Tranquility

by Ava O'Shay

  “I’d like to avoid a name with the f word in it.” Cori stole another chip from his plate. “Dudes! Order your own food,” Assad complained. “Lying sack of shit?” Assad mumbled.

  “Can you be serious about this please,” Cori pleaded. Quill sighed. “Are the other guys coming?”

  Assad chewed his bite before answering. “Not until after Cori leaves. She can do all the instruments on her machine, and they wanted to finish the semester, so… “

  “Why were you the Devil Dogs?” Quill drummed his fingers on the table.

  “Sean had a brother in the navy or something. I don’t remember.” Assad continued to eat while Cori and Quill eyed his chips.

  “God. Go ahead and eat them already.” He shoved the plate toward them. “How about Beautiful Day,” Cori swooned.

  “That’s a very uplifting name.” Quill picked at a sticky substance on the table. “It sucks,” Assad added.

  “Our music is haunting. It off sets it,” she explained. “How about Warehouse?” Assad offered.

  “Like the show on the SciFi channel?” Cori asked. “Oh. Well, then no.” Assad frowned.

  “How about Pick Six?” Quill said. Cori and Assad stared at him, clueless.

  “It’s a football term. Means you get an interception and run it back for a touchdown.

  Like the perfect play is blown to fucking hell, and the other team gets a touchdown.” Assad’s chin shot up. “I can relate to that name.”

  Quill scowled at Assad. “It was just a suggestion.”

  “Yeah, just a fucking suggestion.” Assad pushed his plate away. Cori shrugged. “I like it.”

  “The other team gets a touchdown,” Assad muttered and popped the last of his sandwich in his mouth.

  “Don’t make this about sex.” Quill glared at him. “Everything is about sex with you. That’s the problem.”

  “Okay kids. Can’t we all get along? Please.” Cori looked from one to the other. “Please. I really want this to work.”

  Quill cracked his neck, trying to focus on Cori. He didn’t want to be the reason the tour sucked. “So, we have ten songs, one instrumental shake down and two duets. One with me and you.” Quill pointed to Cori. “And another with us.” Quill looked at Assad. “You want to do something with Jason Derulo’s, Trumpet?” He watched Assad’s expression for some hint that what they had wasn’t completely over.

  Assad leaned back and rubbed his stomach. “No. That’s mine,” he muttered. “I’ll find something different.”

  Quill dropped his gaze. He didn’t like what was going on between them. Assad was always the one who wanted to hash things out, and now he was quitting.

  Cori flipped the page in the notebook she was carrying around. “So, I was thinking we could lay these down, or a couple at least, on a CD to sell at the venues. Just a few, in case anyone is interested.”

  Quill and Assad nodded.

  “So, I’ll tell Simon we are the Pick Six’s now, and we have the base for the sets. What instruments will we need?”

  “Cello, banjo, guitar, your piano thing… “ Quill stopped. “Synthesizer,” Cori corrected.

  “Your dad okay with this? Your parents?” Quill turned his attention back to Assad.

  “Dad’s fine. He’s just excited I might actually get off the bus to Julliard this time,” Cori said.

  “My parents are fine with it. I got my advisor to finish up the semester for me. I can do some of my work online, and then start in again next year or whenever we get back. How’s Ren?” Assad’s voice softened at the mention of Ren.

  Quill rubbed his face. “She’s good. I’ll see if Mrs. Daniel will look in on her.” “How about Jolin?” Assad asked.

  Quill shrugged. “She says no.”

  “Too bad. They seemed good together.” Assad began cleaning up his trash. “Seems being good together doesn’t mean shit these days,” Quill shot back at him.

  “Guess he couldn’t handle her shit so bailed for greener pastures.”

  Assad stopped cleaning the table, took an exasperated breath, and walked to the trash.

  Cori placed her hand over Quill’s. She squeezed once and let go. If Assad’s idea had been to avoid tension on the bus by breaking up, he’d been sorely mistaken.

  “I know it must be hard to leave her after what happened,” she said.

