by Josey Alden
"Hey," Mark says, looking uncomfortable. "Hey, don't cry."
Hondo bursts into the room at that moment. He comes straight to the bed and leans over, gathering me up in his long, safe arms.
"It's OK, sweetness," he says. "I'm here."
I cry harder, my tears and snot soaking into Hondo's shirt. He carefully untangles the blankets and wires and tubing before picking me up like I'm a child. He sits down on a chair next to the bed, holding me tight on his lap, rocking me back and forth gently. I let go, relying on him to support my body. I feel protected from everything out there, even though the real danger is here inside me, where it has always been.
When I finally stop crying and come up for air, I look around for Mark. Once again, he's gone.
Scene 16 ~ Mark
I wish I still smoked. Tonight, I would burn through a pack and chase it with a few tequila shots. Being numb sounds perfect. Being numb would mean I won't have to deal with what happened to Sophie—and how it makes me feel.
I walk outside through the main entrance of the hospital and sniff the air. Smokers are gathered around an overflowing can of cigarette butts fifty feet away from the hospital doors. Maybe someone will sell me a smoke. I reach for my wallet, but I don't have it with me. We left so quickly, I didn't think to grab it. As I walk toward the small group, I try to figure out who would be most likely to let me bum. I decide on the two skaters who don't look old enough to buy cigarettes in the first place.
"Holy shit, that's Mark Dillon." The tattooed kid nearly knocks his friend off his skateboard to point me out.
Well, I have my cigarette. I also have fifteen minutes of bullshit ahead of me. With an iron grip on my temper, I ask for a light. The smoke hits my lungs like hot, wet wool. I cough like I've never had a cigarette before.
"Dude, what're you doing in Dallas?" Tattoo Kid asks. "Aren't you in rehab or something?"
"Something," I say. "I'm seeing a friend."
This appeases him for a few minutes. Then, he and his friend start whispering and shoving each other around again. I realize they're saying, "You ask him," and "No, you ask him, asshat."
I sigh as I flick ash on the sidewalk. "What do you want, guys?"
Tattoo Kid's face reddens. His friend punches him in the shoulder, sneering at him.
"Is Never More Alone breaking up?" the kid says. "It's all over Twitter that there's a new G-man."
I take a few more draws on the cigarette before stomping it out on the sidewalk. I casually pick it up and toss it on top of the mountain of butts. The guys watch me, waiting for an answer. I know that anything I say will show up instantly on Twitter.
"There's no fucking break-up and no new fucking guitarist," I say. "Thanks for the smoke."
As I walk back into the hospital, I wonder how long I can continue lying to myself—and believing it.
Before I can step into the elevator, Hondo grabs me out of nowhere. I glare at his hand until he lets go of my arm. The bastard must be feeling cocky to touch me like that.
"We gotta talk," he says.
I reluctantly follow him to an empty corner of the lobby. Damn, I thought I was tall. Hondo looks down on me like I'm his kid brother.
"What the hell happened to her?" he says. "What did you do?"
Oh, man, this day is just getting better and better. "She had a seizure. I had nothing to do with it."
Hondo narrows his eyes at me. "You told her to stop drinking cold turkey, didn't you?"
"Where the fuck did you get that?"
"You have no idea how stressed out she's been since Lang died," he says.
"No, that's pretty obvious from the condition of the property."
I let my arms hang loose and lean back slightly, not willing to be taken by surprise if Hondo decides to put some manual emphasis on his words.
"Yeah, you're the big hero, saving the house from foreclosure," Hondo says, with not a shred of appreciation in his voice. "Just stay out of Sophie's life."
I close my eyes for a moment, trying to tamp down my temper enough to speak. I can't believe the gall of this guy challenging me like this when he's living in my goddamned house rent-free.
When I open my eyes, I hold Hondo's gaze in laser focus.
