Within the loneliness inside me, I don’t have to worry about turning into someone I don’t want to be, like my mother or my father. I’m just Ethan. And I can live with that. But with Lila… Jesus f**king Christ, I’m turning into a person I barely recognize. A nice guy who cares way too much, who’s breaking his rules and getting involved.
Yep, I’ve become everything I promised I never would be after I lost London.
“Your couch smells like old cheese.” Lila walks into my room with a scowl on her face. It’s the same scowl she’s been wearing for the last four days, ever since I learned about her habitual pill popping habit. “And your fridge has mold in it.”
“Well, at least it runs.” I put my pen away and shut the notebook, toss it on the nightstand, and lean against the headboard. “It could have no power and be growing mold.”
Her forehead creases as her scowl intensifies. Her hair isn’t combed, and she still has on the pair of boxer shorts and the tank top she slept in. “What were you just doing?” She eyes the notebook. “Writing about what a bitch I am?”
I cross my arms and stretch my legs out on the bed in front of me. “Why would I have to write about that when I can tell you in person?”
Her blue eyes turn cold. “You’re an a**hole.”
“You know, you’ve said that about twenty times in the last few days and it’s getting really old, especially since most a**holes wouldn’t just let you move in with them.”
She shakes her head and huffs with frustration. “It’s time for you to give me another stupid piece of my pill.”
I glance at my watch and then shake my head. “Not yet.”
She lets out a scream through gritted teeth and then flips me off before leaving my room. My head flops back against the headboard and I stare up at the crack in the ceiling. I’m not sure if I’m doing anything right, whether I’m helping her or harming her. She’s so much different, more closed off and stubborn and bitchy. She won’t talk about anything and complains about everything. She’s driving me f**king crazy.
I rub my forehead, cursing the nonstop headache I’ve had for days. Finally, I can’t take it anymore. I need to relieve the stress and there are only two ways for me to do that. Sleep with someone or play the drums. Usually, I’d go with the first, but I’m not feeling it at all.
I get up from the bed, take my shirt off, and sit down on the stool beside my drums, scooping up my drumsticks from off the floor. I reach over to my dresser and grab my iPod from the dock. I select “Gotta Get Away!” by Offspring, put the iPod back in the dock, and crank the volume, wanting to drown out the noise of my thoughts and any more potential Lila drama.
Once the song clicks on, I slam the sticks down on the drums and start pounding to the rhythm with more force than usual. I’m usually considerate of the neighbors, but right now I need to let off some steam. The longer I go, the more into it I get. Midway, I just close my eyes and let myself drown in the music and beat, my skin covered with sweat and my pulse hammering against my chest. I feel myself getting dragged away from my problems and life. For a moment, I’m alone in the apartment, in the world, and all the worries that surround me cease to exist. Then the song ends and I open my eyes and nearly fall off the stool.
Lila is sitting on the edge of my bed, watching me with what looks like a disinterested look, but I think it’s a mask to hide the fact that she’s curious.
“Jesus, Lila.” I try to catch my breath, sweeping my fingers through my sweaty hair. “You scared the shit out of me.”
She crosses her legs and stares at me impassively. For a second I think she’s going to ask me for another pill, maybe even try to bargain with me, something she’s done a lot over the last few days. But instead she says, “How do you think I feel? One minute I’m sitting in a quiet room and then suddenly the whole place is shaking?”
I clutch on to the drumsticks, rotating them in my palms, gripping them so forcefully the wood rubs coarsely at the skin. “Sorry, but I had to do it, otherwise I would have done something really stupid.”
She elevates her eyebrows. “Like what?”
“Like leave the house.”
“Good, I wish you would have.” She pauses contemplatively. “Wait, why would you leave the house if you didn’t play?”
“Because I needed to let off some steam.” I wipe some sweat off my forehead with my arm. “And it was either this or go get laid.”
I catch the faintest flicked of annoyance in her neutral expression. “You should have gone with the getting laid. It works a lot better.” Her tone is clipped and she’s breathing stridently, working hard to keep the oxygen flowing.
I study her, really missing the smiling Lila I first met a year and a half ago, the one who I thought was my complete opposite, but now I’m reconsidering this idea. In fact, the more I get to know her, the more she does kind of remind me of London, erratic and full of secrets. I thought I knew Lila but I guess I was wrong and I’m not really sure what to do with it or how I feel about it yet. “How do you know? Have you ever played before?”
“You know I haven’t.”
“How do I know anything that you can’t and can do? Because I’m learning pretty quickly that those little heart-to-hearts we had for the last year weren’t real.”
“They were too,” she says, looking hurt, and I relax at the sight of emotion in her face, even if it is sadness because at least it’s something. “Everything I told you was true. I just didn’t tell you everything, which I’m sure you did with me, too.”