  “Yeah but I can’t follow her around and watch her every second. At least she told me I couldn’t.” He tried to smile.

  “She’ll be fine.”

  “If she stays out of fraternities, she should be fine.” Quill raised his hands to put behind his head, not liking the uncomfortable feeling that settled on their table. “So, we have a lot to work on and not a lot of time. What time should we start tomorrow?”

  .thirty-six

  Quill Diaz

  December 3

  7:30 a.m.

  Quill showed up early at the store, hoping to have a chance to talk with Assad before Cori showed up. Assad had refused to respond to his texts and all his calls went straight to voicemail. He’d worked all night on his plan to let Assad know he was making a mistake. He didn’t want to lose what they were building. It was the first time he wasn’t going to walk away.

  He wasn’t going to let his past dictate his future. Or at least he was going to give it a hell of a try.

  Quill moved the chair just inside the door of his practice room, set the desk lamp on the floor, and clicked it on so it shone on him in a small spot light. He settled in at Cori’s synthesizer and waited.

  Assad finally showed up.

  Quill was thankful he’d texted Cori last night telling her to come an hour later due to a commitment he’d made with Ren. He knew Assad would wait until the last minute to show, so Quill wouldn’t have an opportunity to talk with him, argue with him, beg him to give him a second chance.

  Assad stopped in his tracks when he saw Quill sitting at the piano. He rolled his eyes, looked to the ceiling, and blew out a breath. “Please don’t do this.” His voice was tight.

  Quill swallowed a lump that had formed in his throat then began to play Snow Patrol’s song, Make This Go on Forever.

  Tears began to fall down his cheeks as he sang about feelings he’d never had before, asking for forgiveness and accepting the fact he screwed up for the first time opening up to someone else with the aid of a song.

  When he finished, Assad was still standing in front of him. His shoulders were tight. His eyes filled with a pain Quill hadn’t wanted to put there. He’d wanted Assad to come to him and wrap him in his arms and make him feel safe.

  Assad wiped at his face. “I can’t do this,” was all he said before turning and walking out of the store.

  .thirty-seven

  Assad McVee

  December 10

  1:00 p.m.

  Assad managed to avoid being alone with Quill while they prepped for the tour. Quill finally cornered Assad when they were loading the bus.

  “Why don’t you return any of my texts?” Quill leaned against the door jam, blocking Assad from escaping.

  “We broke up. I don’t feel there is anything left to say.”

  Quill pushed off the frame and walked up to him. “Nothing left to say? I never got a chance to say shit.”

  Assad lifted his chin to avoid looking at Quill. “I think your serenade made your feelings clear.” What Quill’s serenade had done was rip him to the core. He wanted to pull him into his arms and love him, but he’d studied psychology too long to not see the signs of a dependent relationship. Quill needed to figure out his life without Assad telling him what to do.

  Quill grabbed Assad’s chin. “I fucking laid my heart out for you, and you walked away.”

  Assad’s expression softened for a moment before it returned to the indifferent look he’d been sporting. “You don’t agree. I get that. But I’m done.” He forced his voice to stay smooth, if he showed any weakness, Quill would eat him alive.

  “You’re done,” Quill snorted.

&nbs
p; Assad tried to pull his face away, but Quill slid his hand so his palm was cupping Assad’s cheek. “Don’t.” Assad balls tightened. He wanted Quill like he’d never wanted anyone before. He breathed in Quill’s cologne, woozy from its intoxicating scent. God he was a goner.

  Quill lowered his eyes, looking at Assad’s mouth. “Please don’t.” Assad’s voice was a pleading whisper.

  Quill pulled Assad to him and placed his mouth against Assad’s. He felt the stress of the past few weeks melt away at the taste and feel of Quill’s familiar mouth. Slowly, Quill deepened the kiss. Assad made a noise deep in his throat that was the only encouragement Quill needed.

  He pushed Assad back against the wall of the room, using a free hand to slam the door shut.

