I spend an hour or so working on the clothes. When I get bored with those, I go to my jewelry cabinet. It's a tall, narrow wood chest with tiny drawers and space for hanging necklaces and bracelets. I haven't bothered with jewelry for a while. I'm always at home, and it seems ridiculous to put on a bunch of shit just to sit on your couch drinking vodka.

  There's not much to straighten in the cabinet. Before I close it, though, I pick up a small, white gold necklace with a treble clef charm dangling from it. It's too small for my neck. My mother had it made for me when I was five.

  That was when I still had a mother. I'm still not entirely sure how she died. I know it was a heart condition, something congenital. I know it happened when I was five, but the details have always been a secret that Lang refused to divulge. When I was older, I tried to get his friends to tell me. No one would even tell me where she's buried. I try to remember her, but I can't tell what I'm truly remembering and what I'm making up from scraps of memory. Lang told stories about her life, though, speaking of her like she was an angel. She could do no wrong in his eyes. The only story he wouldn't tell me was the one I most needed to know. I will never hear it from him because he took that one to his grave.

  I hang the necklace back in its spot at the back of the cabinet, and then close every door and drawer tight. Nostalgia is dangerous, a world alone. I have to learn how to keep the past in the past. If I don't, I'm never going to break free from it.

  I pick up my favorite violet kimono and try to remember the last time I washed it. Whenever it was, I'm sure it was too long ago. I crumple it to put on the colors laundry pile but stop when I hear paper crinkle inside. I check the pockets and come out with the letter Nicole gave me when she started sorting my mountain of mail.

  I sit down on the chaise and study the envelope. It's another artifact from my past that keeps turning up. The only markings are my name and address, typed, and the post office stamp, which claims the letter was sent in September, roughly six months ago. It's so thin, it must be only a page or two. I hold it up to the light to see if I can make out any handwriting.

  I sigh. I don't know why I'm sitting here like Nancy Freakin' Drew instead of just opening the damn envelope. I want to know what's in it. I keep telling my fingers to rip it open. They just don't listen.

  I go to the kitchen and find a thumbtack in one of the junk drawers. I come back and tack the envelope in the middle of the closet door. Whatever is in there has waited for six months. It can wait a little longer.

  Scene 5 ~ Mark

  Sophie disappears for the rest of the day, not even showing up for the lunch our chef, Cole, made for us. I wish I knew what to do to bring her out of the dark.

  Her life could start again, now, with mine. We never talked about how long she would stay at the Winter mansion, but with Hondo gone, I can see us being here together for a while. We share the need to make music. We speak each other's language. Hell, we could even write music together. I've heard some of her stuff, and she's got a great ear. She might not have inherited Lang's supernatural guitar skills, but she knows how to put together a song.

  In my studio, I walk by all of Lang's guitars again, stopping to straighten each one on its stand. It's my new ritual, the way I channel Lang. I should go ahead and pay Sophie for the collection. There's no way I'm letting these babies go. They hold decades of history, and I'll never have a chance to own anything like these guitars again.

  In the meantime, though, I have to make plans for my solo career. It's going to take more than a set of magical guitars to make this happen. I wish I could block out all of the distractions.

  My lawyer has been warning me about my "failure to return to court-ordered rehab." What a crock of shit. I told him it had nothing to do with failure and everything to do with being bored out of my fucking mind. The problem is, I'm dying to go back to L.A. to break up with the band in person. I want to make sure my buddy Braun, the lead singer of Never More Alone, knows that he hasn't dumped me. I'm walking away with not only my artistic freedom, but also the rights to almost all of the band's songs. If they want to keep playing the goddamned hits, they'll have to pay. I own them.

  Hey, it's just business.

  I sit on a chair in the middle of the room with one of Lang's Strats. From memory, I play the guitar part of the songs from his last album, the one he released just weeks before he died. He never stopped writing. He often told the magazines that he was haunted by his music. Songs would find him in the dark and not leave him alone until he recorded them. It wasn't a conscious choice. He had to write them to keep from going crazy.

