Page 6 of Strike A Chord

“You know you’re all that.”

“Thanks.”

“I’m impressed,” he fist-bumped me. “Not only did you learn their songs ridiculously fast, but you rocked the shit out of them.”

“Impressed enough to go a round between the sheets?” Nice going, Josh, the guy extends a branch, and you offer him your dick.

“Don’t push it. Take the compliment and move on.” Reagan paused long enough to pour me the usual. “So, Just Josh,” his grin was as wicked as his tongue and equally as adorable. “How long have you been playing?”

“Man,” I gripped my beard and blew out a breath. “Since I was old enough to sneak out of the house and into local shows. I got caught once by security and the band I’d watched refused to let the owner call the cops. They took pity on me, but it worked to my favor. The guitarist, Taylor, took me under his wing and taught me everything he knew. They let me hang out with them during their shows and then drove me home long after my old man had passed out. I’d get up and do it all over again the next night.” Fuck, those were the days, though they were short lived. When Taylor overdosed, the band fell apart and called it quits. Fuck, I wonder if those guys are still around?

“Well, you’re talented for sure and at least now I know what you do for a living.” How long would it be before Reagan learned about my sordid past and showed me the door?

“You’re with a great group of guys. I’ve known Jason, Nigel, and Marley for a few years.” Reagan turned away to fill a few drink orders. “You hungry? Want something from the kitchen?” He slid a menu with about a half a dozen items on it in front of me.

“When did this start?” Shit, was I smiling? I don’t smile, I scowl and bark.

“Um, let’s see. Last week when I agreed to buy the bar.” Reagan’s eyes lit up, filled with pride. Hell, I was happy for him. At least one of us found our path in life.

“Congrats, man. That’s great to hear. Change is in the air.” Maybe for both of us. Hope was the one thing I’d had throughout these tumultuous years, but I wasn’t gonna lie and say that reality nearly beat it out of me.

“Thanks. I’m excited. Changes are in the works. Positive ones that will breathe new life into this old place.” Reagan wiped down the bar top then turned back to me. “Since I updated our social media last week and posted about Chaotic playing, plus the new menu and extended hours, we’ve seen a tremendous increase in customers. Of course, tonight was the biggest night with you guys here but across the board we’re doing better.”

“I’m really happy to hear that.” Reagan worked hard and I should know, I’d clocked more hours here watching him than at home. How fucking creepy was that? Not that my current residence was a great place to be. Locked alone inside those yellowed walls didn’t help with the constant battle against depression. Reagan’s friendly smile, and how he knew what his regulars ordered and laid their drinks out before they opened their mouths. Watching him kept my mind off things. How he politely cut them off when they’d had enough was nearly comical. Too drunk to realize what he’d done was entertaining as hell. His employees never said an unkind word that I’d heard about him and obviously, he’d impressed Harvey, or he wouldn’t have sold him the bar.

“Josh Gray.” Just the way my name rolled off this guy’s tongue as he stood beside me screamed trouble.

“And you are?”

“A Social and Maiden Voyage fan.” This dude was jonesing to start shit and I didn’t have it in me deal with it. The respect I had for Reagan was what kept me from clocking this jackass.

“Ready to cash out?” Saved by Reagan as he cut whatever the guy was about to say off.

The douchewad signed the check and slid it back across the bar. “Well, at least you still have it and didn’t lose it like everything else.”

Mother. Fucker.

Reagan shook his head at me in warning. I was so damned close to smashing a glass over that fucker’s head. “All right, have a good night.” At Reagan’s dismissal, he left.

“Is it always like this for you?”

“In the beginning, yes. Now that I’m a virtual no one, not so much.” Being back on stage launched me right back into the limelight, though. With no other talents, I had no choice but to play again unless I wanted to live in my car, which I didn’t. Besides, the feel of the strings beneath my fingers and song writing was in my blood. Without that I had no reason to live.

“It’s been a long time. People need to let it go. You’ve got a gift and you’re meant to share it.” Fuck, Reagan knew.

“Bartender, philosopher, and hot as fuck. You’re the whole package. How is it that you’ve not been snatched up?” Taking compliments wasn’t easy for me, better to turn the conversation back on him. Banter? Now that was the best way to brush off uncomfortable words that threatened to expose a heart. Could it be that Reagan had warmed up to me?

“My life is busy which leaves no time for dating. I’ve got blinders on right now and allowing someone in would only lead to failure, which I couldn’t live with.” Reagan had a huge heart, and I could see him agonizing over a failed relationship. He truly cared about others and even volunteered at the Lambert House in his spare time. He was a smart man who knew his limitations.

Reagan nodded toward my empty glass as he reached for the iPad he kept behind the counter to turn the music back on. Classic rock for the win tonight, for which I had zero complaints. Before the Eagles reached the chorus in “Hotel California,” I had a fresh drink in front of me. The dickhead from earlier aside, this turned out to be a damn good night.

Though I’d never strummed the chords to this song, I could clearly see the notes move through my head. When Taylor mentored me, he said I had a magic brain when it came to music. Musical savant he once said, I had to look it up to figure out what he meant. It was good to know my mind worked for something because outside of that, it played the leading role in an endless stream of bad decisions.

“One time, I’m gonna get you to tell me the stories behind all your tats,” Reagan said as he washed the glasses and set them aside to dry. Turning the focus to something other than my lifelong fuck-ups was a nice change. Now tattoos I could go on for hours about.

“Well, the one on my dick is the most interesting and turned into a work of art.” When he side-eyed me I held my hands up. “One hundred percent truth. It started as a lost bet, but the artist refused to put his name on a napkin-drawn whatever it was. I had no clue, and I was drunk. So, he designed this ornate, I don’t really know how to describe it. Kind of like horns with a solid band that circles the shaft. Hell, saying it aloud basically describes Maleficent’s head, which I guess it kind of resembles. But it’s a killer tat and hurt like a mother fucker.”

“Oh, um, I’m not quite sure how to respond to that.” Poor guy’s face was beet red, and he glanced everywhere but at me.

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