Beyond The Music (The Rock Gods Book 7) (2 page)

Anger pushed him to kick the chair out of his way. He followed that action with a string of curses that would have made anyone blush. It was in the middle of that verbal tirade when Spumoni appeared.

“
Now
you decide to show up?” Lincoln snarled.

“What the fuck did you do to your head?” Spumoni asked and dropped to his knees beside Lincoln to help him to his feet.

“My fucking foot got tangled up in the leg of the chair,” Lincoln answered. He pushed off Spumoni’s helping hand and wiped the blood on his forehead before it dripped into his eye.

“Let me take a look at your head,” Spumoni said.

“I’m fine,” Lincoln barked. “Did you bring the weed?”

Spumoni reached into the inside pocket of his leather jacket, pulled out a plastic bag and handed it over to Lincoln. While Lincoln was sniffing the contents, Spumoni sparked up a previously rolled joint and inhaled deeply.

“I always sample the goods with the customer,” Spumoni grinned at Lincoln before he passed the joint to him. “That way there’s no complaints. Try this shit. It’ll get rid of the headache you’ll have from slamming your head on the chair.”

Lincoln accepted the joint and deeply sucked on the end. He closed his eyes and held the smoke in his lungs waiting for the THC to mask the ever present ache in his limbs. These days it seemed be the only thing that gave him relief from the pain was the pot. Lincoln took another hit and held the smoke before exhaling. He sat down on a chaise and reclined with his eyes closed and the burning joint still pinched between his fingers.

“Did you have any trouble with the pass code on my front gate?” Lincoln asked.

“Nope, it worked the first try,” Spumoni answered. “Speaking of your front gate. What’s with the stalker-groupie you’ve got hanging out there?”

“What are you talking about?” Lincoln took another hit off the joint and opened one eye to look at Spumoni.

“When I got here, there was a dude standing near your gate, like he was contemplating hitting the call button,” Spumoni explained. “But as soon as he saw me pull up, he turned away and started walking down the sidewalk in the opposite direction.”

“As long as he stays on that side of the fence, I’m okay with it.” Lincoln chuckled. The effects of the pot quieting all his nerves. Lincoln could feel the weight of the world lifting off his shoulders with each hit he took. He relaxed into the lounge cushion and felt almost boneless. Apparently, what he heard about Spumoni always having the best weed around was true and for that Lincoln was grateful to know the man.

“Whatever, dude. I need to take a leak,” Spumoni stated. “Where’s your bathroom?”

Lincoln pointed to his left without opening his eyes. “You can use the one in the pool house.”

A few minutes later Spumoni returned and sat beside Lincoln on the doublewide lounger. Spumoni shifted himself to face Lincoln and said, “Look at me.” Lincoln rolled his head toward Spumoni and closed his eyes again when the warm washcloth carefully wiped across his forehead.

“What are you doing?” Lincoln asked sternly.

“What’s it look like? I’m cleaning you up,” Spumoni scoffed and gently swiped the cloth through the crease of Lincoln’s eye socket. He made one last pass over Lincoln’s forehead then tossed the dirty cloth onto the table beside the chair. “How’s the dope?”

Lincoln turned away and grinned widely. “Magnificent.”

“Feeling good?”

“Fucking awesome.” Lincoln laughed. “Hope you don’t mind, but I finished the joint while you were pissing.”

“I expected as much,” Spumoni replied. “Hey, since you’re currently stoned off your ass, perhaps you’d like to tell me what’s going on with you?”

“What are you digging for, Spumoni?” Lincoln mumbled his question.

“I’m not blind, Linc, and neither are the guys in your band,” Spumoni snapped. “Whatever this is it’s not getting better. It’s becoming more . . . pronounced.”

“When did you quit your job with Ivory Tower and become a fucking doctor?” Lincoln barked.

“Have you even seen a doctor about this?” Spumoni countered.

Lincoln sat upright and put his backside to Spumoni. “Why would I see a doctor?”