  Here, in Lang's studio, I believe him. When I see Sophie's haunted eyes, I wonder if the ghosts merely slipped from Lang to Sophie as he died.

  Scene 6 ~ Hondo

  It crushes me that I can't share this moment with Sophie. I planned it for so long. I wanted to surprise her with good news for a change, to show her what I'm capable of. I know she respected me, but it wasn't enough. I needed her to see me as a success. I wanted her admiration.

  But every time I think of her lying on the closet floor with Mark wrapped around her, my temper climbs. He sauntered right by me and staked his claim on my Sophie. And she let him do it.

  I know it's strange that I am the way I am. I get it. Asexuality is hard for people to comprehend. Sophie seemed to understand, though, mostly. I thought she and I had a rare relationship. We did everything together, but we didn't depend on physical attraction or sex to bond us. I loved her—love her, still—for accepting me. Maybe I'm being selfish, but I feel betrayed, like I was great to have around until a "real man" walked in the door. Someone with money and sex appeal oozing from his pores. I can't compete with fame. Give her past, though, I didn't expect it to turn Sophie's head.

  Damn it, this is never going to work. I have to stop thinking about Sophie. The past is no good to me now. Everything I need is here, now.

  When Jen and I rearranged the desks, we put ours side by side. We'll have to work together constantly, so it doesn't make sense to carve out our individual spaces yet.

  I set my laptop on my desk and open a mock-up of the design of our web site. When this company feels like a dream, and it seems like Jen and I are simply playing office, seeing it grounds me. I started as a graphic designer making $45,000 a year working for someone else. Suddenly, I'm in charge. Jen and I call all the shots. Of course, we also have to do all the work until we can hire employees.

  Jen settles in at her desk and goes straight into her "coding zone," with her headphones blocking out the physical world. It's incredible to watch this girl write code, like her brain is a computer feeding her the information in a continuous stream.

  While Jen is building out the structure of our website, I'm also responsible for building out our physical space and bringing in applicants. I pull up my punch list on the laptop and realize it's going to be a very long day. We have to make the most of every day because each day that we're not bringing in revenue, we're eating away at our capital.

  I sneak a peek at our bank account, like I do every morning, to make sure the money hasn't evaporated overnight. My phone vibrates as I'm counting the zeros in our balance. I pick it up without checking the screen.

  "Hondo here."

  "Ho."

  When I hear Sophie's voice, I jump like the phone shocked me. Damn. Why didn't I look before I answered? I freeze, trying to figure out if I should hang up on her. It seems petty, though, so I don't.

  "Hi," I say, cautiously, glancing sideways at Jen. I doubt she would be able to hear me through her music, but I get up, anyway, and find a private corner in the suite.

  Sophie is already yelling at me. "What the hell? Why haven't you been answering my calls? I was worried fucking sick."

  "Nice of you to think of me," I say, regretting the sharpness of my voice. I don't want to fight with Sophie. I've never fought with her. That's what makes this separation feel so bizarre. I lean back against the wall and look up at the black ceiling, losing myself in the virtual nothingness. This is what Sophie and I are now: indistinct shadows in each other's past.

  She takes in a deep breath, and then her words come out in shudders. "Why did you just leave like that?"

  "Look, you made your choice."

  "What choice? I didn't even know there was a choice to make, Hondo."

  I can't believe that. "Why would you think there was room for another guy in our relationship?"

  "I don't understand," she says slowly. "What relationship did we have?"

  That question slices through my heart. I thought we were in sync, that we understood each other on a level that didn't need discussion. Now, it's becoming clear that I was fooling myself.

  "Don't worry about it, Sophie. It's done. I'm moving on. You should, too," I say. "Oh, wait, you already did."

  Dammit, why can't I stop acting like an ass? I wish I could take back the words as soon as they come out of my mouth. I don't want to leave our relationship with this much animosity. The wound is just too raw.

