Love Will (5 page)

I open my eyes and look down at her, my movements ceased. Her hands haven’t moved; they’re still gripping my firm cheeks and holding me tightly to her. She continues to rock against me a little, but she’s completely in control… and she’s not moving enough to let me finish.

“What’s wrong?” I ask her.

“Just sensitive… that’s all,” she says, “but that was amazing.”

I lick the sweat from my top lip, then bite down on the bottom one. “Can I move now?” I ask, short of breath.

“Depends on where…”

“Just need to rest my arms,” I tell her. “I’ll move to the side, if you want…”

“That’d be good.”
Fuck
. And
why
was this a good idea? Gingerly, I climb over her and lie on my side, adjusting myself and trying to ignore the throbbing ache as I focus on my breathing. If she offers me some facetime, I’m not turning her down. No fucking way.

I squeeze my eyes shut, making sure to make my discomfort visible to Julia. She pushes her skirt and shirt back down and smacks my sunburned forearm with the flick of her hand, making me wince in
more
pain. “Too bad that’s all you could give me,” she says, swinging her legs out of the bunk and ducking beneath the curtains.

I stare at the space she vacated next to me, feeling a bit like she cut me off on purpose. Rolling on my back, I kick the bottom of Damon’s bed, needing to get my aggression out on something. He’s just a few feet away with Tavo, Ben and all the women now. There’s no way in hell I’m taking care of this problem on my own with ten people right outside my sleeping quarters. Eleven, if Peron’s still around. I’m assuming he’s hiding out across from me in his own bunk.

Suck it up, Will
.

I pull my shorts back on, and when I get out of my bunk, I’m met with a round of applause. Without looking at anyone, I wave one hand toward them and smile as I dig through the drawer under my bed for another t-shirt. My Radiohead one hits me in the head. I check it out to make sure Ben hasn’t taken out his anger on it, but it’s fine. After slipping it on, I turn around.

“Peron.” He doesn’t answer me. “Peron!” I say louder. He still doesn’t respond, and I’m sure he’s got his headphones in at this point, needing to block out all the noise around him. Not wanting to reach into his bunk, I find my phone and text him. His skinny legs appear before the rest of him does, and he nods to me, stepping out and following me toward the door.

“Where’re you two going?” Ben asks.

“Out,” I say simply, knowing I don’t have to answer to him. He may be the manager, but ultimately, Damon’s the only one I need to explain anything to. “Good night, ladies. Damon, Tavo, we’ll be back.”

“That’s cool,” Damon says.

Before we left on the tour, we had a meeting to discuss how we were going to survive living in such close quarters for months on end. We’d all agreed it would be imperative for the band members to give one another space when we needed it, and Damon knows when I need it. He’d known me since high school and we’d been roommates since college.

Chapter 3

“Excellent show you put on in there,” Peron says. “I thought this was a new you, Will. It’s the first night, man…”

“I didn’t have sex with her.” He glares at me out of the corners of his eyes. I shake my head. “I didn’t. Do you not see me walking like I have a fucking grapefruit between my legs?”

“I just figured you pulled something. The bunks aren’t really accommodating for two people, are they?”

“I got blue-balled, man. Kind of by my own doing, but whatever,” I admit. “Wanna grab a bite?” I ask him, seeing an all-night diner a block away.

“That’s fine.”

As my bandmate finds us a seat, I go to the restroom to wash my hands and face. The redness on my cheeks, nose and arms has gotten worse as the night’s progressed. Although I know I’d be in more pain right now, I wish I’d played the outdoor gig shirtless. As it stands, I’ll have this farmer’s burn or tan or whatever until I can find a way to get more sun to even it out. It was a fund raiser for Livvy’s uncle’s charity, though, so it wouldn’t have been appropriate.

Sunscreen, Will. Sunscreen would have been appropriate
.

Sliding in the booth across from Peron, I pick up the paper menu and listen to my stomach growl. “I could eat one of everything.”

“Sex’ll do that.”

“I didn’t fuck her, Per,” I reiterate softly, staring at him.

We don’t continue our conversation until the waitress leaves after taking our order.

“The idea of spending seven months with four single guys while my girlfriend waits for me back home gets less and less appealing every second,” he tells me.

“Tavo’s got a girl.”

“Sorry, three single guys and one unfaithful dick-of-a-boyfriend.”

“That’s better. Look, I’m sorry that Brooke’s got you on this short leash and shit. Damon and I have been single since the day you met us. You knew it was gonna be like this.”

“No, Will,” he says, clearly pissed. “You singled me out and asked me to help you make changes in your life. You sold me on this idea that going on tour would get you to break your old habits, but you were just lying to yourself, to me…”

“I wasn’t. I’m not,” I argue, reaching for my hair. He knocks my elbow out from under me before my hand touches a strand. “I’m just weak. Willpower? What a joke.
Will
power is one hell of a misnomer. I have none. Obviously. Day one. I can’t make it through six hours without a woman. Fuck,
two
women.”

“Is this really what you want, Will?”

I look down at my fingertips, running my thumbnail over the callous of my middle finger, watching the way it cuts into the skin. Probably not the
best
time to ask me that question.

A lot of people can define years of their lives by the relationships they maintained, but not me. That stopped when I was sixteen. It stopped with Laila, the first and only love of my life. I met her when my mom took me and Max to live in Utah the year she finally sobered up. Jon was at Columbia, so my aunt welcomed the three of us into her home. I spent a year and a half in Provo. Laila and I went on our first date just before our Sophomore year. The next nine months were euphoric for both of us. We were definitely in love, and we genuinely liked one another, too. We had great conversations with each other. Everything was sweet; I don’t know how else to put it. We were innocent. I was naïve.

