Beyond The Music (The Rock Gods Book 7) (4 page)

“I believe you said you were a professional musician?” the doctor asked.

“Yeah, I play bass for the rock band Black Ice,” Lincoln offered. “We’re leaving on a European tour in a few weeks.” The doctor shook his head and Lincoln’s heart sank inside his chest. “What are you implying? I can’t go out on tour with my band?”

“I wouldn’t advise that, but you’re obviously free to make your own decision,” the doctor said. “All I can do is advise my patient what I feel would be best for them.”

“Oh, Christ.” Lincoln held on to his head. “I can’t cancel on this tour. They’re counting on me.”

Another pause fell in the conversation before the doctor spoke again. “It’s Friday,” he said. “How about you take the weekend to think about this and call my office on Monday. If you decide you want to do the steroids, we can get you admitted for that then, or even do an in-home infusion for you.” The doctor pulled out a prescription pad from the chest pocket of his lab coat. “The phone number for my office is on here. If you decide against the steroids, we still need to meet to discuss your other options, Lincoln. You really shouldn’t drop the ball on this.”

“I’ll make sure he calls your office,” Spumoni piped up and Lincoln glared at him.

“Fine, I’ll give you my answer on Monday,” Lincoln said in defeat.

The doctor shook both Lincoln’s and Spumoni’s hand and quietly left. The silence that cloaked the small room constricted the airflow in Lincoln’s throat. It felt like the whole world was crashing down on top of him and he was powerless to save himself.

“I’ll take you home,” Spumoni said.

Lincoln was numb with fear. He followed Spumoni to his car and sat beside him all the way back to his house without one word exchanged. Once they were back at Lincoln’s house, Spumoni helped him inside and got him positioned on his couch again, this time with a cold beer and some leftover Chinese food from a cardboard container he found in the refrigerator.

“You probably don’t want to hear it, but my cousin has MS,” Spumoni said. “He travels all the time for business, so I know he’s managing it okay.”

Lincoln looked up at Spumoni with tear-filled eyes. “I need time,” he said softly. “Do you mind leaving, so I can think?”

“Yeah, yeah, sure,” Spumoni said. He pointed to the bag of weed he’d left on the coffee table earlier and started for the door. “You’ve got that if you need it. Call me if you need anything else.”

“Spumoni?” Spumoni spun around to face Lincoln again. “Thank you for coming with me today, but please don’t repeat this to anyone.”

“I gave you my word,” Spumoni scoffed. “I’m from New Jersey and a man’s word still means something there.” With that declaration floating between them, Spumoni left Lincoln’s house.

Chapter Three

Spumoni left Lincoln at his home with the promise that he would return the next day to check on him and he kept his word. When Spumoni arrived on Saturday, Lincoln was pretty much in the same spot.

“Hey, what’s going on?” Spumoni asked Lincoln where he was reclined on the leather couch. “Have you eaten today?”

“Fuck it,” Lincoln grumbled.

“I’ll make you something,” Spumoni said and started to leave the room.

“I said, fuck it!” Lincoln’s voice boomed in the lofty living room and Spumoni stopped dead in his tracks.

“So, you’re not going to eat anymore?” Spumoni chided. “Starvation will change your mind soon enough. In the meantime, I’m at least getting you something to drink and then we’re going to get really baked and talk.”

“I’m done talking,” Lincoln barked.

“So you say.” Spumoni forced a grin onto his face as he returned to the couch. He set a bottle of water down on the coffee table and got comfortable on the couch beside Lincoln’s feet. Spumoni pulled a joint from his shirt pocket and lit the end. He inhaled deeply to get the joint smoking good then handed it off to Lincoln. Lincoln sat upright on the couch to make it easier to share the joint. They passed the joint back and forth for several minutes in silence, then Spumoni started to talk. “How are you feeling today?”

Lincoln took several seconds before he finally answered, “I think I’m in a state of shock.”

“Understandable,” Spumoni replied and dragged off the joint again.

“It feels like a kick to the nuts with a steel-toed boot,” Lincoln stated frankly. “The kind that takes the wind out of you and you find yourself wondering if you’ll ever recover from the pain.”

