“I can’t play,” she replies, “But I know someone who can.” She looks at Huntley with a mile long grin on her face. “Ah hell Demi, are you kidding me right now?” Huntley whines, shaking her blonde head of curls. I have the sudden compulsion to wrap a single curl around my finger and smell it. I bet it smells sweet, like strawberries. She looks like a strawberries kind of girl.
“Play, play, play” Demi chants. She encourages the rest of us to join in and eventually we’re all chanting along for her to play. Since there are fifteen guys and only two girls, she succumbs to the peer pressure, clearly outnumbered.
“Alright fine,” she sighs, walking up to Brody and taking the guitar from him. “What do you want to hear?”
“Play what you were rehearsing the other night,” Demi chimes
Huntley smiles, pulling the oversized strap over her shoulder and resting the guitar on her knee. “Alright then, but it’s a slow one and I’m a little rusty so be warned.”
Everybody nods in agreement and she settles onto a tree stump to the left of the bonfire. The atmosphere has gone from a rowdy ‘boys only’ blow out to a relaxed hang out with friends, all because this gorgeous girl put a guitar on her lap.
She makes a few adjustments to the strings, tweaking it here and there before her fingers glide over them in complete harmony. Her voice joins the music and it’s flawless. She starts singing the words to Holding Out For A Hero by Ella Mae Bowen and loses herself in the lyrics. She was right, it’s a slow one, but right now I wouldn’t want to hear anything else. It’s perfect.
She’s perfect.
I listen to her voice flow and fuse with the words about waiting for a hero, for someone strong, and steady, and willing to fight for her. The expression on her face makes me wonder if there’s a truth to what she’s singing. Has she been hurt? Does she need saving? I decide I want to know. I want to know if her heart has been broken, I want to know who would be dumb enough to break it and I want to know why no one was around to take care of her. My mind is hovering, thoughts of protecting her crashing into one another at a rapid pace.
I look around at my team mates, all of them completely enthralled by Huntley and the fluidity with which her hands slide over the oversized guitar and the way her voice entices your senses. It’s impossible to look away.
She strums the last chord and I see a single tear roll down her cheek. She swipes at it quickly but I doubt anyone else notices. It’s only quiet for a minute and you can hear the crickets echo through the stillness of a gorgeous southern summer night. But then a deafening applause erupts from everyone around the bonfire and Huntley blushes crimson. God she’s so fucking adorable. Our eyes meet briefly and the current surging between us is almost enough to make me lose my breath. The connection is lost when she looks away but I swear to God she felt it.
Fuck. This is confusing.
“Well boys, it’s time for us to get home,” Tommy says standing up. He easily pulls Demi up with him and she squeals, being taken by surprise. “Baby, I’m driving,” she says with that ‘I-mean-business’ look that we’re all familiar with.
When Brody stops scowling at Demi and Tommy, he looks at me. “Are you ok to drive?” I stopped drinking about an hour ago so I should have no problem driving.
“I’ll drive with you,” Huntley pipes up, shocking both of us. We haven’t said much to each other since her and Demi got here but I’ll be damned if I pass up her offer.
“We’ll drive behind you and I’ll get her at your house after I drop Tommy off,” Demi adds. Her voice is a little too excited.
“Ok,” is all I can manage at this point.
** ** ** ** **
The drive is only thirty minutes but for the first fifteen minutes there’s an awkward silence flowing between us in the cab of my truck. It’s a nervous energy and I repetitively wipe my hands on my jeans because they’re sweaty. I have this flapping feeling in my stomach, like there’s a family of bats living there.
Bats? In my stomach? Really? God Grayson, pull your head out of your ass. It’s just a girl for shits sake…
Huntley fiddles with her hands but keeps looking out the passenger window on her side of the truck. I decide it’s now or never.
“You sing really well,” I say, giving her a brief look before turning my attention back to the road.
You sing really well? Are you fucking kidding me? That’s all I could come up with? Idiot.
“Uh, thanks, “she replies softly, “I was nervous. I hate being put on the spot.”
“Who taught you to play?”
She shifts uncomfortably and I wonder if I should’ve just kept quiet. “My dad. He started teaching me to play when I was really little. I’m surprised he managed it.” A giggle escapes from her mouth and she shakes her head.
A few minutes of more silence passes.
“So how are you liking Breckinridge?” I ask a little too eagerly.