“Because you’re stumbling around here getting hurt and at Cooper’s wedding you said you were having trouble feeling your hands,” Spumoni explained. “And I’m willing to bet when no one is around to witness it; it’s a lot worse than you’d ever admit.”

Lincoln shoved himself to his feet. “Thanks for the pot,” he grumbled. “You remember how to let yourself out, right?”

Spumoni stood, too, and watched Lincoln waver on his feet like he was drunk. “You want another bag next week?”

“Yeah, but double it,” Lincoln directed.

“You want a
full
ounce? That’s a lot of weed for one week, don’t you think?” Spumoni commented.

Lincoln turned his head and glared at Spumoni over his shoulder. “Wow, first you’re a doctor and now my fucking mother,” Lincoln said and shook his head. He turned away to take another step and once again, the ground tipped on him and Lincoln’s large frame began to topple.

Spumoni hopped over the end of the lounge chair in time to catch Lincoln before he crashed onto the patio for a second time. “Come on,” Spumoni said and draped one of Lincoln’s muscled arms around his neck and hefted Lincoln up against his side with an arm around his waist. “I’m taking you inside and getting you settled before I take off. If you don’t like that, too fucking bad.”

Spumoni helped Lincoln inside and onto the couch in his living room. “Stay put. I’m getting you some aspirin for your head.” Lincoln didn’t argue and instead leaned back into the butter soft leather couch. Spumoni left the room and returned with a glass of water and a couple of aspirin. “Take these for me.” He waited for Lincoln to swallow and then took the glass back from him and set it on the coffee table in front of Lincoln’s knees. Spumoni sat down on the coffee table and leaned forward. “Okay, you can either start spilling to me now and I’ll keep it all confidential, or you can keep silent and continue to get worse. If you choose the latter, I’ll be telling Dagger how I found you today. Your choice.”

“Fuck you,” Lincoln growled. “You’re supposed to be delivering dope to me, not being a dick.”

“I’m trying to help you, Linc,” Spumoni admonished. “Are you that thick-headed not to see this for what it is? You’ve got yourself a serious problem here and I think you know that.”

Lincoln rubbed at his face and grimaced when he felt the sting in his scalp. “You’re full of shit when you say this stays between us,” Lincoln chided. “As soon as you leave here you’ll be telling someone.”

Spumoni’s jaw muscle twitched with agitation. “We’re just getting to know each other, so I’ll let that comment slide, but I’m a man of my word. Ask anyone who knows me. When I say I’ll do something, I do it.”

A long moment passed and Lincoln’s head remained tipped back against the couch with his eyes closed. Spumoni ran his hands back and forth on his thighs, then stood up to leave. “Well, I guess I have my answer,” Spumoni sighed. “You can continue to keep your issues on the DL for now and I’ll keep my mouth shut for one week. But when I come back with the next bag of weed, I either want to hear you’ve contacted a doctor or I’ll be having a meeting with Dagger.” Spumoni crossed the room in long strides, but before he disappeared out the door, he faced Lincoln again. “Have a good week and try not to fall down the stairs and break your fucking neck.”

Lincoln waited until he heard the front door of his house slam shut before he reacted. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” he shouted into the emptiness of his house. Jesus, he didn’t want to face this—whatever the fuck
this
was! Lincoln made fists with his hands, pressing the blunt nails into the flesh of his palm until his knuckles turned white. He had little to no feeling in his left hand and moderate tingling and sudden bursts of pain firing off in his right hand and arm. When the pain flared, it shot like a rocket up through his limbs as if his veins were pumping liquid fire. At times when he looked at his arms or legs he could see the muscles spasming, twitching like he had an alien life form living beneath his skin trying to escape. But, Jesus, it was the pain that sometimes kept him up at night tossing and turning. It was unrelenting, rolling through him like an unforgiving assault on every one of his nerve endings.

