Chapter 29 #2
My brain and hands work like they’re directly connected, like I’m on shrooms or something. Only I’m just deep in the vibe, and the music pours straight out of me. I’m layering sounds, triggering samples, dialing in filters without overthinking.
That beat I’d been hearing in my head for days finally comes through the monitors, and I swear, it feels like an angel pisses on my tongue.
For the first time in forever, I’m producing sober. No hangover haze or chemical brain fog. Just music. And it finally makes sense again, the way it used to when people in the industry called me a gifted kid.
It’s not like the stuff I made over the last two decades was bad. Far from it. I’d built a career off award-winning productions.
But the truth? I’d been creating for other people. Always trying to deliver what the client wanted. And it worked. Everyone left the sessions happy. Except me.
Because it wasn’t me. I never put my soul into it. They’d called me an artist, but I didn’t feel the art. Every mainstream hit felt like a betrayal to the person inside, even if he was locked away for years by the sex, booze, and party side of me.
But this is different, this isn’t mainstream at all. It’s something I can't even put into words because I’d never heard anything like it before.
That’s what Calvin says too when he stumbles down the basement stairs with a greasy pizza box in hand. Still hungover, he lays down on the floor in his disgusting zebra robe while making me hit play over and over again.
Finally, he says, “That’s some wicked, out-of-this-world shit, McKenna.”
We stay in the studio for hours, tweaking, shifting microtiming, layering textures.
Calvin, who is surprisingly a perfectionist when it comes to music, keeps nitpicking until I’m laughing from pure frustration.
But he is right. That tiny detail turns out to be the cherry on the cake, and now, by the end of the night, we might have actually pulled it off.
Not only did we create a song, we created something Calvin swears will go down in music history. I’m sure about that, but I’d never made anything that feels this real.
That night I’m back in the lounge. I’m exhausted, eyes burning, the world a blur.
I fish my glasses from my pocket and put them on. Everything sharpens, just enough to see faces again.
Calvin’s invited a few mates, deciding yesterday’s party wasn’t done yet. Balearic house, loud Scots, and whisky keeps coming.
They offer me a glass, I politely decline.
Calvin tries to push, says we have to toast to the track we made.
When I raise my water bottle instead, he blinks at me, confused.
“Water’s good for toasting too,” I say. He doesn’t get it.
Here’s the thing, the longer I stay sober, the more I see, and the more I see, the more confused I get.
Not about myself. About everyone else.
I love Calvin to bits, but if he’s my mate, shouldn’t he be backing me up on this? Isn’t that what they all wanted when they’d shipped me off to Arcadia?
So why do they keep sliding cut-crystal glasses my way?
It’s like tossing a steak in front of his overfed dogs and expecting them not to go for it.
I look at the bottle. That warm amber glow. The taste I remember—oak, smoke, the right kind of burn.
I keep staring. It’s a challenge, and I’m winning, because it’s doing less and less for me.
What sticks is how I’ve been writing these past few weeks. How I produced today.
How I see life again. Living in the moment, feeling the sunlight, smelling the ocean, hearing the birds.
For the first time, I don’t want to numb myself anymore. I want to feel it all, even the pain, even the ugly shit that crawls out when I revisit the worst parts of my life. Because every time I do, I’m getting a better grip, finally holding the reins.
They’re nice people, but I’m drained. Laughter feels far away, and I definitely don’t have it in me to vibe to a mix of Chris Rea’s Josephine.
I sink deeper into the cushions, lids nearly shut. Then my phone lights up on the table.
Yosh’s name glowing on the screen sends a blow of energy through me.
I snatch it off the table.
Yosh:
McKenna, just checking, should I reserve the isolation suite for you tomorrow? Cozy walls. Very private. Very exclusive.
The smile creeps in before I can stop it.
Fuck. He’s such a tease. I better answer fast, he’s rarely connected with his phone.
Tom:
Only if you’re isolating with me.
Yosh:
Not in Arcadia.
Spit gathers in my mouth. He wants me to bite. And yeah, my cock’s already pulsing like, where where where, so I play along. Because I’m a horny fucker, and he knows exactly how to play me.
Tom:
Drop me a pin and I'll be there.
I watch the typing bubble pop up, then it disappears.
He leaves me hanging and that wait messes with my head. Just when I’m about to throw my phone down and rejoin the conversation, a message appears.
Coordinates.
I paste them into the map and the globe spins. Zooms in.
Avalon. Palm Oasis. Calvin’s villa. My bedroom.
Tom:
You're fucking with me.
Yosh:
Maybe it’s time you stood up and checked for yourself.
