Time Out of Mind (Suncoast Society #43)(18)

Mevi didn’t answer. Mevi’s furrowed brow as he bobbed his head in time with the music would have been adorable and gotten the man f*cked by Doyle under nearly any other circumstances.

By the fifth time Mevi had replayed “My Shot,” however, Doyle’s patience was waning a little.

“You do remember my rule about the driver controlling the music, correct?”

“I just…that’s amazing. I’ve never heard anything like it.”

“When we reach Florida, I’ll see if I can find the PBS documentary about the show online. It’s really good. It’s about Lin-Manuel Miranda and writing the show, and some about the life of Alexander Hamilton, the founding father. But for now, let’s listen to the whole thing through at least one time, okay?”

“But the lyrics are—”

“Really good, yeah, I know. That’s why I enjoy listening to it. The whole thing.” Doyle reached down and started the album over from the first song.

Instead of leaning back in his seat, Mevi still sat forward, intently staring at the iPod with his head cocked, listening.

Hell, he was being quiet, at least.

Doyle drove, singing along with the songs he knew.

He was almost afraid to play The Hamilton Mixtape album for him.





Mevi had broad musical tastes, but between their last album, then a tour on top of it and all the promotion and publicity tours, then coming home to find out what David had done to him—and his own collapse—he’d not been keeping up with what was going on in that arena. Yeah, now he remembered hearing about a hot musical that was a phenomenon and being wildly praised across a wide variety of platforms.

But he hadn’t paid any attention to that world because he’d been too caught up in his own, followed by being caught up in his troubles.

And then trapped by his addiction.

From the music to the lyrics to the theme, he knew this was an album he’d have to buy and put on his own iPod to listen to on repeat. Some composers didn’t like to listen to other music when they worked, afraid they might accidentally plagiarize someone else’s work in the process.

He was the exact opposite. Not when he was composing music, but when he was writing the lyrics, he absolutely loved listening to music, and usually set his iPod to shuffle so it would play the most random of stuff at him.

Bonnie always joked it was his audio version of Tarot cards.

And sometimes, that was the truth.

Hypnotized, the world melted away around him as he listened, absorbed the story of the immigrant who helped shape America and became one of its founding fathers. Overcoming adversity by sheer tenacity and strength, his fall from grace, tragedy, and the lifelong battle of wills and wits between him and Aaron Burr, which led to the deadly duel that ended Hamilton’s life.

By that time, Doyle had pulled over for gas and lunch outside of Flagstaff and they’d listened to the entire album twice. Mevi was ready to delete the rest of the contents of Doyle’s iPod just to keep listening to the album.

After going to use the bathroom, Mevi returned to the car, grabbing his iPad and little notebook out of his bag, and furiously jotted down some notes. He felt like his brain was going to explode from the input. In good ways. Like he’d spent the last two months in sensory deprivation and he’d suddenly burst into the world, freshly scrubbed and raw and receptive.

He barely paid any attention to Doyle when he returned to the car and made him take another drug test, except to start the album over as soon as Doyle cranked the SUV before Mevi went back to jotting down more notes.





Doyle knew listening to the album might be an…odd coping mechanism, but he wouldn’t interrupt Mevi’s progress. Clark had also confided to him that he thought Mevi might be creatively constipated after everything that had happened, and not just from the drinking, either.

If this was the mental roughage Mevi needed to kick start his creative juices, then Doyle would allow it.

They’d attracted no attention at the store, and he’d actually followed Mevi inside and watched from a distance to make sure he went to the bathroom and came back out again.

He hadn’t even cruised past the beer cooler.

Whatever listening to the album was doing for Mevi, if they had to listen to the thing all the way to Florida, Doyle would let him despite his initial “driver rules the radio” position.

Mevi’s sobriety was more important. Working was critical to his success.

Doyle could be gracious under the circumstances.

They were east of Albuquerque when Doyle finally pulled over for the evening, the interrupted sleep from the night before catching up with him. Mevi hadn’t asked to stop anywhere, either, totally withdrawn into his head and the music filling the cabin.

Doyle had gone ahead and activated the Repeat All setting so he didn’t have to touch the iPod’s music controls.

He imagined Mevi might growl at him, maybe bare his teeth if Doyle tried to change music.

But Mevi had retrieved a larger spiral notebook from one of his bags at a gas stop and had switched to furiously writing in it. He didn’t even ask about food, and Doyle suspected that his worries about Mevi trying to sneak away before they reached Florida were completely baseless now.

Mevi didn’t even want to stop writing in his notebook, much less get out of the car.

Once they were parked in front of their room, with Mevi still absorbed by his notebook, Doyle knew the man needed dinner. “What do you feel like eating? Pizza? Chinese? Subs?”