I don’t bother trying to deny it. Sure, she knows stuff, like how my parents were and are, but she doesn’t know about my fear of being with someone because I’ll turn out like them or about what happened to London. “All right, fair enough.”
We sit in silence for a little bit and she’s either staring at my drumsticks, which are on my lap, or my dick.
Finally, she asks, “Is it really therapeutic?”
I wipe the sweat off my arm with my hand. “Is what therapeutic?”
She catches my gaze and she looks helplessly lost for the first time since I met her. “Banging on the drums. You said it was good for letting off steam.”
“It’s even better than punching a bag.” I collect the drumsticks from my lap. “Do you… do you want to try?”
She leans back, shaking her head, like she’s afraid of them—or me. “I don’t know how to play. You know that.”
“No, I don’t know that since I never got around to asking you.” I inch back in the stool. “But I can help you if you want. It might help with your”—I press my lips together, trying not to grin—“bitchiness.”
I wait for her to get all riled up, but instead she stands up with confidence and weaves around the drums toward me and I can’t help but think, Now there’s my Lila. But I quickly shake the thought away because she’s not my Lila. She’s my friend.
“And how are you going to show me?” she wonders, eyeing the sticks in my hand.
A thousand dirty comments run through my mind, but I bite them back and scoot away just a little bit more, making room for her, and then pat the spot on the stool that’s in front of me. “Sit down.”
Her eyes sweep the small space, and then biting her lip she tucks locks of her messy blonde hair behind her ears and tentatively squeezes between my knees and the drums. She drops down in the seat and I realize just how bad of an idea this is as her ass presses against my cock. I try to keep my dirty thoughts to a bare minimum as I reach an arm around each of her sides and hand her the drumsticks.
“What song do I get to play?” she asks as I slant to the side to grab the iPod. “One of your crazy rock songs?” She sounds amused and it makes me smile.
“Not too crazy.” I select “1979” by Smashing Pumpkins, then quickly place the iPod into the dock, press my chest against Lila’s back, and wrap a hand around each of hers so that my fingers are folded around her wrists.
“You’re sweaty,” she remarks. “It’s gross.”
“Well, you haven’t taken a shower in, like, four days. Imagine how you smell,” I retort, but she actually smells good—fruity, like watermelon. I swiftly sweep her hair to the side and lean over her shoulder, resting my chin on it so I can see what I’m doing. The song starts playing and before I know it the drum section is starting.
“We missed the intro,” Lila says, stating the obvious. “And this song is really fast anyway. I can’t keep up with this.”
“Never say can’t.” I lift her arms in the air. She’s still holding the sticks and my fingertips are pressing against her hammering pulse. She’s nervous, which surprises me. I expected her to be more subdued, because that’s how she usually is. But then again, this is a whole different Lila, one without drugs in her system. “You ready?” I ask her and I have to momentarily shut my eyes when she shudders against the feel of my breath against her shoulder.
She nods and I open my eyes. “I’m ready,” she calls out over the music.
I take a deep breath, feeling uneasy. Thankfully I know it will clear as soon as I start playing. The song is reaching the chorus, the perfect time to jump in and start playing. We wait and we wait, breathing in and out until it feels like we’re going to combust, and then finally the song approaches the perfect moment. Gripping her wrists, I bring her hands down to the drums. I hear her laugh as the sticks hit and don’t quite match the beat. It’s a little harder to play like this, but I make it work, because playing well isn’t the point. Playing from the heart is and letting her tune out her thoughts with something else other than the overwhelming desire I know she’s still feeling.
She continues to laugh, a few times trying to take over on her own. It sounds terrible, nail-scratching, ear-clawing terrible, but it’s making her happy and relaxed, completely out of her own head, and honestly I feel the same way.
Lila
Once I take a seat, I know I’m in trouble. His sturdy, tattooed chest is crushed against my back, radiating heat through my thin shirt and making it hard to breathe. Something about the feel of him melts the starvation inside me and suddenly my thoughts are sidetracked. I’ve seen him without his shirt on before, once when we were playing strip poker. But I was drunk and medicated, and truthfully I’m not sure I was seeing very clearly because he looks so much sexier now. All the guys who I can remember being with have been clean-cut, with perfectly tanned skin and chiseled abs. They looked like good guys who use manners in public, although behind closed doors it was usually a different story.
I’ve never been with anyone who played the drums, had scraggily, untrimmed hair, a five o’clock shadow, or lean, tattooed arms that rippled as they slammed drumsticks down on the drums. I mean, I knew Ethan had tattoos, but I’d never paid enough attention to how many. And God, they look good on him. There’s one in particular going across one of his pecs that’s always caught my attention. It looks like letters from maybe another language that go around in a circle, sketched in jet-black ink. The only other language I can speak is French, so I’m not sure what language it is. But by the unique shapes of each letter, I’m guessing it’s not a very common one. I wonder if I’m right. I wonder what it means. I wonder if he’d tell me if I asked him.