But I wasn’t ready to show anyone.
Gradually, that changed, and there are songs I think are pretty good.
Regardless, even if it’s just to play a few tunes for my girl or to entertain myself on a day off, I need a damn guitar. A good one. An expensive one. I know the guys in the band would give me any number they have lying around, but I don’t want something secondhand. If I buy a guitar, it has to be something specific.
“Look at this one,” Wynter calls from the other side of the room.
The electric guitar is…almost an exact replica of the one I played with Ross & the Rock-its. A flying V shape, electric blue, and the prettiest thing I’ve seen other than Wynter in a very long time.
With a price tag to match.
“It’s beautiful,” I say, running a hand along the neck. “But that’s a lot of money.”
“You’re worth it,” Wynter says softly.
“And if I decide I don’t want to do the rock star thing? Then what?”
She glances up at me with a curious expression on her face. “Um, you own a beautiful guitar that makes you happy and you can play whenever you feel like it?”
“Can I help you?” An older gentleman, probably the owner of the store, approaches us with a friendly smile.
“She’s a beauty,” I tell him, “but I wasn’t planning to buy a car today.”
He chuckles. “Well, it’s a very small car, and gets great mileage.”
I smile, turning back to the guitar. Once upon a time, I wouldn’t have hesitated. Now I do because…I’m not sure why. I want a guitar but this one would be the most expensive thing I’ve ever owned. Okay, it’s not the price of a car in today’s market but maybe a small car. Twenty years ago.
“You want to play it?” he asks after a brief pause. “She really is special.”
Fuck.
Reluctantly, I pick it up.
I’m immediately swept back in time.
“I need this guitar.” Joey studies the replica of Eddie Van Halen’s guitar in the New York City store with eyes big as saucers. He’s such a little kid when it comes to guitars.
“Dude, you have like, twelve cents to your name,” I point out.
He waves an impatient hand. “That’s what credit cards are for.”
“And how are you going to make the payments? We haven’t made a dime yet.”
“But we will.” He gives me his most charming, confident grin before turning and jogging into the store.
“Have a seat.” The store owner brings a stool and I’m so lost in thought, I slide onto it without hesitation.
Damn, it feels good in my hands.
Without giving it a lot of thought, I play the opening notes to “Shoot For the Stars.” It’s so easy, natural, to play it. Like I just played it yesterday instead of nineteen years ago.
“I thought that was you,” the store owner says quietly. “I’ve been reading about you stepping in for Kingston Knight. How’s that feel after so many years out of the business?”
I open my mouth to contradict him—since I’ve been working in the business nonstop, just not as a musician—but let it go.
“It feels better than I thought it would,” I admit. “It’s been fun.”
“The rumors true that you might revamp the old band?”
