Page 16 of A Little Campfire Blues
Only, as I started to fill up my pan, a little thought wormed its way out, taking root front and center.
What the hell would Roman and Axis think when they saw me in it?
Chapter Eight
Mackenzie
The place had a nice vibe, especially around the fire pit, where it looked to me like at least fifty other people were seated around the bonfire in various arrays of dress, from full-on Dalmatian pup gear to worn jeans and T-shirts. The young man with the sticker-covered guitar case who sat a little to the left of me was one of those who’d dressed in comfortable streetwear, as did his larger companion. Their spiky-haired friend, who I couldn’t clock as male or female, was dressed in what could have been little’s lounge-around attire, with the outfit they had on, but nothing in their mannerisms pegged them as a little for certain.
The largest of the three sat in between the other two, which put the smallest one closest to me and the one with the guitar furthest away. When they finished eating, the largest collected the pie tins from the other two, ruffled the smallest one’s hair, and shot them a fond smile that left me with a pang of disappointment surging through my gut.
He must be the daddy then. Damn.
The small one was super adorable, and the guitarist was hot as hell with all that long, damp hair framing his face. At least he wouldn’t run the risk of catching a cold sitting this close to the flames, but if he was my boy, I’d have dried his hair before bringing him down here, just in case. Their daddy was a fuckin’ hotty, but I’d never been one to try and push in where there was already a dynamic in place.
Still, when he rejoined them, I couldn’t help but notice that neither of the other two was particularly cuddly, despite the three sitting side by side on a big log. There was just enough distance between them to suggest that maybe they weren’t touchy-feely with one another, which threw my original assumption for a bit of a loop.
Just friends, maybe?
It would bear watching, not that it would be a chore when they were each stunning and unique in their own special way.
Across the fire, the blond-haired leather daddy who’d been playing the harmonica broke into the Stones’ Midnight Rambler, and my foot started tapping as I reached for my guitar case and withdrew Bertha.
I saw the wet-haired guitarist grinning as he nodded along to the song, fingers inching towards his case, before his smile waned, and he withdrew his hand from where he’d lovingly started caressing it, tucking it back in his lap and covering it with his other hand like he’d been naughty. As a fellow musician, the reaction threw me, especially as I watched some of the light in his eyes dim as he started worrying one of the threads around a rip in his jeans.
Why bring the guitar down if he didn’t want to play it?
When I saw the one in the middle nudge him and incline their head towards the case, I was left with more questions than answers, especially when the guitarist shook his head and then ducked it in response.
Well then, clearly it was his decision not to join us in the song, or maybe he was just shy and waiting to see how many others were going to play and sing along. If that was the case, then maybe joining in with Bertha would offer him the encouragement he needed to share his talent. His spiky-haired friend had no qualms about lending their voice to the song. They threw their head back and sang with gusto along with a handful of others who knew it, though it was clearly not as popular a tune as the harmonica player might have hoped.
That was fine; there was plenty of night left and plenty more songs we could try. The crowd was an eclectic mix of Gen Xers, Millennials, and Gen Zs, so maybe we needed to move things up a generation or two, music-wise.
When the song ended, I immediately slipped into the intro for Turn the Page, the harmonica player joining right in. From somewhere to my right, someone started drumming on a smallelectric drum kit, while several around the circle broke into the lyrics, instead of the trio I’d had my eyes on.
Long hair’s fingers flexed, and I knew that itchy feeling well; only he settled for tapping them against the back of his other hand rather than taking his guitar out of the case. Still, I could hear their voices mingling as they sang along to what turned out to be a pretty rockin’ rendition of the song.
As it always did when I had Bertha in my hands, the concept of time faded as everything slowed, blurred, and grew a little hazy. We’d just finished Holding out for a Hero and slipped into All Star from the Shrek movie, when I noticed movement out of the corner of my eye and glanced over to see spiky hair get up from their seat and move around to the other side of the guitarist, lift the instrument case, and place it in the guitarist's hands so they could occupy the space right beside him.
This time there was snuggling, as spiky hair pressed in close and peered up so imploringly that the look on their face nearly led to me missing a changeover. They batted their eyes, and the light from the flames caught a hint of something shimmery on their lashes and cheek. I couldn’t tell the color, but there was definitely glitter there. Whatever they said led to the guitarist closing his eyes, shoulders heaving as he finally opened the case to pull out a denim blue acoustic guitar that I was certain was an Ibanez.
The moment All Star was over, he started strumming the intro to Hallelujah, faltering a moment before glancing at his friend, who made a shooing motion with their hands, urging him on. His voice, when he did start playing, was low, until the big one nudged him, leaned against his shoulder, and whispered something in his ear that left him looking resolved, though he did start singing louder, and damn, he had some pipes on him.
Rolling, lilting, and so damned haunting it sent a shiver down my spine. I refrained from joining him so I could listen to himplay and study the way he held himself. Head down, refusing to look at anyone as he played the song without any more stumbles or hesitation.
No doubt about it, he was hella talented. When spiky hair joined him on the chorus, you could just tell they were used to singing together, with the way their voices harmonized and one chimed in just a little behind the other, so their voices rose and fell. As I listened to them draw out all the scales, I watched their big friend stare at them with such heartbreaking tenderness, love, and admiration, I instantly knew that they’d been close for a very long time. For a moment, it was like they were in their own little world, especially when spiky hair mouthed something during the final chords, and the guitarist actually smiled a little and nodded.
I knew the new song from the moment he started playing it, and this time I joined in. I loved Ed Sheeran, and Castle on the Hill was one of my favorites and one that evoked all kinds of memories as I sang along. The end of the song caught me completely off guard, though. Not because of the music, but because of the tears on the trio’s faces, right before spiky hair and the guitarist leaned towards one another, spiky hair’s fingers tangling in the guitarist’s hair as they melted into a kiss.
In any other setting, they might have been subjected to catcalls and wolf whistles, but public displays, often of a far more intimate nature, weren’t uncommon in our lifestyle, so the harmonica player just launched into another song, while the pair went from kissing to clinging to one another like at any moment they expected the other to vanish. Like it was second nature to him, their big friend slipped the guitar from the guitarist’s grasp and placed it back in the case, then scooted closer so he could get in on the hugging, resting his head on top of theirs as they huddled together on that log.
I had so many questions that I knew I didn’t have the right to ask, but something about their reaction to the song made me wonder why the spiky-haired one had asked him to play it. I was certain they had, just like I knew they’d been the one to request Hallelujah and get the reluctant young man to stop hesitating when he clearly played like a pro.
I needed to meet them, if only to figure out why I’d been so intensely drawn to them from the moment they’d sat down around the circle. When they stood, three songs later, and turned away from the bonfire, I bolted to my feet, nearly stumbling backward over the log behind me before I found my footing, hastily tucked Bertha back in her case, and hurried after them as they headed for the parking lot.
“Hey,” I called after them, carefully trying to follow the light of their flashlight without the benefit of one of my own.
Only after I stumbled twice did I remember that my phone had one I could have used, but of course it was too late by then.