Fuck. This is creepy.
Is he watching from the trees? The roof? The fucking sky?
I glance around. Whatever’s written on my face must give me away, because now four pairs of eyes are fixed on me.
“Tom, you alright, mate?”
“Sorry, had to reply someone,” I say, slipping the phone back into my pocket.
Calvin’s arm goes behind my shoulders, gripping me tight.
“You’re grinning like someone landed on your dick this morning. Any cute ladies in Arcadia?”
A glint passes through my eyes. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
He raises his brow, offering that same smug glimmer.
“Well…I heard Stella Martens checked in last weekend.”
“We had dinner last night,” I say casually.
Meanwhile I can feel my phone burning in my pocket. My eyes flick to the villa. Is he here? In my room? Did he seriously break in? The dogs are asleep. Not that they’d do shit.
I make a move to get up, Calvin grabs my wrist. He’s not done.
“Nothing more than dinner?”
“Nothing else.”
It’s the truth, but I let it hang with enough mystery to keep him guessing.
Calvin starts pouring another round. That’s my cue. While he’s busy wrestling the ice bucket, I slip away.
“If you’ll excuse me, I need to make a quick stop,” I say, polite as a proper Brit.
Then I head inside, heart racing. I’m practically running.
My bedroom’s empty.
Bathroom. Closets. Even under the bed.
Fuck.
He got me.
And I hate to admit it, but the disappointment stings.
I think about texting him back. Instead, I hit call.
Maybe I’m still riding the high from this afternoon’s music session, but I feel like doing something bold. Maybe even a little scandalous.
Yosh answers the phone almost immediately.
“Hey.” He sounds sleepy.
“You’re not here.”
He chuckles. “Sorry, you’re just so easy to play with.”
“I don’t think it’s fair for you to use your magical powers to mess with me. That’s very, very unethical, Doctor Aoki.”
“Aw, did it hurt you?”
“I’m not the one you should ask. Someone got a little too attached the second you ran out on him yesterday morning.”
A pause. Then a soft scoff.
“What are you doing, Yosh?”
“I’m already in bed, studying that book you found so interesting the other day.”
I don’t give a shit about the book. I only heard bed.
I grab a towel, turn back, and click the lock on my bedroom door.
Earbuds out of my bag. In.
I don’t make a sound.
Then I peel off my shirt, my pants, and lift the soft sheets to slide into bed. My cock’s already straining against my underwear, brain flooded with all kinds of obscene thoughts.
“I’m in bed too,” I breathe. “And I think it’s time you close that book.”
First there is silence, then a surprised hum. A soft thud—the book closing.
“There’s one thought that keeps swirling in my head since yesterday,” I say. “And it’s kind of…problematic. I’m not sure I should share it with you, Doctor.”
My hand flies to my mouth, stifling the laugh threatening to escape, partly because I can’t believe I’m doing this.
Partly because this is so me.
He’s into this roleplay. He has to be. I mean, if I were a doctor, I would be doing slutty shit all the time.
I hear him swallow. His voice, rough, vibrating in my ear.
“Say it, Tom. I know you want to.”
My hand slips inside my undies. I ease the pressure around my cock, already hard and aching, warming it with just the right strokes.
“I was wondering…how would you have handled yesterday if, let’s say, we hadn’t been interrupted?”
Silence, his breathing growing heavier.
I let my voice drop to a purr.
“I want you to tell me every detail… your hand wrapped around your cock while you talk me through it.”
I can't help smirking in the dark. I’m a fucking genius.
He exhales slowly, shakily.
“I’d start by pushing you down onto my bed.”
“I finished myself there yesterday, then took a nap.”
“I know,” he sighs. “My pillow smells like you.”
“Then what?” I ask softly. I slide my thumb around the head of my cock, slicking it slowly with drops of precum beading at the tip.
“I would put my hands on you. Bare hands, hot oil. From your shoulders, down to your nipples, flicking, stimulating them, making them hard between my slick fingers just to see how fucking sensitive you are.”
“I’m very sensitive there, love.”
“Figured.” His breathing turns heavier, a broken sound spilling into my ear. “That’s only the beginning…”
“Where… where would you go?”
“I’d follow your body,” he says roughly. “All the way down, feeling your skin, the shape of your stomach under my fingertips. I would press myself against you, letting you know exactly how hard you make me.”
A sharp, hot wave shoots through my stomach. I squeeze tighter, stroking faster now, chasing the filthy edge in his voice. Pretending it’s him instead of my hand.
“Fuck, Yosh, you're so fucking filthy. Keep talking.”