I dare not breathe when the song comes to an end. He glances at me. When I give him a carry on gesture, he does. Song after song comes out of his mouth while his fingers keep picking those strings.
He launches into a rendition of Roll Me Away and I realise that’s who his voice reminds me of, Bob Seger. He’s only got a guitar, but somehow, he makes it work, his voice strengthening as he reaches the crescendos, his boot now stomping down hard, forming the percussion to accompany his song. His head moves, his expressive tones belt out the words taking me away, picturing the rider on the road, wishing I was the girl up behind him. I wouldn’t have gotten too cold, and I’d have never left him.
A movement catches my eye. Looking over his head, I see the music has drawn Alicia out of her room, and she’s standing wide-eyed and avidly listening. When he next reaches the end, he ruefully eyes the guitar, the last few chords sounding a little out of tune, not unexpected, given the bashing the instrument has just had.
“Said it needed new strings,” he mutters, fiddling with the keys on the machine head, the action drawing my attention to his long and deft fingers once again.
Alicia comes around the couch.
“That’s my guitar.”
Grumbler looks up, his hand curled around the fret board. “You mind?”
“Hell no.” She plonks herself down beside me, making the couch cushions bounce. “I’ve never heard it played properly before. I didn’t even know it could sound like that. Will you teach me?”
He studies her carefully, then casts an eye my way. I know what he’s thinking. A promise made by Grumbler is, I suspect, a promise that will be kept. And who knows whether we’ll keep seeing each other or go on separate paths. For my part, I know I don’t want to see him walk away, even when our issues with Devon are resolved. On his? I’ve no freaking idea. My shrug stops me from influencing what he next says.
“Sure, if you’re serious. But you won’t learn in a day.” He’s addressed her, but his gaze immediately comes back to me—an eyebrow raised in challenge. Is this his way of saying he’s not going to be walking away? I shiver slightly, knowing it’s in anticipation of the excitement a man like Grumbler could bring to my boring life. A bad boy, can I handle that? It might not have been something I anticipated in my life, but I have no doubt I want this. I’m old enough to know what I want and go after it. I won’t be a hands-on mom for the rest of my days. All too soon, Alicia will strike out on her own. Why shouldn’t I take something for myself?
I have to admit, Grumbler agreeing to give time to my daughter does something to me inside, remembering the man who wanted to ignore her existence and the other who wanted to walk in and take over. It’s not as though he hasn’t seen the worst of her, he has. He knows what to expect. That he’s agreeing to help her and not running for the hills scores many points in my book.
Having been disturbed, to my dismay, he puts the guitar aside. I swallow my regret. I could have listened to him for hours. That voice? In a womanly way it made me feel alive. The action he used on the strings made me wish it was me he was strumming instead. I feel like I’m experiencing a crush on a rock star more appropriate for someone Alicia’s age. My face feels hot and I resist the desire to fan myself.
“Have you been playing long?” my daughter asks. I suspect she’s wondering how long it will take to match his proficiency.
“Got my first guitar when I was twelve,” he answers.
“You should be in a band.”
His mouth quirks at her statement, then he shakes his head. “Bit past it now, but I was, once.”
Alicia bounces on her seat. “What band? Would I have heard of you?”
“Nah, we only played local clubs, and that was well before you were born.” His eyes glaze as he thinks back, then his mouth twists, as though his memories have turned dark. “We were approached to go into a recording studio. Yeah, we were good.” He shudders slightly as he comes back to himself. “But it was a dream, that’s all it was.”
I’m curious. “What happened? Why didn’t you make a record?”
His expression hardens, and just when I think he’s going to clam up, he looks at Alicia. “I didn’t listen to my mom. She took a dislike to our bass player, but I couldn’t see why. He was hip,” he pauses, seeing her not understand, “with it. A man, well, a kid really, you’d look up to and admire. He always seemed to have it together. I thought that was what she didn’t like. I was eighteen, he was twenty. At that age, two years is like a mile.”
Giving a wistful look toward the guitar, he brings his attention back to us. “Mom wanted me to get a proper job. I got by on the shit that we earned playing in the band. It wasn’t bad bread for a man my age. One night, after a gig, we were coming out of a club. Rod, the bass player, well, he must have seen something I hadn’t. Anyway, he passes me his guitar case, said he had somewhere to be, and would I get it back to the van. I agreed, of course, saw nothing wrong in it. He left. I walked around the back of the club where I was jumped by two cops.”
Suspecting I know where this is going, I ask, “What was in the case?”
Grumbler doesn’t hesitate. “Coke. More than one man needed, but not enough to seriously deal.”
“Did you tell them the case wasn’t yours?” Alicia’s perched on
