Every night that week was different, because not everyone showed up at the same time every night. It all depended on kids and work schedules and other obligations, but everyone showed up at some point, and every night, after the kids were in bed, the musical people ended up sitting together and jamming. And honestly, I fought it at first. I tried just sitting and listening and pretending my fingers didn’t want to play, that my voice didn’t want to lift. But it was a futile fight. After the first night, I knew I was hooked. I knew Corin was right, knew Myles was right.
I’d played and written songs consistently since Dad’s disastrous talk with me, but it was like a dirty secret. Something I hid from everyone, my roommate included. If I could have hidden it from myself, I would have. Because I had believed Dad. I’d believed him. He’d told me I sucked, that I should give up, and I’d believed him.
I’d given up.
But music wouldn’t give me up. During college I’d be lying awake half the night, restless, irritated, exhausted. And eventually I’d roll out of bed, grab my ukulele, and find somewhere to be alone. The communal bathroom was usually the best place—I’d sit on a toilet and play, sing, and hate myself for it. I’d sing my songs, sing the songs I was listening to on the radio and couldn’t get out of my head. Sing the songs I loved, my old favorites, the classics. I learned new ones. It was a habit, like a secret drug habit. One I couldn’t quit, no matter how hard I tried. I’d go two days, three, but I’d always end up with my ukulele in the dorm bathroom or under a tree outside, singing and playing, and hoping no one was listening.
And then…Myles happened.
Back on the bus, during his tour when we’d first met, he’d bribed me to play for him. He’d told me he’d give me an entire night as my own personal sex slave if I played one of my own songs for him. I hadn’t been able to resist that offer, so I played him a song I’d written a few months before, as a way of expressing some feelings for a guy I’d been struggling with. I’d been quiet, timid, nervous, and he’d listened, and told me I was talented and that he wanted to play with me sometime. I’d told him he could play with me anytime, and that, of course, had led to a really long, fun night. I’d given the man a hell of a tongue workout, that’s for sure. I must’ve had at least a dozen orgasms that night, hadn’t let him get even one until I’d been ready to pass out, and then I’d finally let him plow me as hard as he wanted. I think he’d probably thought I’d want something more creative, more acrobatic, or something most men would find degrading or emasculating. But really, at the end of the day, I’m a simple girl. I just want to come as hard as I can, as many times as I can, for as long as I can, until my body stops letting me come. And good goddamn, but Myles North could make me come like no other man ever has, and I took full advantage of that.
That had been the start.
Playing for Myles.
Then we’d sing along to songs together, sharing an earbud.
He’d play a song and I’d sing along. I’d let myself play my ukulele now and then, in front of him.
But that was it. Nothing major.
Then I’d heard them jamming. Heard his distinctive guitar style, his unmistakable voice. I heard other voices, other instruments. And I’d been pulled physically, bodily pulled, as if by a rope around my waist. Up, to the roof. Ukulele in hand. I’d had to play. Had to sing. It had been impossible to resist the need. Like an addict being offered a free hit of the purest grade substance.
While I’d played, I had been alive.
And it was terrifying.
Because now I was truly addicted.
To the rush, the aliveness, the attention. I needed more. Like any drug, the more I used, the more I needed. And every night that week, I got hit after hit. Sitting in the circle surrounded by Crow and Myles and Tate and Aerie and Canaan and Corin, playing every song we knew and jamming improv jazz style when we ran out of songs we knew. Singing, and having people watch and listen and validate me. Pay attention to my singing and playing as if I was good. Like I had something of value to add. Being appreciated for my talent.
Being appreciated for me.
Not for my body or, for my sexual prowess.
Which was, honestly, the only thing I ever let anyone see, aside from my bold as brass balls, take-no-shit attitude.
Which was a front.
Fake.
I’d been faking for years, and you’d think it’d just be real by now, but I wasn’t.
I mean, it was me, it was the only me that existed anymore. But deep down, there was another Lexie. And music was bringing her to life.
Playing for people—being seen, being heard—was breathing life into her.
And that, more than anything, was what terrified me, was what kept me awake into the smallest hours of the morning, no matter how late I went to bed.
Myles was true to his word: he never made anything deep or personal. Never asked me to talk about myself or my past, even when we were alone and naked together and nooking in the afterglow. He would just hold me and let me pretend we weren’t snuggling, and that I didn’t love snuggling in his arms more than just about anything in the world, including the sex itself, which was in turn better than sex had any right to be.
See, my pretenses were vital to my worldview:
I had no heart;
I didn’t know how to love or have feelings;
All I knew was sex;
I had no
