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He talked about his music and his dreams of rocking out stadiums one day.
‘You can really rip, y’know,’ I told him, unable to hide my admiration. ‘Your sets at Davis & Third were amazing.’
He smirked.
‘As the great Miles Davis said, anybody can play. The note is only 20 percent, but the attitude of the mofo who plays it is 80.’
I laughed.
‘True, you’ve got swagger in bucket loads, plus a scattering of cojones and a cockiness about you.’
He shook his head in mock refusal. ‘Nah, I’m shy.’
‘Whatever.’
He then asked me about my interests, showing a deep curiosity about everything from photography to travel.
When he said he often visited Kenya with his family, I told him I’d always wanted to visit East Africa.
‘It has such an ancient legacy,’ I said, ‘from its beautiful tribes to its nature and wild animals.’
His eyes gleamed, and I could tell he appreciated my comment.
‘Maybe one day I’ll take you there,’ he drawled.
We locked eyes until I flushed and tore my gaze away.
He kept his eyes on me, heated, scorching, breaking me down.
He took care of my every need, handing me fresh beer when my bottle ran out and making sure I got my fair share of s’mores.
Every so often, he shot me a faint smirk, or a wink with a glint in his eye, yet he wasn’t arrogant.
While so damn assertive, he was also assured, unfazed by life, at ease with himself and the world.
By the time the fire died down to embers, I was under his spell and fighting hard not to show it.
‘Walk with me,’ he murmured, nodding toward the shoreline.
He had a way of stating facts rather than asking, as if he was used to people obeying him.
Once more I was struck by the fact that he carried no vain bone in him, just a certainty and confidence that made me feel safer than I’d ever felt.
The sand was cool under our bare feet as we strolled along the dark lake, small waves lapping against the shore.
We tossed stones over the moon-drenched water, laughing as we tried to take the other’s pebbles out.
I loved that our sense of humor matched and our conversation flowed without awkward pauses.
My watch read two in the morning when my stomach growled loud enough for Deacon to hear.
He arched a brow at its intensity.
‘Athens Diner. They’ve got biscuits the size of your hand.’
We walked back to the bonfire and found just a few holdouts around the dying flames, so we headed out.
We climbed into the cab of his beat-up Ford truck and headed to the 24-hour spot downtown.