"Let's be excruciatingly clear," I say. "I had nothing to do with Sophie trying to self-detox. She can drink herself into a fucking nursing home for all I care. And before you start throwing your weight around, you might want to ask yourself who's the bad influence here."
I steel myself for a punch in the face, but Hondo only glares at me for a few seconds, and then walks away.
Cursing under my breath, I pull my phone out of my pocket and map my new address. It's seven-point-four miles from the hospital to the Winter mansion. I take off in that direction, hoping my sudden craving for coke will weaken before I make it home.
Scene 17 ~ Sophie
I spend the next week in the hospital, going through a "medical" detox that I can't afford. It's boring, lying in the bed, being infused with saline and electrolytes and benzos. I've never quite understood how you can detox someone from one substance using another addictive substance.
Hondo comes to see me each day at lunch and after work. Mark doesn't call or come by at all. I try to ignore the tiny bud of disappointment that blooms in my chest when I think about him. I'm not family or even a friend. He already saved my life. He doesn't owe me anything.
Hondo takes his role as caretaker seriously, staying until late in the night, when I know he has to be at work by seven the next morning. Each day, the circles under his eyes grow a little bigger. I beg him to get sleep, but he refuses, even after he nods off in the chair next to my bed one night.
"You're wearing yourself down," I say. "If you don't keep up your energy, who's going to spoil me when I get home?"
"I could be in a coma and still have more energy than you, sweetness," he says.
"Yeah, that's nice, insult the sick girl."
"You're not sick, you're convalescing."
"Whatever," I say. "I'm going to sit here and pout for a while."
"Then, maybe I will catch a nap," Hondo says. He props his feet up on the bed and sits back in the chair. In two minutes, he's snoring.
"That's what I thought, big guy," I say quietly.
The doctor said I will be out tomorrow. They've had me walk the halls every day to prepare for discharge. Walking and pooping. Those are the signs of health they look for in the hospital. That's my ticket out of this place.
The social worker visits every day, too. Her demands are a little harder to deal with. She wants me in rehab for three months. I explain to her in every way I can that I do not have the money to pay for rehab. Yes, I just sold a mansion. But I'm in the red, and I have no cash flow. It's so hard for people to understand that being famous doesn't automatically make you a good steward of your money. The money comes in, and usually, more money goes out. It's expensive to be rich. My dad was the poster child for this particular problem.
The question now is, how am I going to generate cash flow? I look over at Hondo, who is still asleep. I can't mooch off him for the rest of my life. Somehow, I have to finish my degree. Maybe I can even teach music—as long as it's not the guitar.
I daydream about a small, private life, where I'd live in a regular-size house. My ordinary but extremely hot husband and I could go to dinner without a stranger stopping at the table "just to say hi" for thirty minutes. We could take our kids to the mall to shop for clothes without having people follow us from store to store. And at night, we could open our second-story windows to let in the fresh air without wondering if someone with binoculars and a telephoto lens is watching.
I look over at Hondo, and think we could be the couple in that house. If only Hondo wasn't, well, Hondo.
Scene 18 ~ Mark
The day before Sophie is scheduled to be released from the hospital, I score some coke. It's a tiny amount, barely a bump. But the second it hits my system, I remember why I was addicted. All
of my anger at the band and all of my concern over Sophie's recovery melts away. Damn, it feels good to have my brain buzz with creative energy again.
Suddenly, I want to write music. Idea after idea streaks through my head, bits and pieces of songs. I keep reaching for my phone to call Braun or Erik, and then I remember we're barely on speaking terms. I walk around the house with my guitar unplugged, plucking different melodies. If Sophie was here, it would be the perfect time to work together.
If Sophie was here. What the hell is going to happen when she comes home? The pleasure of thinking about her on this cloud of cocaine nearly splits me apart. Every cell in my body is amped, desperate for the fingers to touch the strings. I end up in the middle of my new bed, humming and jerking off, trying to decide which need to satisfy first. I feel like a teenager again, so full of energy and desire for everything, now, now, now.
