Time Out of Mind (Suncoast Society #43)(16)

“How bad is it right now?”

“The urge to drink?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m craving one. But I know I can’t. So I won’t.”

Doyle took a step forward. “You’ll need to be prepared for that to hit you even when you think you have a good handle on things.”

“Do you still get them?”

“Yep. Especially when stressed.”

“What do you do?”

He knew he should get moving, but the fact that Mevi was talking to him couldn’t go unrecognized. “Depends. I meditate, do tai chi, try to talk my way through it. When it’s really bad, I white-knuckle it and keep reminding myself why I need to stay sober and focus on how long I’ve made it. If I’ve made it this far—and I have a one-hundred-percent track record of surviving to date—I can make it another day no matter how bad it feels at the time.”

“How often do you get those?”

“Sometimes only once or twice a year now. I won’t lie to you. In the early days, it was tough. During my divorce, it was tough. There are tough days, and there are easy days. You have to figure out what techniques work for you.”





Divorce?

Maybe I misunderstood him yesterday. Maybe he was just joking or something.

It also made things marginally easier for him.

Mevi took a deep breath and focused on Doyle again. “I won’t leave the room,” he said. “Thanks for doing this at the last minute. I’m sorry I was a dick last night. And I apologize in advance for any dickishness on my part in the future.”

Doyle smiled. “Thanks. I appreciate that. I don’t expect perfection from you, I just expect you to make an honest attempt to work with me.” He left, hanging the Do Not Disturb card on the door. A moment later, Mevi heard the SUV start up and pull out.

Now he could relax for a few minutes.

Didn’t mean he wouldn’t still fantasize about the guy in the shower, but it was a little stress off him if the guy was straight after all.

He’d never been with a guy before, even though he’d known since before graduating high school he was gay. Wasn’t smart in Wyoming to reveal he was gay, and once he’d moved to LA and gotten involved in the music scene, he’d been too busy building a career and image to do anything about it.

Not even Bonnie knew that about him.

I owe her a huge apology.

He dragged himself out of bed and over to his bags, where he dug out the small notebook and pen, taking them back to bed. He eyed his guitar, but it probably wouldn’t be very smart to play it in a hotel with paper-thin walls. He could get his iPad out and hook it up to headphones and screw around like that with one of his guitar apps, but hopefully Doyle would be back soon.

Without looking at the stuff he’d already jotted down, much of it several months old, he turned to a clean page, dated it, and let the point of his pen hover over the first line for a moment before he started writing.



Into the valley, into the city,

Down from the mountains

Nothing looks pretty.

Rolling along on a winding back road

Nothing I’ve done came

Out as I’d hoped.



He stared at it for a moment. Right now he was doing what he considered “spitballing.” Screwing around, letting words flow to be edited later. All of the best lines and riffs from their biggest hits started out like this. Actually, all his lyrics started like this, or jotted into his iPad, and refined later.

The music, sometimes he collaborated on that with Troy and Bonnie after he’d roughed out chords and the basic melody. Pasch had come up with some brilliant drum backings to fill in the songs and give them a heartbeat, a pulse. Add those to Garth’s basslines, and it was magic when Mevi finalized the arrangements.

Literally creating something out of nothing, from thoughts.

Weaving a spell.

They all worked well together.

That’s why he knew he had to make this work, no matter how much he craved a drink right now.





Doyle was able to shop at Walmart to get all the stuff he’d need to dye Mevi’s hair, as well as trimmers and other supplies to give him an impromptu haircut. Generic cheap sunglasses would help complete the look.

While he pushed the increasingly full cart along the aisles, his phone chirruped with an incoming text message from Tate Markham, a celebrity business manager based in the UK whom he’d worked with several times over the years.

Desperate. Need you NOW. How soon can you get to London?

That figured. When it rained, it poured. He stopped and replied.

Sorry. Just took on new client. 2-4 months, possibly longer.

Tate must have been really desperate, because he replied almost immediately.

I’ll double it. Name price.

Doyle stared at the phone. That was very tempting. But…no.

Sorry, I can’t.

Tate wasn’t giving up. She just went into rehab. Voluntarily. 2 months, max. How soon can you get to UK then?

Poor Tate. Doyle hated having to say no to him since Tate’s clients had made him a lot of money. I can’t. Under contract NOW. When job ends, I’ll let you know.

He wouldn’t mind a UK job. He hadn’t been there in a while.

Bollocks. Fine. If ANYTHING changes and you can get here sooner, let me know ASAP.