Lincoln didn’t react positively to threats and Spumoni’s test of wills wasn’t exactly sitting well with him right now. The fucker was giving him one week to spill—or else? Who the fuck did he think he was? Sure, they were friendly, but Lincoln would hardly call them best friends or even beer buddies, and they certainly weren’t fuck buddies, so where did Spumoni get off giving him ultimatums?

Lincoln bent forward to reach for the glass of water sitting on the coffee table. He watched his fingers circle the glass, but when he went to lift it to take a drink, the glass slipped through his grip and hit the carpeting on the floor. He could have sworn his grasp was tight enough, even with the limited sensation in his hand, but dropping it hadn’t been a consideration. He studied his fingers, flipping his hand over, then back the other way as if they didn’t belong to him.

Why are you failing me?
Lincoln thought. He flopped back against the couch and closed his eyes again. The sting of tears began to build behind his lids. He was thirty-two years old and at the height of his career. If this loss of sensation continued, he feared it would be the end of his job with Black Ice, and quite possibly the end of his musical career. What happened after that? All he knew was music. He lived and breathed it every single day, so how could he suddenly switch gears and do something else for a living?

One week,
Lincoln thought.
One fucking week, and then what? Can I trust Spumoni enough to confide in him? Or will he end up running to Dagger anyway?

Chapter Two

Lincoln slept quite a bit over next week. It was the only time he felt some sense of peace, physically and mentally, and fortunately, Dagger hadn’t planned rehearsals or studio time for the band, which allowed Lincoln to focus on resting. However, even after sleeping on and off for days, it hadn’t changed Lincoln’s physical issues. As much as that pissed him off, it scared the shit out of him, too.

The ding of a new text message from Spumoni woke Lincoln that day. The text was to remind him he’d be swinging by Lincoln’s house within the hour to drop off another bag of dope. That bit of news pulled Lincoln out of his funk and he finally rolled from bed to take a shower. When he came to his full height a shadow above his left eye appeared. He wasn’t sure if it was a bug or something hanging from the ceiling, but seeing it caused Lincoln to duck his head quickly to avoid walking into whatever the fuck it was. The sudden move caused him to twist his ankle because of the numbness in his foot. Turned out, the shadow was nothing tangible. After blinking several times and rotating his eyeballs every which way, Lincoln realized the shadow was a large, unmoving black spot in his field of vision obstructing his normal ability to see.

The bottom fell from Lincoln’s stomach at what this could mean. There was no way in fucking hell he could hide from whatever was going on with his health any longer, not when it seemed he was losing the sight in one eye. How much worse would he get? Was he going blind? Dying of a brain tumor? Did this blind spot have anything to do with the numbness in his limbs and chronic pain he was dealing with on a daily basis? The possible medical afflictions running through Lincoln’s head made him nauseous. He bent forward and grabbed at his thighs to try and regain control of his churning emotions. He blinked again in quick succession, but the black spot remained.

This can’t be happening!

Lincoln carefully walked into the master bathroom to avoid another fall. He ran the water for the shower, stepped beneath the spray and leaned against the tiled wall. Lincoln was stunned into silence. So many feelings raced through his head all at once. He was angry and fearful to the point he could feel himself shaking. He let the water pelt his face, essentially washing away the tears that seeped from his eyes.

Thinking back to his youth, he could remember his mother complaining about something in her eyes called “floaters.”
Could this be the same thing?
But Lincoln couldn’t ever remember his mother grumbling about numbness or pain. Then again, if she had experienced any of those symptoms it wasn’t as if Lincoln’s step-dad would have given a shit. The bastard probably would have ignored her if she had made issues like this known to him, or protested the cost for her to see a doctor.

Lincoln’s youth had been a struggle at best. He never knew his biological father. For the first seven years of his life, it was just him and his mother surviving on her paycheck from working long hours at the truck-stop restaurant on the highway near their apartment. It was the restaurant that brought Larry into both their lives. He was a long distance trucker that stopped in to eat at the restaurant every few days and over time, a relationship between Larry and Lincoln’s mom was established.