Spumoni nodded in acknowledgement. “How’s your eyesight?”

“The spot is still there, but less obvious,” Lincoln said. “If that makes sense. Maybe my brain is adjusting to the fucked up vision deficit? Who the fuck knows?”

“You’re probably right,” Spumoni answered. “What are you gonna do about the steroids?”

Lincoln drew another hit of the smoke into his lungs, held it, and slowly released it above his head. He watched the cloud expanding while he contemplated his answer. “I don’t see how I can do the steroids, recover from it, and be ready to go on tour. I read up on this IV drug therapy and although some people don’t have a problem with it, some say it’s seriously nasty shit.”

“How so?”

“I researched the drug on the internet,” Lincoln explained further. “I also read the comments from the people who have done this therapy and what their physical reaction was to the drug. Some were okay, but others . . .” Lincoln shook his head.

“Okay, so what’s the worst of it?” Spumoni questioned.

“Well, first they run the drug into your arm, man, like chemo, and very soon after the drug goes into our vein you get a horrific metallic taste in your mouth that they say tastes worse than shit,” Lincoln said and continued. “Some say the drug makes them feel freeze-dried from the inside out and they experienced a slight loss of hair. Everything on their body hurts: their internal organs, eyes, combing their hair, even light touches to their skin. One person said getting a simple hug was excruciatingly painful. And coming off the drug, some compared that to being a lot like withdrawal from heroin with the sweats, shakes, and so on.”

“Jesus, that sounds crazy,” Spumoni said.

“I know!” Lincoln said. “Honestly, I don’t see putting myself through that.”

“Maybe you’ll be one of the patients that doesn’t have that kind of reaction,” Spumoni countered.

“And, maybe, I will have all those side effects and then some,” Lincoln added.

“Well, I’d still suggest you talk with your doctor before you make your final decision,” Spumoni said.

Lincoln glanced at Spumoni seated at the opposite end of the couch. “Did you tell anyone?”

Spumoni’s head snapped in Lincoln’s direction. “Are you fucking serious right now?” Lincoln shrugged and reached for the water bottle Spumoni had left for him. “No, I did not tell anyone, you prick. Apparently loyalty doesn’t mean shit to you.”

“Look, I’m sorry,” Lincoln said. “I don’t know you all that well, and this is a seriously private piece of my life. Right now, you are the only one who knows what’s going on with me, Spumoni. I’m not a trusting person to begin with, and now I have this shit going on, and my knee-jerk reaction is to go into hiding. Can you understand that?”

“Yeah, sure. I get it,” Spumoni replied. “But you don’t have to worry with me, man.”

Lincoln’s head fell to the back of the couch and he signed loudly. Several minutes of silence passed before Lincoln finally spoke. “I’m fucked.”

“You really think so?” Spumoni asked. He sucked on the joint and looked at Lincoln as he waited for an answer.

Lincoln’s head rolled to the side to take the joint Spumoni offered to him. “Me working with Black Ice and my music career in general . . . it’s all over.”

“That’s bullshit,” Spumoni balked. “How in the hell do you figure that to be the case?”

“You’re joking, right?” Lincoln’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “My sight is fucked up, I can hardly feel my fingers to play bass, and my feet don’t always cooperate which makes me fall down a lot. How am I supposed to play for a touring band with health issues like that? Hmmm? I might as well tell Dagger now, so he can start auditioning someone to take my place.”

Spumoni chewed on a nail. “Don’t be so quick to do that,” Spumoni remarked.

“Why not?”

“Because I know a guy,” Spumoni added.

“You seem to know a lot of guys, Spumoni.”

Spumoni shrugged. “What can I say? I’m a Jersey boy. We’re all well connected.”

“And you think you know someone that can put Humpty Dumpty back together again?” Lincoln questioned.

“Possibly,” Spumoni said. “Let me make some phone calls before I share that with you.”

“Whatever,” Lincoln replied. He felt lost. His life was suddenly upside down and everything he thought he knew to be his life was changing before his eyes. Oh, yeah. His eyesight. Even that was seriously fucked-up.