  Assad’s hands threaded into Quill’s hair, pulling him closer, before he regained his determination and pushed Quill back by the shoulders. “Jesus, Quill, knock it off.” Assad had to stay firm. Quill had to figure out what he needed without Assad guiding him.

  Quill stepped into him, running his hands down Assad’s chest, stopping at his crotch. “You can’t deny you still have feelings for me.”

  “I never said I didn’t have feelings. I said I wasn’t going on tour with you while we were together. And that there.” He pointed between them. “That feeling is lust. Your way of trying to control me. It isn’t feelings. Which is why we aren’t together anymore.”

  “Right now that’s what I know how to give. Show me how to do it so you understand I don’t want to be apart. Why do you get all the say in this relationship?”

  Assad retreated from Quill’s advances. “You don’t really want this. I can’t show you what I need. What I need isn’t who you are. I get it.”

  Quill threw his hands in the air. “You self-righteous prick. Who are you to tell me who I am?” He pushed Assad. “Expect me to toss all my coping methods away in the blink of an eye, to understand some secret code for what you need. I’m fucking flying without a net here, and you won’t give me a parachute. “ Quill circled Assad. “A week. You gave me a fucking week to change a lifetime.”

  Assad braced himself for Quill to hit him. But he didn’t. Instead, he chipped another piece of his heart away.

  “I fucking hate you.” Quill shoved him and walked out.

  .thirty-eight

  Quill Diaz

  January 3

  1:00 p.m.

  “Morning,” Quill mumbled to his band mates sitting around the small table in what they referred to as the galley of their tour bus.

  “Good afternoon is more like it,” Cori said through a mouthful of cereal.

  Assad kept his gaze on the newspaper he was reading. Ignoring Quill. As he should.

  Quill had given up on Assad last night. He wasn’t a hundred percent sure Assad new the extent of his fall from grace, but the fact he smelled like booze made getting shit-faced a little hard to deny.

  “You reek,” Assad finally muttered.

  “Too bad.” Quill sat down and grabbed a water bottle from in front of Cori.

  Cori looked from one to the other, waiting for the argument to begin. But neither one of them continued their war of words. Instead remaining silent as the tension between them simmered.

  Quill had successfully avoided Assad for the first three weeks on the road. Or as much as someone can when they are living on a tour bus. It had taken all Quill’s willpower to not climb into Assad’s bed the first week away from home. And again last night when he returned from a night of hard drinking with a group of girls looking for something he wasn’t willing to give. He hadn’t had sex in almost a month. He’d held onto the idea Assad would come around and let him in again. But he wasn’t. So Quill did what he did best. He began his self-destructive lifestyle again.

  His phone buzzed across the table, announcing an incoming call. Quill flipped it over to see Ren’s face light up the screen. He smiled and got up, heading back to his bunk.

  “Hey,” he said into the phone.

  “Hey yourself.” Ren’s voice lightened the weight that sat heavy on his chest. He hated that he turned to alcohol when what he really wanted was Assad. He proved that he would do what he adamantly said he wouldn’t. But what difference did it make when Assad wasn’t coming back to him anyway.

  “You still there?” Ren’s voice filled his head. “Yeah. I’m here.”

  “How’s it going?” Ren called once a week, and Quill called her whenever he needed to be talked off the edge. Last night he hadn’t even thought to call her.

  “It’s crazy. Loud. Intense. Have you talked to the cops yet?”

  Ren didn’t answer right away. When he’d left, he made her promise to talk to the cops about what happened. “Yeah. There isn’t much they can do. No proof, and my memory isn’t enough since I was drugged. So all I can do is move forward. Are you having fun?” she asked.

  “Yeah. It’s incredible.” He ran a hand over his abs. “Why don’t I believe you?”

  “Maybe because it’s the rest of the day that’s awful. I want to come home, Ren. It kills me to stand on the stage every night and sing these words that mean so much to a guy that hates me.”

  “He doesn’t hate you. He loves you too much. He’s just as scared as you always are.

  You expect him to be there for you, but are you there for him?” Ren had obviously been talking to her counselor again.

