My confession is wrenched from deep inside of me, leaving myself completely vulnerable to Sloane.
His eyes soften, roaming over me like the barest caress, and he relaxes again, easing my tension. Long fingers pluck at the guitar and his lashes lower as he gazes at the instrument. He plays no definitive tune, but it disappoints me when he stops with the same abruptness that he started. We stare at each other and, despite his demand that we forget about our first meeting, it hangs between us. Passion glazes his eyes. He’s remembering our encounter as much as I am.
I want to know him. Really, really discover his essence. From news stories, I already know his favorite movie and food preference. I’m aware of much more, but reading about him and experiencing him are totally different.
“You’re beyond brilliant to have picked up a lead guitar at Maitland’s house and learned to play in a few weeks.”
His fingers glide over the strings again and he smiles. “That’s a good story, isn’t it?”
I lick my lips and his eyes follow my movement. “It’s true, right?” His wry words bother me.
“No,” he says calmly, and plays again.
This time, his voice rasps the bands biggest hit with only the acoustic guitar as the musical accompaniment. The song is more meaningful with just his croon and a solo instrument. It’s sad and haunting and seductive. Absorbing him, each small nuance, my gaze remains glued to him, so I don’t miss when he closes his eyes and loses himself in his music. I’m rapt with awe as he refocuses on me, to bring it to a conclusion. All of the emotion that he put into his song is stark in his features.
“When I was ten, a very special girl gave me this guitar as a gift,” he says, an underlying pain in the confession. “She had a beautiful soul and I ended up loving her as only a boy could. My dad had me study piano and hired a voice coach, but she knew it wasn’t me. Mother convinced my dad to allow me to change to guitar lessons.”
There’s a faraway look in his eyes. With him distracted, I have unfettered access to study him. His features are strong and bold, so symmetrical they are nearly perfect. If my lashes weren’t so thick and dark, his would be enviable. Instead of his usual gold hoops, he has a diamond stud in each ear.
I swallow and think of a question to break through my fixation on his face and hair. “The girl? She was the love of your life?”
My question snaps him out of his fog and he offers a half-smile. “If you want to say so.”
“I don’t want to say anything about you that isn’t true.”
He bows his head and plays another song for about a minute. I realize he does this to regain his composure when I see his smile is brighter. “Not many people know the truth of how I learned to play, Georgie.”
“I’m honored that you chose me to confide in.” Sadness fills me on his behalf. The girl he loved had meant a lot to him and I sense there isn’t a happy ending. Lowering my lashes, I squirm. “Do you still have contact with her?”
He’s so silent, so still, I think I’ve offended him. After a long moment, he says, “It’s hard to communicate with the dead.”
Sloane
Georgie’s shocked gasp resounds in the room, but I offer no more. I’ve already told her too much. Steffie is a memory better left buried. Or scattered in Galveston Bay, along with her ashes.
“I’m so sorry,” she says quietly.
Her sympathy is real, earnest in her face. It doesn’t escape me that Georgie is the same age I was the year my world fell apart. Is that why I’ve latched onto her? Yes, I want to help her and yes, from the moment I saw her, high as a fucking kite, I wanted to fuck her. My need to know that she’s safe and healthy is deeper than mere attraction. It’s an attempt to recapture the innocence I lost.
She stands up, gauging the length of her IV line, before creeping towards me and laying her fingers on my arm. Her touch is soft, almost shy. She inches closer and hugs me, burying her hands in my hair and stroking.
Her pulse is pounding and I attempt to resist my reaction to her. My guitar is a barrier between us, so I take a chance and return her embrace. Our mutual hold isn’t tight, but it’s significant. She offers me understanding and comfort. I offer her warmth and care. We need no words because our touch says it all.
“Why did you visit me today?”
Unable to resist, I remove the guitar and lean it against the side of the chair. I pull her closer and she rests her head on my shoulder. I give her as much of the truth as I’m capable of—as much as I’m willing to admit or am fully aware of.
“My number one fan needed company. I had time to hang out with her, so here I am.”
Her lips move against my shoulder and I detect her smile. “Your intention wasn’t to give me an inquisition about Thursday?”