When Mom told me we were moving back to New York at the end of the year, a part of me was happy. I was a fish out of water in Utah. The pace was slower, and I wanted back the rush of the city. The teachers didn’t give me as much freedom to stray from the lessons like they did in New York. Even though we’d come with transcripts in hand and recommendations from my school counselor, they couldn’t adequately accommodate my advanced course requirements. I didn’t get behind, though. It just meant I soaked up more at the library after hours. I would look forward to being back in an environment that welcomed more diversity.

What I thought I
would
miss were the friends I’d made. At my school in Upper Manhattan, I was bullied relentlessly for being smart–and small. Laila started going out with me when I was five-foot-four. She was almost my height. When I moved away, I was five-eight. My best friend at the time was a kid named Landry. The rest of my classmates were nice and accepting of me as a new kid in their school. I always had something to do or somewhere to go on the weekends when I lived in Utah.

I didn’t end up missing anyone, though. Betrayal has a funny way of making that happen.

After my Sophomore year, Mom, Max and I moved into Livvy’s loft for a few months while Mom looked for a place for us to live. Laila and I talked every day, counting down the days until I would get to see her one last time in July. It was a birthday present from my mom.

I got there, and everything happened as planned. I’d snuck out of my aunt’s house one night, took her car, and drove Laila up to a secluded hill under the stars where I finally lost my virginity. To this day, I’m only ninety-percent certain that Laila was still a virgin at the time, too. The actual percentage is probably lower, but my pride likes to say ninety-percent.

The next morning, my fuckwad-of-a-best-friend had come over to make sure there were no bad feelings between us. Laila and Landry had been seeing each other over the summer. He said he’d assumed Laila had told me, but I think he honestly just wanted to rub the news in my face.

I one-upped him, though. I told him I fucked his girlfriend the night before. Then I busted his lip, and I never talked to him again.

It sounds like a pretty traumatic trip, but I got my first guitar on the way back home from Utah, which was one of the best things that ever happened to me. If all that shit had to happen for me to get where I am today, fuck it. Fine by me.

And as it turns out, I didn’t need those friends. I made new ones fast when we moved to Queens. Once I had my guitar, I had confidence. Once I had confidence, I had friends. Funny how that works. My first real friend there was–of course–a girl. Her name was Irene, but I kept her at arm’s length. She was fucking awesome. An incredibly talented violinist, plus she could hold her own against me in our math and science classes. She was pretty much the female version of me, except her heart was wide open for love and mine was dead to the world. She stayed at a distance because I knew I’d hurt her. I eventually did, anyway.

I had an easy time finding
easy
girls in high school. The ones that didn’t care so much about love. Once Damon and I started hanging out, we were kind of magnets for them. Jon had warned me before Laila and I hooked up. He’d told me, “Once you have a taste for sex, kid, you’re going to want it again.
Often
.” Never before or since have truer words ever been spoken.
Again and often
. I never had a girlfriend. Just hookups. There were a few girls who I would go back to on occasion, but they knew where they stood with me, and they understood there was nothing more that I could offer. I was probably overly blunt with my reiterations of this, too.

After learning the truth about me–which I tried to hide from her, but people talked–Irene stopped hanging out with me entirely. It sucked, but I was glad I’d never let myself get too close, or I would have been more hurt by her absence, too.

But having sex–again and often–has been my way of life for the past eight years. Being somewhat of a savant with math and numbers, you’d think I’d know how many women I’d been with, but I lost count long ago. It was better that way, because I dreaded having to answer that question someday to someone that had the potential to break through the wall. An honest answer would undoubtedly have her flagging down the nearest mason to build that barrier back up to keep her safe from the damage I’d cause her.

As it stands, I’m not sure “too many to count” is such a great answer, either, but at least that response leaves the number open to interpretation.

It’s been a great arrangement for me, really. In college, my head was in my studies all day. After I graduated, I was one-hundred percent focused on work and research. If I went home, I couldn’t turn my brain off. I’ve never been able to. To escape, I’d read more books. Learn more things. There’s never been an off switch. But on the nights I play gigs with Damon, I can slip away into the music and transcend… my
presence
. My
being
. It’s like I’m a part of something on another level of existence. It makes me feel infinitesimal and astronomical at the same time. A certain calm and numbness takes over. After shows, I’m on an endorphin high, feeling completely relaxed and focused on extending the sensation. That’s where the women come in. I meet a beautiful girl. She strokes my ego. We have a little fun, no strings attached. She gets her release, and I get mine. It puts me into a deep sleep. The post-gig-sex-sleep is the only restful sleep I get. Regular sleep doesn’t erase the day; doesn’t stop my brain.

Regular sleep is all I have to look forward to on this tour if I go through with this
new Will
bullshit.
Is this what I want?

“I’ll just assume from your silence that you aren’t really sold on this idea,” Peron says.

“I didn’t say that.”

“No, you didn’t say anything.
Silence
.”

“You know how I work, Peron. Without this,
silence
will be a thing of the past for me.”

“Music.” I wait for him to say more. I
motion
for him to continue.

“Music
what
?”

“You have to replace it with music.”

“I’ve tried,” I say, frustrated, leaning back against the bench so I can tug at my hair without my friend’s physical discouragement. “If that worked, I would have been healed of this affliction long ago.”