“I know you haven’t eaten, so I’m going to make you something,” Spumoni stated.

“I already told you I’m not hungry,” Lincoln grumbled.

Spumoni pushed off the couch and walked toward the kitchen. “I’m cooking, dickhead, whether you want me to, or not,” he announced. “I hope you like Italian because that’s all I know how to cook.”

Lincoln heard the clanking of pots and pans in his kitchen and the melodic hum of Spumoni as he worked. Spumoni had been in the kitchen for ten consecutive minutes, which was nine minutes more than Lincoln had ever spent in the very same kitchen since he’d lived here. Lincoln didn’t cook. He ordered take-out and he was really good at it, too.

A few more minutes passed and the aromas of garlic, onions, and peppers greeted his nose and his mouth began to water. Did he really have these items in his refrigerator to cook? His house lady was better than he thought. Lincoln got off the couch and carefully moved to stand in the kitchen doorway. Spumoni was stirring something on the stove with a hand towel draped over his shoulder like he meant business. He stopped humming when Lincoln made his presence known.

“Smells good,” Lincoln commented.

“My momma made sure all her boys knew how to cook,” Spumoni grinned.

“How many boys?”

“Four boys and two girls,” Spumoni answered.

“Wow, big family,” Lincoln said.

“Not really,” Spumoni replied. “Not when you compare our family to the other Italian families in the neighborhood.” Spumoni glanced over his shoulder at Lincoln. “Are you Italian?”

“A little bit Italian, French, and some English on my father’s side,” Lincoln explained. “My mom is all Hawaiian and is supposedly a descendant of a famous Hawaiian princess. I don’t know if that’s true or wishful thinking on her part.”

“Cool,” Spumoni said and emptied a box of spaghetti into a pot of boiling water.

“Is Spumoni your real name?” Lincoln ventured.

Spumoni snickered as he gave the long strands of pasta a stir in the pot. “Actually, my real last name is Spumaldi, but I loved eating spumoni as a kid so the nickname stuck. First name is Frank, but don’t ever call me that or I’ll punch you in the face.” Spumoni laughed again and went back to stirring the meatballs in the pan and sprinkling fresh basil on top of the bubbling sauce he’d created. Once he got everything simmering just right, he faced Lincoln. “Can I ask you something personal?”

“Oh, crap. Here it comes,” Lincoln complained.

“What? I was simply wondering which team you played for, that’s all,” Spumoni explained.

“You mean like team pussy or team prick?” Lincoln answered.

Spumoni laughed. “Yeah, something like that. I never see you with anyone—male or female, and I think you might be the only guy in either band that I haven’t hooked-up with. Yet.”

“Not happening, Spumoni.” Lincoln turned away and started back toward the couch. “Hooking-up with anyone right now is the last thing I need.”

Spumoni followed Lincoln into the living room as he wiped off his hands on the towel, then tossed it back over his shoulder. “I’m gay. In case you were wondering.”

“I wasn’t wondering, but thanks for the information.” Lincoln grinned and shook his head. “So, the rumors are true.”

“Depends. What did you hear?” Spumoni grinned with pride.

“I heard you suck a lot of dick.” Lincoln lifted one eyebrow as he made the comment. “And your MO is to do it after you get your
customers
high.”

“Guilty as charged, and I’m happy to oblige you if you’re at all interested.”

“Like I said, not happening,” Lincoln remarked. If Spumoni had any idea how ludicrous that offer was, he’d probably laugh for a week.

Their conversation continued while they ate the spaghetti and meatballs Spumoni had prepared with more questions pointed at Lincoln.

“Why all the sudden interest in me?” Lincoln directed at Spumoni.

“Because you’re a mystery to most,” Spumoni said. “You work in a band with all gay men and yet no one knows which side of the fence you play on.”

“Is it really all that important?” Lincoln asked as he twirled another forkful of spaghetti around the utensil.

“Have you ever been with a man?” Spumoni wasn’t quitting.

Lincoln set his fork down beside his plate and finished chewing the mouthful he had. “I’ve been with both sexes, sometimes at the same time, but I’m not interested in either sex at the moment. Now, can we talk about something else besides my sexual preferences?”