  "I really don't understand how this happened," she says. "I don't even understand what happened. Is this it? We're no longer friends?"

  I struggle to keep my voice neutral. "It's over. That's all I know. I don't see any way to fix us."

  Sophie starts crying. This conversation is going nowhere. Before I end the call, I say, "Goodbye, Sophie."

  When I get back to my desk, Jen pushes her headphones off her ears. "Yes, I eavesdrop. Get over it. What's going on with Sophie?"

  I stare at my keyboard for a moment, not sure what to say. What's going on with Sophie? I guess I never really knew. I'm insisting that she did this huge, horrible thing to me, but what if I was unclear? I thought she knew how much I love her. I didn't think the sex would be a deal breaker. I thought it would work itself out later.

  Maybe that's where I'm so different, I can't grasp how normal people think. Sex hasn't been important to me, so I don't know how much other people require it. I thought it was enough to be a kind, loving, and supporting person. I didn't know I would ultimately be judged on my sexuality—or lack of it.

  I look up at Jen and give her the most honest answer I have. "Sophie and I have gone our separate ways."

  Scene 7 ~ Sophie

  When Hondo hangs up on me, I lose it. It cannot be ending this way for us. After what we've shared, how can things be so damned cold between us? I sit on the floor in the middle of my closet and howl to let out the pain, not caring who hears.

  I know now that Hondo was the one holding me together all this time. He made me get up in the mornings, no matter how hungover I was. He made sure we had food in the house. He slept beside me night after night, ready to catch me when I fell from a nightmare. Without him, I'm unraveling, string by string. It's pathetic—and dangerous—to rely so much on another human being to simply function every day. I know this. My heart does not.

  Will my heart always be so fucking stupid?

  After my sobs quiet down, I take a shower and put on fresh clothes. I study myself in the mirror. My blond curls look darker and even longer when they're wet. They're leaving damp streaks all over my t-shirt, but I don't have the energy to blow-dry it. My bloodshot eyes make me look hungover. It's comforting to know that I can achieve that lovely wrung-out look without taking a single sip of alcohol. That takes real talent.

  When I can't think of anything else to do to make myself feel better, I head upstairs. I don't know where Mark is. His studio is empty. I feel relieved and disappointed at the same time. Nice. I'll probably never have normal human emotions, just these hybrid feelings that are more confusing than anything. Between the celebrity childhood, losing my mother, and going on a six-month drinking binge after losing my father, I'm sure nothing in my head is working the way it's supposed to. I was already damaged before I met Hondo. Now, I feel half-dead.

  Hiding out in my closet for the rest of my life is not going to help me, though. It's time. If I want to survive this, I have to make my own way. Losing Hondo has shown me I can't afford to be so emotionally dependent on someone else again.

  So, I'm going back to school. I'll take out loans if I have to, whatever it takes. When I finish, I'll be a school music teacher. Simple, straightforward, private. That's what I want more than anything: a private life. It has to be so much better than this overgrown monstrosity of a public one.

  I sit down on the piano bench and play around with some melodies, trying to lose myself in the sound. I should undrape my keyboards and work on some new music. I've spent almost no time helping Mark with his, which was the whole reason I still live here. All we've done together for two weeks is have sex.

  I leave the piano to fold back the covers on the keyboards. They are just as I left them, of course. I run my fingers over the keys, remembering the unique sound of each one. My most valuable one is the Clavioline from the late 1940s. Lang gave it to me for my fifteenth birthday. He even used it on his last album, the one he recorded in Austin only weeks before he died.

  I jog downstairs and grab my laptop. When I come back, I set it on the stand to the right of the keyboard array and connect it to my favorite keyboard.

  My fingers warm up quickly as I play around with different melodies and beats. I love this part of creating music. I call it finger painting with sound. Here, anything goes. I don't judge anything. I just listen.