The next morning is as grey as last night was vivid. I open my eyes to find that I never took my jeans all the way off. I'm wearing them like shackles around my ankles. I kick them off and turned over. The glow of the cocaine is dry ash now. My brain feels empty, useless. My muscles ache.
My phone rings on the nightstand. It's Sophie. I let it ring two more times before I answer.
"They're letting me out today," she says.
"You told me that yesterday."
"Oh."
For the next thirty seconds, I hear only her breathing.
"Did I wake you up?" she says.
"No, you're fine. Late night."
"OK. I guess I'll see you later, then." She doesn't wait for my response, and this irritates me. She's the one who called me. She could at least give me the last word. I don't know if she expects a big homecoming, but I'm leaving that chore to Hondo. He can baby her all he wants.
I have things to do.
Scene 19 ~ Sophie
Hondo took the day off work to get me home. The hospital rules say I have to leave in a wheelchair, and he takes it to a ridiculous extreme. I keep my head down all the way to Hondo's car. I can't remember the last time I was so embarrassed. Oh, wait, I do remember. It was when Mark showed up on my doorstep unannounced and saw me half-dressed.
I don't know what's wrong, but Mark sounded like stale shit on the phone. It was obvious he didn't want to talk to me, which is probably for the best, anyway, because I don't know what to say. We've been housemates for less than two weeks, and already I'm bringing home the drama.
Hondo insists on holding my arm as we go into the house.
"You know, walking by myself was a term of my release," I say.
"Yes, sweetness," he says, and keeps right on guiding me in like I'm a blind, old woman.
Mark doesn't come out to greet us. I assume he's still asleep. Nicole is at the kitchen counter, as usual, still sorting through the world's largest pile of mail. She gives me a hug and asks me how I feel.
Lying on my bed feels crazy good after trying to sleep in that hospital bed, with the sheets slipping off all the time and my IV tubing getting tangled in the handrails. My mattress doesn't sound like a thick plastic bag when I turned over.
Hondo takes off his shoes and climbs into bed next to me. He's wearing an outfit that almost looks like a basketball uniform. He curls around me like a giant spoon. I relax into his familiar body and close my eyes.
When I wake up, he's still there, but he has turned onto his back. He snores softly as I watch him. Like countless other times, I steal a look below his waist. His erection is half-hard and pressing against the front of his loose shorts. My body responds with a wave of desire. I feel so juvenile studying him like this, but I can't help it. Hondo has a gorgeous body, one that many people have tried to claim. It's hard to comprehend that nature gave him so much to work with, but then stopped short of giving him the pleasurable sensations of sex.
I think about our almost-kiss. My body certainly had no problem responding to him, but it shocked me. He's never done anything like that with me. Sure, he will kiss me all over my head and hands and arms—but never on the mouth.
Hondo suddenly rolls over toward me and opens his eyes. "Is it morning yet?"
"No, we have about twelve hours to go."
"Good." He threads his fingers together behind his head on the pillow. A quick sideways glance tells me that his semi-erection has already gone down. I wonder if he even noticed it.
"Thank you for taking care of me," I say, nestling my head into his shoulder.
"Of course," he says.
"No, not 'of course.' You didn't have to do that. You don't have to do a lot of the things you do for me."
"It's only because I love you."
"Hondo?"
"Still here."
"Remember when you told me about your, um, dating past?"
Hondo's muscles tense a little under my cheek. "Yes."
"Do you still, I mean, are you still asexual?"
The next minute stretches into an hour as I wait for his answer. My heartbeat pounds in my ears.
He speaks to the ceiling. "I don't know. It's kind of hard to define the absence of something."
"Yeah, I know," I say. "But do you still not feel the same way as before?"
"Sweetness, I couldn't even follow that sentence."
