even the city seemed to pause and listen. Mel’s eyes locked on mine.

  And then, from somewhere out in the universe came the sound of a ‘click,’ as the best of what we were together dropped definitively into place.

  No one could have blamed Mel for making light of my offer. No one needed to remind her of my circumstance. But those thoughts were not at all what I saw in her exquisite face. The opposite, actually. She had absolute faith in me that I would one day be in a position to follow through on that promise, even though I had no means to do it today. And I had absolute faith in her that she could apply an extraordinary skillset to a career path she was truly suited f
or, even though making such a drastic change would require a tremendous amount of courage.

  That’s what passed between us as the world fell away, leaving only the sound of two hearts sharing a measure of time. And then, slowly, I could see her imagining a different life for herself; one she had not even considered, but one I knew she would be madly passionate about.

  A life in music.

  A life with me.

  Chapter 31

  Mel

  SOMETIMES THE GREATEST MILESTONES ARE met with the smallest amount of fanfare, but their effects are often the most enduring. In the weeks that followed the incident at Jamie’s parents’ house, I held him as close to me as I could. I wanted to show him that he could have the time he needed in his head to write music, think, and process everything. But he didn’t have to isolate himself completely, as he’d always done in the past.

  He had asked me not to let him disappear, and I answered.

  For Jamie, giving himself over to another’s care was an enormous act of faith. And though we didn’t make a big deal of it, every night that he showed up at my doorstep after work–ready to talk or listen or just hang out–the trust left me almost speechless.

  It was a joy for me, too, spending so much unstructured time together. Jamie put his passions at the heart of everything he did–not under the heading of someday or if only. He well understood the necessity of working jobs you didn’t enjoy, but he couldn’t fathom the idea of making a career out of anything you didn’t love. He was my inspiration.

  Sometimes, he would let me help him with song lyrics, though I had nowhere near his ability to conjure a complex image with just a few words. Still, every once in a while, I’d stumble upon just the thing he was looking for and I was ridiculously proud of my contribution. When he wrote about me, though, it was different. He wouldn’t let me help. He told me that those words came from his soul, and he needed to say them in exactly the way they felt to him.