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“Glad you’re glad.” I let my gaze slide down his body before taking his hand. Board shorts and a white T-shirt stretched just so over his chest.
Suddenly I know the right song.
I make quick work of releasing my guitar from its case, then lower the free-standing mic to my height and strum the strings to check it’s still in tune out of habit.
I knew it would be. I tuned it before I left.
“Hey,” I grin at Sonnie, then wave to the rest of the people watching me.
My voice is loud through the speakers as I shift my attention to the busy bar. All eyes are on me, and the rush that always follows the nerves shivers down the back of my neck. With steady fingers, I play the intro, grinning wide when the crowd recognizes it and sings along with me about looking like my next mistake. Sometimes there’s no better way to lay your cards on the table than with a good old Taylor Swift song. The woman knows how to tell it straight.
“You look like my next mistake...” I lean into the mic and meet the laughing stare of, hopefully, my next mistake.
The setting sun’s last rays light the white-sand beach and even the inside area of the bar in an intense pink glow. You can’t buy this kind of experience. Or lighting, for that matter.
Flynn done good.
By the time the song finishes my cheeks ache. I love performing, have done since that very first time. I’d have followed in my dad’s footsteps in a heartbeat if it wasn’t for the fact that with music comes shitty people. Been there, done that.
Teaching is enough for me. It is. In small doses, but yeah, still. I love performing. There’s nothing like it in the universe.
“Nice.”
I’m greeted by Sonnie’s rough compliment when I skip down the last stair, still buzzing on my adrenaline high.
“Drink?” I offer, only just managing not to act on the sudden urge to bat my eyelashes at him like a fifteen-year-old with a crush.
“I don’t but be my guest. Here...” His warm fingers brush the curve of bare skin as he slides the strap of my guitar case off my shoulder, then shrugs it on to his. “...let me.”
Surprising. I raise my eyebrows but let him lead me back to the bar on the other side of the room.
Maybe there’s more to my cab thief than bad manners and impressive tattoos.
Not that I’ll be sticking around long enough to find out.
We get served in record time and make our way to a table tucked away in the corner of the bar.
He spins his bottle of water on the white-washed wooden tabletop between fingers adorned with ten tiny, fine-line works of art.
I’d be lying if I said his impressive tattoos were the only reason I’m finding it difficult to look away. Sometimes you can see a pair of hands and just know ... something about them screams that they would feel good. That they’d know just where to touch you.
He clears his throat, and I snap my gaze back to his.
His eyes crinkle as he moves his gaze over my face. “I said that there’s something familiar about you. I feel like we’ve met.”
“We did. You stole my cab.” I smirk. I know that’s not what he means, but I’ve no intention of ruining this—whatever it is to get into any of the possible reasons he finds me familiar.
His eyes narrow, and for a second, I think he’s figured me out. “What’s Stan short for?"
I hold his stare and force myself not to chew on the inside of my cheek. “Next question.”
He scans my face but leans back and folds his arms across his chest. “Okay. What brings you to Clua?”
I nod, relieved, unable to look away from the corded muscles in his forearms. “I ... emmmm ... odd story actually.” I dip my head to catch the straw of my drink between my teeth and take a long pull of my second Jack and coke of the night. “I had a ... this guy I used to live with...”
“Ah.” The semi-smirk that’s been present on his face since I met him this morning straightens into a tight line. “A rebound holiday.”
“What? No! Ew, God, no, he was my friend and old. I’ve been living above his garage for the last year.” I finally give in and gnaw at the inside of my cheek to stop my lips from curving down. The skin’s tender and rough. I’ve been doing it a lot since Flynn passed. It’s the only thing that seems to stop my chin from trembling. “He was cool. Ex-military, but totally chill and a closet metal head.” I sniff in a sharp rush of air and stab at the ice cubes in my glass with my straw. This is so not the way I pictured this conversation going. “Anyway, he figured this place would be good for me, and, well, he’s dead, so here I am.” I plaster a fake grin on. “Your turn.”
