“Opal made snacks.”
Sean’s eyes bulge with interest. “Yum.”
Trent snags a roll and shoves it in Sean’s hands. “One for the road. We wait any longer and everything good is gonna be closed.”
“Fuck yeah. Let’s do this.” Austin slides out of the kitchen and he’s the first one out the door. Everyone else follows, but Trent hangs back.
He meets my stare. “You need anything, call.” His thoughtfulness is no doubt prompted by his relationship with my sister. I’m glad she found a good man. He gives me a stern glare. “I mean it. Anything.”
“I will. Promise.”
As soon as they’re out the door I breathe a sigh of relief. Our driver, Jay, won’t be back until it’s time to roll out. The security guards on shift, who Trent introduced me to earlier, are outside if I need them, but other than that I’m alone for the next few hours. I can do whatever I want.
So, what to do?
I’d call Lexi, but she’s three hours ahead on the other coast and most certainly asleep. I hope she had a good show tonight. I’ll text her in the morning.
Unable to sit with my thoughts, I get the practical stuff out of the way first. A shower, which helps wake me up. I snack on some fruit and finish the last biscuit. Not the most well-rounded of meals, but it’s good enough. Besides, I don’t want to waste this precious alone time with more cooking.
My eyes fly over to the acoustic Austin brought aboard earlier. When he lugged it along, and set it out of the way where I could see, I swear my stomach turned to butterflies. Did he bring it for me? He must have. Such a meaningful, sweet and simple gesture. Or I’m being silly and stupid, reading into something when he very well brings a guitar on every tour.
It’s not mine. I should ask permission first. But that nagging thought only lasts a few minutes before I succumb to my own curiosity. Walking over to the case, I unsnap the brass latches. Inside is a sleek black varnished Gibson. I didn’t think it possible, but this one’s even more beautiful than the guitar in Lexi’s room. Austin only gave me one lesson, but the need to play is still as strong.Practice. The advice he drilled into my head during our lunch out afterward.No matter how bad you suck, you won’t get better unless you actually play. It’s the truth, too. It’s how I learned to play violin as a child. Grams never cared about the racket I made. But gone is my youthful confidence and I glance around, self-conscious as I pick up the instrument, worried someone might see or overhear.
I have no idea about tuning, or much other than how to hold the instrument. Settling on the floor with my legs crossed, I practice strumming it as Austin taught me.
Dear Lord. I wince at the sound. Horrible. Lightening my touch, I try again. Better.
“You’re doing it wrong.”
I startle, my eyes flying toward the voice and fight the impulse to shove the guitar back in its case. Which would be totally pointless considering Leighton’s already witnessed my lackluster playing.
He leans against the wall of built in shelves and his brows tip up as if to ask what I’m doing. Plain rude considering he’s supposed to be out with the rest of the band right now, not judging my novice playing skills.
I muster all the nerve I have and lift my brows right back. “Excuse me?”
“Don’t practice that way. You’re training your muscle memory wrong.” He struts over, and I try not to stare at his skintight jeans or how sinfully good he looks wearing them. Without an invitation he plops himself on the floor next to my side and reaches for my hand.
I straighten my spine and tighten my grip on the instrument, abhorred that he thinks he can come in here and order me around, or touch me without permission. I don’t care how good looking he is. “This is how Austin showed me to do it.”
“Well, he taught you wrong.” Leighton lets loose an arrogant chuckle.
I narrow my glare. “Aren’t you supposed to be a drummer?”
“Yeah, well, I know how to play a few things.” The cocky smirk that travels across his face tells me he’s a player when it comes to women, too.
“Sure of yourself.”
“I am.” His gaze pours into mine and although his lips still hold a smile, his words contain no humor. “If you’re serious about learning to play, don’t pause on the down beat. And do it with conviction. You’re gonna suck for a while. No need to do it softly.”
He thinks I suck. Because I do. I pull the guitar closer to my body, a useless shield against his truthful words. “Awfully bossy, aren’t you?”
“You have no idea.” His eyes darken and yet his lips twitch with a smile that leads me to wonder exactly what he likes to be in control of. Or why it sounds appealing. The man is probably used to getting everything he wants.
“Why . . . ?” The question falls short on my lips.Why are you here? Why do you want to help me? Why are you so darn handsome?
“Why do I like to be in control?”
“No. Why do you think you can come in here and interrupt my time with unsolicited advice? Aren’t you supposed to be out debaucher-izing or whatever the hell y’all do?”
