differences…
I find that we have more in common than we don’t—that we agree on more than just how much of a dick I am .
We both consider NASCAR-Sundays a national holiday, and Chick-Fil-A is its own main food group, as far as we are concerned.
I surprise myself with how much I enjoy making her laugh. I like the sound of her laughter.
I like it a lot…
We run the entire gamut—everything we can think of.
And I start to imagine a world—a world in which I can tell Elena everything , in which I can give her the pieces.
All the pieces of me.
The pieces I’d thought I’d lost and the pieces I’d never wanted to find.
In that world, I would be able tell her about my life.
I’d tell her about an alcoholic father who couldn’t keep his hands to himself—about a self-absorbed mother who couldn’t find it in her to care.
Years of foster care homes and different schools. Strings of lonely nights in corners, reading books…
Until a frustrated and curious pre-teen wandered over to a rich neighborhood in which he didn’t belong.
Until two frolicking boys befriended this kid from the wrong side of the tracks.
I’d tell her that they helped this boy to cope, that they hid him in the recesses of their mansions. And when the boy slipped up and repeated the habits of his parents, they’d nurtured him back to normal.
I’d tell her that when that boy read and learned enough to create his own company, he guided those rich friends of his, shared his business savvy with them—until one day they were confident enough to start their own business— with him .
I would show her how, together, they called that new business, Tripping Out!
And with each ballad, with each bridge that I’d play on the piano, I would pour my story into her hands and let the words flow as easily as the music.
I would give it all to Elena.
But I don’t.
There are certain things that I keep to myself—things that are better left unsaid.
I don’t give her my life… nor do I give her the information about the note on my car… or Gregory Sears… or the hack.
In fact, I give her what the people I know have given me…
Nothing.
Foxx and Chris are the exceptions, not the rule, and with the exclusion of those two—the only real brothers I’ve ever had—no one else ever gave a shit.
So, I’ve given the people I’ve met even less than that.
And I do admit: the infatuation with Elena is new… but like all other things, it will fade. It will transition in and out of my life like everything else has, leaving nothing in its wake.
And I’ve learned to be ok with that.
I allow myself to have tonight with her, knowing it will not last.
I allow my music to say all of things that I can’t, serenading Elena with soft, haunting melodies until at last, she goes to sleep.
Going For Broke
If I lost all, at least I would have played for it. It had always been my philosophy that one must play, or be a loser two-fold.” ― Anna Freeman
ELENA
I wake up to what I thought would be a morning sun.
Instead of light, a sheer blackness greets me as I stir, the intensity and depth of the black somehow even deeper than my closed eyelids.
I turn over, and where I expect to find polished wood, I find cotton and silk, down-filled cushions that sink around my tired limbs.
I’m in a bed now—no longer splayed out on the piano surface. And the windows that surround me in this room are blackened out, blinded on every inch.
The bed is gigantic with sheets as black as the windows. The goose-down pillows are stark white and softer than an angel’s ass.
I start to sit up until a voice from beside me speaks.
“Good morning.”
The words are half-moan, half-growl, and they rumble from the other side of the bed—low and seductive—making me shudder.
I bolt upright… and find Lukas lying next to me.
In the darkness, I can still make out his bare chest and torso, his muscular arms and shoulders framing his beautiful face as he
I find that we have more in common than we don’t—that we agree on more than just how much of a dick I am .
We both consider NASCAR-Sundays a national holiday, and Chick-Fil-A is its own main food group, as far as we are concerned.
I surprise myself with how much I enjoy making her laugh. I like the sound of her laughter.
I like it a lot…
We run the entire gamut—everything we can think of.
And I start to imagine a world—a world in which I can tell Elena everything , in which I can give her the pieces.
All the pieces of me.
The pieces I’d thought I’d lost and the pieces I’d never wanted to find.
In that world, I would be able tell her about my life.
I’d tell her about an alcoholic father who couldn’t keep his hands to himself—about a self-absorbed mother who couldn’t find it in her to care.
Years of foster care homes and different schools. Strings of lonely nights in corners, reading books…
Until a frustrated and curious pre-teen wandered over to a rich neighborhood in which he didn’t belong.
Until two frolicking boys befriended this kid from the wrong side of the tracks.
I’d tell her that they helped this boy to cope, that they hid him in the recesses of their mansions. And when the boy slipped up and repeated the habits of his parents, they’d nurtured him back to normal.
I’d tell her that when that boy read and learned enough to create his own company, he guided those rich friends of his, shared his business savvy with them—until one day they were confident enough to start their own business— with him .
I would show her how, together, they called that new business, Tripping Out!
And with each ballad, with each bridge that I’d play on the piano, I would pour my story into her hands and let the words flow as easily as the music.
I would give it all to Elena.
But I don’t.
There are certain things that I keep to myself—things that are better left unsaid.
I don’t give her my life… nor do I give her the information about the note on my car… or Gregory Sears… or the hack.
In fact, I give her what the people I know have given me…
Nothing.
Foxx and Chris are the exceptions, not the rule, and with the exclusion of those two—the only real brothers I’ve ever had—no one else ever gave a shit.
So, I’ve given the people I’ve met even less than that.
And I do admit: the infatuation with Elena is new… but like all other things, it will fade. It will transition in and out of my life like everything else has, leaving nothing in its wake.
And I’ve learned to be ok with that.
I allow myself to have tonight with her, knowing it will not last.
I allow my music to say all of things that I can’t, serenading Elena with soft, haunting melodies until at last, she goes to sleep.
Going For Broke
If I lost all, at least I would have played for it. It had always been my philosophy that one must play, or be a loser two-fold.” ― Anna Freeman
ELENA
I wake up to what I thought would be a morning sun.
Instead of light, a sheer blackness greets me as I stir, the intensity and depth of the black somehow even deeper than my closed eyelids.
I turn over, and where I expect to find polished wood, I find cotton and silk, down-filled cushions that sink around my tired limbs.
I’m in a bed now—no longer splayed out on the piano surface. And the windows that surround me in this room are blackened out, blinded on every inch.
The bed is gigantic with sheets as black as the windows. The goose-down pillows are stark white and softer than an angel’s ass.
I start to sit up until a voice from beside me speaks.
“Good morning.”
The words are half-moan, half-growl, and they rumble from the other side of the bed—low and seductive—making me shudder.
I bolt upright… and find Lukas lying next to me.
In the darkness, I can still make out his bare chest and torso, his muscular arms and shoulders framing his beautiful face as he
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