Beyond The Music (The Rock Gods Book 7) (17 page)

Dante laughed and Ashton came up beside him. “I can’t remember the last time we saw you with anyone, so you being here with a dude is epic,” Ashton commented.

“Epic? Hardly,” Lincoln answered. “I see you two douche bags are still trashing bathrooms.”

Dante made eye contact with Ashton and chuckled. “I was helping Ashes scratch an itch he couldn’t reach.”

“Let me guess, was the itch between his ass cheeks?” Lincoln scoffed.

“It was!” Ashton announced.

“You’re both twisted,” Lincoln remarked.

“When do we get to meet the guy you’re getting all twisted with?” Dante asked.

“Fuck off,” Lincoln smiled.

Dagger came into the room and stood with his hands on his hips behind Lincoln. “If the three of you are done fucking off, I’d actually like to get some practicing done today.” Dagger grabbed an electric guitar and hung the strap around his neck. He glanced between Dante, Ashton, and Lincoln. “What? Am I speaking a foreign language right now? Let’s go!” A beat later, Dagger stomped into the hallway to wait for the others.

Ashton pulled a set of drumsticks from the back pocket of his jeans and started tapping them together while he watched Dante bend over to pick up his prized Gibson from a metal floor stand. Ashton’s gaze was intense and Lincoln rolled his eyes in annoyance. He set his guitar down beside the chair and did his best to stand up without tipping over. He hadn’t been as smooth as he’d hoped and right before he fell to his knees, Aaron was there to catch him.

“It’s okay,” Aaron spoke softly beside Lincoln’s ear. “I’ve got you.”

“What the fuck, man?” Dante said. “Are you drunk?”

“He’s fine,” Aaron explained as he righted Lincoln.

Lincoln glared at Aaron. His lips pulled into a thin line and his nostrils flared. “I can speak for myself,” he muttered quietly.

Dagger stuck his head back into the room. “What the hell is going on in here?” he asked.

“Linc almost fell out of his chair . . . again,” Ashton explained.

“Fuck you! That is not what just happened,” Lincoln growled then he tugged his elbow out of Aaron’s grasp.

Dagger stepped closer to Lincoln and narrowed his eyes. “Are you sure you’re okay? You seem to be stumbling a lot lately.”

Lincoln glanced at Aaron, then back at Dagger before he nodded. “I’m good. Never fucking better.”

“Okay, if you’re so fucking sure about that then let’s get out on stage and get to work,” Dagger instructed. He turned around and walked back toward the hallway. “I’m not hearing footsteps behind me,” Dagger shouted over his shoulder. “Let’s move it!”

“You gonna introduce us to your man?” Dante asked Lincoln.

Lincoln stumbled again over the terminology Dante used for Aaron. He
wished
Aaron could be his man, but Aaron deserved a
real
man and that was something Lincoln could never be for him. “This is my friend, Aaron,” Lincoln said evenly.

“Special friend?” Ashton snickered.

“Nice to meet you,” Aaron extended his hand to both Ashton and Dante.

“Hey, assholes!” Dagger’s voice boomed from the other end of the hallway.

“Duty calls,” Dante said. He grabbed Ashton’s hand and tugged.

Lincoln started to follow Dante when Aaron’s hand on his shoulder stopped his progression. “I’m sorry about the . . . kiss earlier,” Aaron whispered.

Lincoln shook his head. “You’re sorry? Are you serious right now?” Lincoln grit out. His eyebrows bunched together and his fingers rubbed at his forehead. “I don’t believe you did anything that requires an apology, but we’ll talk about that later. Right now I have a fucking job to do.”

Practice was the typical routine with Dagger running a tight ship on the sound he wanted or knew them to be capable of creating. The one major difference was Lincoln remained sitting on the edge of a stool for most of the four-hour practice session and Aaron stood just off to the side of the stage. Lincoln being stationary during a performance was as unusual as if Dagger were to stand still on stage. Neither was likely to happen—until now. More than once Lincoln saw the questioning glances from Dagger directed in his direction.

“What the fuck is up with you?” Dagger finally asked Lincoln.

Lincoln shrugged and tried to keep his expression flat. “I’m tired,” he answered, even though he knew that explanation wasn’t nearly enough to satisfy someone as persistent as Dagger. A beat later, Dagger was standing in front of Lincoln.

Dagger tipped his head and studied Lincoln. “Something is seriously off with you, man,” Dagger said to Lincoln. “Your playing is slow and sluggish, you’re sitting like a fucking statue, and what the fuck is up with your . . .
friend?
He’s hovering over you like a mother hen and not once since I’ve known you have you brought someone to practice with you. So, what gives?”

Shit! Lincoln didn’t want to have this particular conversation here in front of everyone. Not now. He didn’t feel strong enough to survive it, not when his mind was still focused on Aaron’s mouth covering his and how fucking perfect it had felt to have the man pressed against him for those few brief moments.

“Get off my back, Dagger,” Lincoln stated. “I’m here and I’m working.”

Dagger stepped closer. “Working? Is that what you wanna call it?”

Lincoln pushed his fingers through his tangled hair. His eyes flicked to movement at the side of the stage when he saw Aaron shift forward. His eyes met Aaron’s gaze and Lincoln shook his head. Aaron understood the silent plea and stopped in place, but the nonverbal message was loud and clear to Dagger. Dagger looked at Dante and Ashton and dismissed them with a simple “beat it” glare that had them both leaving the stage without a second glance.

“Does your
friend
over there own your brain in addition to your balls?” Dagger ground out.