  I spend the next two hours doing a whole lot of playing and a little bit of recording. It feels really good, like this is where I belong. If after Lang died I'd focused on school and my music instead of drowning myself in vodka, maybe things would be different now. Maybe I would have created something good rather than destroying everything in my grasp.

  "Hey." I don't hear Mark come into the room until he speaks.

  "Keyboards still work," I say. "No tuning required."

  He smiles. "That's good. At least we have a few low-maintenance instruments in the house."

  When I turn back to the keyboard, Mark comes up behind me. He reaches his arms through mine and plays the keys like a two-year-old. I laugh and join him, adding in the highs and the lows, while he covers the middle. It sounds horrid, but it doesn't matter. I nestle against his chest, his heat relaxing my muscles. When he stops playing the keys, he hugs me tight.

  I sigh when Mark reaches under my shirt and massages my breast through my thin lace bra. At the same time, he sweeps my hair to the side and kisses my neck. This is the most erogenous part of my body. I swear it's my "on" button. I moan and tilt my head to give him better access. He moves one hand to my lower belly and pulls me back against him. I can feel how hard he is, how ready he always is. My body responds with a jolt of desire that leaves me breathless.

  Mark unbuttons and unzips my jeans. When he reaches inside, I'm instantly wet, ready for his touch. He teases me, letting his fingers wander, but skipping the most sensitive places. I push against his hand, trying to lead him where I want him to go. I moan every time he rewards me by touching my hard bud and letting his fingers slip inside me. Without meaning to, I put my hand over his and push him to me. I'm on the edge, and he knows it. Already, he can read my body. I start to writhe under his hand as he speeds up, giving me more and more.

  When I come, my knees buckle. He keeps hold of me, massaging me through the very last wave. I pant to catch my breath. When he leans over my shoulder, I turn my head and whisper in his ear, "What do you want?"

  Without a word, Mark rips my jeans and panties all the way to the floor. He drops his loose shorts to free himself, too. He pushes against my knees with his to force us down on all fours together. The heat of his erection feels like a branding iron across my skin.

  He carefully positions us the way he wants before guiding himself inside me. I gasp and moan at how his first thrust fills me from this angle. I almost come again as he pulls out and fills me again with his heat. I want him to do this for an hour, for a day, for a year. I need him to keep filling me, over and over, to push out the emptiness.

  Now that he's inside, though, his patience has evaporated. He clamps his hands on my hips to control my movements. I'm helpless on this ride; all I can do now is hold on.

  He groans low and feral each time he pounds into me, harder and harder. My teeth hit together in rhythm to his thrusts.

  "You're perfect," he says, out of breath. "Just like that. Oh, fuck, that's incredible."

  He explodes inside me. He takes several more thrusts, milking himself with my body before releasing me. I try to get up, but my knees are shaking too much. I sit on my jeans, well aware that I'll have to find a clean pair now.

  Mark rocks back on his toes, still impossibly hard for having come thirty seconds ago. He's truly insatiable, the polar opposite of Hondo. And I never realized how much I love seeing nude men with erections. It's like until they're hard, they don't fully embody themselves. They carry their sexuality around all day like a secret.

  When Mark stands up, he reaches down to help me up. I grab my clothes and let him bring me to my feet. Without warning, he crushes his mouth against mine, pushing deep inside with his tongue. He holds my head so tightly, I can't move, kissing me with such force, I can't breathe. I struggle for a few seconds before he lets me go.

  On my way downstairs to take a shower, I touch my tender lips and wonder what Mark was trying to tell me with that kiss.

  Scene 8 ~ Hondo

  I don't know why I expected the first week to be slow around the office. Apparently, I was delusional. Jen and I have been here sixteen hours a day for the past two weeks. I've interviewed nine applicants. What a waste of time. The first two wanted to work fifteen hours a week and party for the other twenty-five, on my dime. The next five looked promising on paper, but when Jen showed each of them what we're doing, their eyes glazed over. The last two were late to the interviews. Automatic no.

 

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