Page 57 of The Bridges I've Burned

“Yeah,” I lied. “It’s only a couple of weeks. What could possibly go wrong?”

There were several things I had not considered when I made the rash decision to turn my car around and head back to Ocracoke. The first and most glaring issue was my accommodations. Elena had been okay with me sharing her space for a night.

But three weeks?

I wasn’t even sure I could handle three weeks alone with that woman. One night had been torturous. Knowing she was right down the hall, wondering what she wore to bed, picturing her in the shower?—

Fuck, maybe I should reconsider that house arrest.

Secondly, I’d packed enough clothes to last me about two days, and while I could make do and buy whatever I didn’t have, the one thing I couldn’t replace was my equipment. If I was going to be here for an extended period of time, I was going to need more than the single acoustic I’d brought along.

I had a tour to prepare for.

Thankfully, Hendrix was more than willing to take care of this problem for me.

“Dude, does this mean I get to meet your family?”

“No,” I answered when I called him to tell him about the article and the abrupt change of plans. “Just ship it to me.”

“And risk my balls when you go apeshit ’cause your Strat was scratched in transit? No fucking way. I’m hand-delivering that thing.”

“I feel like you’re just using this as an excuse.”

“Maybe.” He laughed. “But you can’t deny the thought that one of your guitar babies getting injured gives you heart palpitations.”

It did. I wasn’t gonna lie.

Some people had fur babies. I had guitars.

So, that was how Hendrix roped me into booking him a round-trip flight from Los Angeles to Norfolk, leaving in a few days. Until then, I’d just have to make do. I tried to get him in and out in a day, but he convinced me he needed more time to recharge than that. He was staying for two.

He made sure to add how excited he was to meet my “other roommate” before we hung up.

This was gonna be a nightmare.

My stomach rolled as I drove off the ferry and onto Highway 12.

The town’s welcome sign mocked me as I drove by once more.

I’d texted Macon after I boarded the ferry for the second time that day, asking him to meet me at the coffee shop. Again. I expected him to ask questions. Yell a little maybe.

Instead, he responded with:

Macon

You actually gonna show this time?

Yeah, I guessed I deserved that.

When I drove into the parking lot, he was already waiting for me. He leaned against his patrol car, both arms folded across his broad chest. I’d never seen him in uniform before.

Well, not this one at least.

He wore tan utility pants and heavy boots. A black shirt and vest with the word sheriff in bold script covered his upper body. He looked formidable, and I suddenly felt like I was twelve years old all over again.

Shutting off the engine, I stepped out of the car and walked the short distance to where he stood. The gravel crunched under my feet, and I could feel his heavy gaze every step of the way.

“You came back,” he simply stated.

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