“Not your concern, Dagger.”

“No? You don’t think so?” Dagger’s voice was laced with anger. “So, you think your performance today would be worth the cost of admission to one of our sold-out shows?”

“It’s been a few weeks, that’s all,” Lincoln said. “I’m a little rusty.”

Dagger stepped a little closer and some of the tension left his body. “Listen, I’m sorry for being a dick,” Dagger said in an easy tone. “But you won’t let me inside that head of yours and I’m running out of ways to get through to you. It’s obvious something is wrong, and I’ve given you countless opportunities to talk to me about it and you’ve brushed me off every time. If you won’t trust me with it, I can’t help.”

“There’s nothing wrong,” Lincoln countered. “I’m fine.”

Dagger stared at Lincoln for a long moment and then his head dropped back over his shoulders. The low growl that roared from his throat was worthy of the lead singer quality he was known for around the world. “Get the fuck out of here,” Dagger directed. “And don’t come back until you have your shit together.”

The car ride back to Lincoln’s house was almost completely silent. Aaron did the driving and Lincoln mainly kept his gaze pointed out the passenger window of the vehicle playing along with the mundane conversation Aaron was carrying on until Lincoln thought he’d scream. If Aaron started talking about the weather, Lincoln was going to blow a blood vessel in his head for sure.

“How about we talk about what you’re going out of your way to ignore,” Lincoln finally blurted.

“What do you mean?” Aaron answered.

“The kiss, Aaron,” Lincoln said. “Why’d you kiss me?”

“You didn’t want Dagger to know about your illness,” Aaron replied. “We discussed me pretending to be your . . . boyfriend. I thought you understood what I was doing and I’m sorry for any confusion.”

Lincoln’s head snapped to Aaron. “I’m not confused, Aaron, but I think you might be.”

“I don’t think I am,” Aaron countered.

“You
kissed
me,” Lincoln bit out. “You fucking kissed me and now you’re apologizing for it like it was a big fucking mistake.”

“I thought I was helping you out with Dagger.” Aaron’s voice was soft as he rubbed his forehead.

“That’s not the fucking point!” Lincoln yelled. “You didn’t have to kiss me like . . .
that
, just to play a goddamn role. Do you get what I’m saying?”

“I, ah . . . don’t know what you want me to say,” Aaron said.

Lincoln shook his head in disgust. “Never mind. Forget I brought it up,” Lincoln grumbled. “I thought maybe you’d say your intentions started out fake, but turned into something else. Obviously not, so forget I fucking mentioned it.”

“Lincoln . . .”

“No worries,” Lincoln sounded dejected and he hated it. “It’s just as well, since it’s not like I could do anything about it anyway, so what-fucking-ever!”

“Stop it. Please,” Aaron pleaded.

“You know what? Fuck you,” Lincoln said under his breath.

The last five minutes of the drive were silent. The only noise inside Lincoln’s car were the sounds of the traffic as it passed by around them. Lincoln was out of the car before Aaron had brought the vehicle to a full stop. He started stalking his way toward his house when the toe of his boot caught a crack in the driveway and he fell to his hands and knees on the pavement. Aaron was at his side before the pain registered in Lincoln’s hands.

“Get the fuck away from me,” Lincoln spit out. He did his best to shove Aaron off him, but his grip was stronger than Lincoln could handle and before he knew it, Aaron had him lifted to his feet.

“Let me see your hands,” Aaron said and even though Lincoln protested with clenched fists, Aaron managed to uncurl his fingers to see the tiny specks of blood on his palms. “I’ll clean your hands when we get inside.”

“No, you won’t,” Lincoln argued. He jerked his hands free of Aaron’s hold and walked the rest of the way to his house. Once inside, Lincoln crossed the living room floor and hit the stairs.

“Are you hungry?” Aaron called out after him. “I can make something for dinner if you want.”

“Don’t fucking bother,” Lincoln hollered back.

A moment later, Lincoln slammed his bedroom door. As soon as the door closed behind him, he regretted his actions. He was acting like a child, he knew that, but he seemed incapable of any other kind of behavior when Aaron was around. Lincoln sat on the edge of his bed. The pain in his knees drew his attention down to them. He saw two small rips in the fabric of his jeans and decided to remove his pants to check out the damage to his skin.

He slid off the bed to sit on the floor and unlaced his boots, removed them, then pushed off his jeans. He inspected his knees and much like his palms, the injury was minimal. Once again, the only real damage was another deep wound to his ego. He grabbed his jeans and threw them to the side of his bedroom, then dropped his head back to rest against the side of the bed and closed his eyes. The question of why this had become his life began to play on an unending loop inside his head.

Lincoln reached for the lyric book he kept on the end table beside his bed and began to scribble down the song verses popping off in his brain like fireworks on the Fourth of July. Fuck! This hurt, but Lincoln poured his raw emotion out onto the pages; the thoughts coming faster than he could write them down. The music would have to be written later, but this right now was his heart on his sleeve . . . bleeding.

~
Broken
~

Can you fix me?

Put back my pieces?

I feel broken.

Damaged beyond repair.

I’m not the man you need me to be,

and that’s just not fair.

That I’m so broken.

Broken beyond repair.

Wished I’d met you before the stains.

And long before the sickness ate me alive.

Wished there was a way to make me whole;

make me feel again.

I’m so damn broken.

Damaged beyond repair.

Can you glue what’s shattered?

Give me back myself?

The man I used to be.

And not the man that’s broken.

Broken beyond repair.