  “I try, but he won’t talk to me. I watch him. Try to understand what he’s looking for, but it’s like I’m in a foreign country and don’t know the language. And I messed up last night.”

  “Uh oh.” She laughed.

  “Yeah. Fifteen days without a drink. I had it. I slipped and basically proved to him I was the douche he thought I was. I hate that I keep doing this.” Quill ran a hand over his messy hair.

  “My counselor said you could call her. She’d be willing to talk to you over the phone.”

  Quill rolled over and flattened his face into his pillow. Every conversation they had ended in her pushing the counselor on him. Maybe it was what he needed. Maybe she knew the secret to getting Assad back.

  Finally, he conceded. He didn’t like going back to the empty life he’d lived before Assad. “Give me her number.”

  Ren screamed into the phone.

  Quill programed the number into his phone then dragged himself out of his bunk and into the shower because Assad was right, he reeked.

  .thirty-nine

  Quill Diaz

  January 12

  1:00 a.m.

  If Quill thought the energy from The Warehouse was electrifying, he wasn’t even sure what to call the feeling he got now. His mind and body told him he needed alcohol, drugs, or a good fuck and since Assad didn’t care anymore—it was hard for Quill to care. But Ren did. So he left each venue as soon as the meet and greet was over and headed to the bus to call the counselor. A counselor that stayed up late to talk him after each show. She was a good lady.

  Her voice was soft and calming after the hype of a show, and she was funny. Slowly, he was beginning to understand what he figured Assad was trying to tell him. He couldn’t love and respect someone else until he learned to love and respect himself. More importantly, he couldn’t ask someone to fight for him if he wasn’t willing to fight for himself.

  The music that surrounded him, the crowd cheering, left him on a drugless high. One he had trouble getting rid of when it was time to sleep. Which is why he was currently sitting at the kitchen table on the bus, playing the stupid game his counselor gave him, on his phone. The lights were off so not to wake anyone else up. The light of his phone cast a shadowy glow around the front of the bus.

  “Hey.”

  Quill glanced up to see Cori standing in a tiny tank top and pair of barely covering anything shorts.

  “Your dad would have a fit if he saw you walking around in that outfit,” Quill mumbled dropping his gaze back to his game.

  Cori climbed onto the bench across from him, leaning against the wall of the bus, and bendi
ng her knees up to her chest.

  “What do you think about it?” she purred.

  Quill snuck a look at her bare legs. Perfect, he thought. “I think you should wear more clothes.”

  She reached across the table and grabbed his phone from his hands. “Hey,” he complained and reached to grab it back.

  Cori dropped the phone to the table and wrapped her long elegant fingers around his hand, looking up to meet his stare.

  “What are you doing?” Quill kept his voice low. “I want you to tell Assad you miss him.”

  “I did. He doesn’t want to hear it.” Quill attempted to keep his voice void of the immense emotion filling him.

  He loved Assad, and every night when they performed, he fell in love with him more. But he had only started to heal and needed more time to show Assad he was worth the fight.

  “You have to show him you’re willing to fight for him.”

  “I’m trying, but he isn’t budging.” Quill squeezed her hand. He would miss her when she left for Julliard, and he worried things would deteriorate between Assad and him even more without her as mediator. “It takes time. I get it. I’m not going to rush it.” Quill rested his hand on the table top, “The ring?” He used his thumb to rub over the band of the ring he had helped her find that first day in class.

  “My mom’s,” she whispered.

  Quill lowered his gaze, watching the way their hands looked together, wishing it was Assad’s hand, not hers. “I’m sorry I kept it from you. I didn’t realize its importance.”

  “We were under a piano. How could you?”

  “I miss him.”

  “I know,” she said.

  Quill watched her take a deep breath.

  “I don’t want to get off the bus,” she finally said.

  Quill looked up at her. “That’s good because we’re traveling about sixty down the highway.”

  “I mean when we get to Julliard. I don’t want to get off. Why would I? People go to Julliard to get their big break, and we have it.”