We laugh together, and then let a few more minutes pass in silence. I move my head onto his chest and listen to the rhythm of his heart. People like deep bass in their music because it sounds like this: a low, powerful, continuous sound that can be felt as much as heard. I use a lot of bass and percussion, and it makes my music feel more alive. It's sad, though, that I can't remember the last song I wrote. With Lang gone, I'd put my life in suspend mode, without really meaning to. Now, with my brain dried out, I could see it clearly. I took a six-month cruise in a bottle of vodka. And somehow, I survived the ship wreck.
"I think about sex," Hondo says, interrupting my thoughts. "But it seems like a function more than a desire. I have no particular need for the function."
I nod awkwardly against his chest. His heart speeds up a few beats under my ear.
"I see people rather than their bodies. I want to share space with them without the pressure of making each other feel good physically."
"Do you think something happened?"
"What, to make me this way?" Hondo says, sliding up to a sitting position. He has a frustrated, wounded look on his face. "Can't it just be who I am? Does it have to be a trauma or disease?"
I sit up, too, crossing my legs. "Of course, but the other day …" I trail off, unable to say it out loud.
"Uh, yeah. I have no idea where that came from. I'm sorry. Maybe I was wondering a little, too."
I look up into his eyes. "And?"
"You know, I could force myself to do it." He breaks my gaze to look down at his hands. "The equipment works, right? But when I think of having sex with someone, it makes me feel more alone. If it's supposed to be a connection, but it actually puts more space between you, what's the point?"
I nod, even though he isn't looking at me to see it.
"It's not you, Sophie. If there was anyone on the planet that I would force myself to sleep with, it would be you."
"Wow, there might actually be a compliment somewhere in that sentence," I say.
Hondo grins and tickles me in the ribs. I scream and laugh until he takes pity on me and lets me go. We face each other, now, on the bed we share.
"I love you, Ho," I say.
"I love you, too, sweetness, even if you're one of those weird sexual creatures."
I give him a half-hearted slap on the ass. But that night, as I listen to his even, constant breath beside me, and I think about Mark on the other side of the house, I feel a little more alone than I did before.
Scene 20 ~ Mark
I do nothing the rest of the day. I heard Sophie and Hondo come home, but I didn't bother to say hello to them. It seems like a fake, meaningless thing to do under the circumstances. Instead, I sit in the middle of the floor in the bedroom and try to write som
ething—anything—on my acoustic. My dull, grey brain is giving me total shit. Asshole.
I toss the guitar on a chair and walk down the hall to see if anyone is in the living room. I hired a chef, but he isn't starting until tomorrow. I also scheduled pool cleaning. Housecleaning would begin at the end of the week.
The living room is empty, except for Nicole, so I quietly walk through it to reach the staircase without bringing attention to myself. It's fucking ridiculous, tiptoeing around, given that this is my house now. Nevertheless, I pad up the stairs in my bare feet and lock myself in Lang's studio.
Being in the same room with so many incredible guitars wakes me up a little. I walked around the room, trying to identify each one. Some were signed with black marker by famous guitarists. Others were custom-made for Lang by the big names in guitar design. I pick up one and wipe the dust off the shiny red and white finish with my hand. Maybe it's magical thinking to believe that being in the same space that Lang occupied will help me. Touching the strings he touched, feeling the vibrations he felt. It has to mean something, even though at this moment, I can't force myself to put a single finger on the strings.
I'm starting to think leaving rehab early wasn't such a great idea.
I put the guitar back on its stand before I can do something with it I'd regret. I don't need any more damaged things around me. Instead, I use the sound-proof room to scream at the band, the fans, the cocaine, Sophie, Hondo, Lang, my family, myself—everything that has brought me to this point.
Then, I pull my broken phone put of my pocket and choose a number from my favorites list.
"Hey, Trent, call me back. I need to talk to you about something I did."
Scene 21 ~ Sophie
The next morning, I go into the kitchen and find another stranger in the house: our new cook. He and Nicole already seem tight, so engrossed in conversation that neither one realizes that I'm there.
"Hi," I say. They look up at me in tandem, and he extends his hand. I shake it. "Sophie."