Page 42 of Tone Deaf

I glance into it and pause. This is the first time in a week I’ve seen my face, and it’s still a little frightening. The image reflected back is a spectrum of colors, ranging from purplish blue to orangey yellow. It’s an improvement on what Connor described, but it’s still obvious I was beaten up.

The headache from the concussion is gone, my pain has eased some, too, and I can open both eyes now. What’s still a mess is my ego—that got bruised up like a bitch. It’s been years since someone has put the hurt on me like that fucker did, but at least I’m here and alive, which is the most important thing.

Before leaving the room, I put my ear to the door and listen. From the lack of noise, I assume I’m alone in the house. Though the panic in my gut is a constant reminder to be on alert, for the first time since we left my place in Colorado the need to relax is stronger.

I make my way into the kitchen and eye the dirty dishes piled in the sink. Dom and Pen’s relentless insistence that I rest and not lift a finger to do anything around the place has become nerve racking. Sure, I’m still a little sore, but I’m as capable as anyone else. Especially Pen—the guy was shot twice but no one expectshimto slack off. Hell, they won’t even allow me outside to enjoy the late spring weather. It’s righteously pissing me off.

At least neither of them has pushed for a discussion about a relationship—especially Dom. Maybe I’m giving off standoffish vibes. Or maybe they’ve changed their minds about wanting me. While both are possible, I’d bet Dom’s giving me time to wage war in my head before he approaches me on it. Damn. Guess that means hedoesknow me pretty well.

If I’m honest with myself, the real reason for most of my irritability is simpler than I let myself believe. I'm starting to feel the ache of loneliness at night, an ache caused by being without them. I know they mean well, truly. But can’t they see? I want them here, beside me. Yet I can’t ask them to join me because that will give them hope and open myself up tothe relationship discussion.

I give up on the idea of doing dishes and walk through the living area, taking in the changes to the space. It’s been a while since I’ve been here, but this place is really transformed. Tobias and Danny have made the rustic house more like a home away from home. The original warm browns and golds are now accented with pops of vibrant colors that I’m sure Danny contributed to the place.

I feel myself slowly easing into the calm.

As I stand in front of the slider, looking out toward the dark of night, I take a slow breath in, and think. I’ve done enough resting. Right now, I need to focus on what’s coming up for Warrior Black.

There’s an album that needs finishing. Dante informed us last month that Ron has set up a few spotlight performances and appearances in the next several months. God, I miss that man. I hope he kicks cancer’s ass and takes back his rightful place with us.

Don’t get me wrong, I love Dante. They are formidable and know their stuff. But Ron is the one who made Warrior Black what it is today. A successful rock band. I don’t want to let him down. This sitting around, doing nothing but resting, isn’t in my nature. Especially when there is so much work to do. We are going back into the studio in two months to record the new album—and we are five songs—maybe six, short from completing the album.

And I can’t forget Rocktoberfest in October, at Black Rock. When Dante told us Warrior Black had been invited back—again, it felt like we’darrived.And this year’s band line up is even more awesome than last year’s. It’s going to be fucking spectacular.

My excitement is crushed in the next breath, when I realize that if Tobias and Dean can’t find out who is behind the attack on me, who hired the female hitman at the hospital, and who shot up my house, the label won’t allow us to be exposed at Rocktoberfest or go on tour.

“Take a breath,” I tell myself and slowly walk over to the Barclay loveseat.

I smile when I see that Dom or Pen has taken my song book from my bag and set it on the bladder-shaped side table. And right next to it is my granddad’s guitar resting on the stand.

The moment I catch sight of the instrument, my energy revs up and my mind automatically shift into music. I pick it up and then sit and lay the guitar across my lap. After a quick tune, I run a finger across the strings, pulling a familiar melody from the precious instrument.

Starting off with something simple, I replay the song I sang in the hospital. I softly croon the words my granddad taught me before I switch it to one of our latest songs—the one that hit number three on the Billboard chart.

As I close my eyes, new phrases of melody filter through my brain and I can see a song building in my head, along with the accompanying tune.

I picture what Raef would play—jotting the notes down in the notebook. Then Bobby on the keyboard, and Wildman—Connor on the drums, until it comes together for me.

The interwoven sounds—practically a symphony of instruments playing like a concert in my head, but with no words. Yet.

Then I envision Danny on stage—mic in hand, and one by one, line by line, the words rush forth like water shooting through a break in a dam.

Note after note, word after word, this new song hits a certain part of my soul and I’m tearing up.

Though Danny was the person I pictured singing the song, the words are mine for Dom and Pen. No matter how much I try to ignore the fact that I’ve been falling in love with two men—for a while now, the idea of admitting the truth about my feelings makes me clam up. Every. Damn. Time.

But the song—this song can help me say what my heart wants to scream.

There’s fire in their eyes as we dance in the dark.

The storm, the crash, the rush of my heart.

Three kinds of love built on passion’s fire.

Three kinds of temptation—lust, craving, desire.

But love like that don't last too long.

I’m in for a heart break, or am I wrong?