Page 86 of Grumpy Bear

He laid the case at my feet, unlatched it slowly, and carefully lifted the lid. The look he gave me was blank. His face was pale and devoid of all expression.

I couldn’t tell what his reaction meant. Did he not like it? Was it somehow the wrong kind? Was he just shocked? “It’s a Martin Rosewood… something. The guy who sold it to me said the dude from Soundgarden plays one.” He was staring at the guitar now, not me. “I wanted you to have your own.”

“It’s gorgeous.” His voice was a whisper, but then he finally pinned me with a sharp look. “I also know it had to cost over a thousand dollars, easy. Am I right?”

I huffed. “It’s rude as shit for you to ask that. Let me give it to you.” Inward groan. I set that one right up.

He calmly put the guitar aside and stood to put his arms around my waist. His smile was wicked. “I’ll let you give it to me.” Yep, I’d walked right into it.

And I gave it right back. “It’s yours.”

We shared another silent, soft, careful kiss. A magnetic seal. And when we finally separated, the forcefield held, expanding into a bubble around both of us.

“I heard the creek’s back in the pool.” His ear-to-ear grin didn’t remotely fit the subject.

“Yeah, looks like I got a job for you. Up at the swimming hole.”

“What kind of job?”

“A very wet job.”

His eyebrows shot up before he pulled me into a hug. We remained that way for a few moments, swaying from side to side.

I took a deep breath of the sunshine in his hair. “Welcome home, Surfer Cowboy.”

Epilogue

Two Months Later

Luke

I’d played solo again over Memorial Day weekend. After the bonfire, Austin had introduced me to some musicians from Edgewood. They were a three-piece backup looking for a lead singer. Lance played steel guitar and fiddle, Alex played bass, and Noah was on drums. We’d clicked immediately and agreed to get together. Coleman had let me take his truck into town to jam with them at their practice space. It had been magic. We’d been writing and rehearsing ever since.

We’d been trying for weeks to come up with a name. They’d kept insisting we call it the Luke Cody Band, since I wrote most of the original songs and sang lead, but I’d squirmed just thinking about it. My ego was not big enough for all that. I’d wanted something more inclusive for everybody, and a little more anonymous for me.

The moment they’d overheard Coleman’s nickname for me—I’d been talking to him with my phone on speaker—all three of them had screamed in unison: “Surfer Cowboy!”

And there’d been no talking them out of it.

It did suit our sound though. We were a little alt country with a happy, stoner vibe, and Lance’s reverb-drenched steel guitar did stray into classic surf rock a little bit.

Tonight was Surfer Cowboy’s first official gig, playing at the Fourth of July bonfire at the campground.

Turns out my song about leaving LA and finding a home in a cabin in the North Georgia mountains was more than autobiographical; it was prophetic. Every time I played it, I searched for Coleman in the crowd; found a big, rare toothy grin on his face; and was overwhelmed with gratitude.

I hadn’t given up anything. I was already everything I’d ever wanted to become. There was nothing wrong, nothing to change. I lived my dream with every breath I took. I had everything I needed to be happy, right here, right now.

The energy of the show had me floating among the clouds, and before I could come down Coleman dragged me away to fuck on our camouflage blanket at the edge of the clearing.

As always, the sex was amazing, each time more intense and connected than the last, but we’d been together two months without either of us saying the three magic words out loud.

Coleman said it first, right after he’d come.

I wasn’t sure I’d heard him correctly because my own orgasm had hit, and I thought I might have hallucinated. “What did you just say?”

He grunted. “You heard me. You’re just trying to get me to say it again.”

“No. Seriously, I was coming. My ears were ringing.”