Page 74 of The Painter and His Poet

“Kill the animals? Fuck, no. He’s actually a conservationist and takes in injured wildlife. Sometimes they don’t survive and, well, I don’t think he can’t bear to part with them. I’m pretty sure he prefers animals over humans any day of the week…” He replies, his voice trailing off as we both study the owl.

“Wow, okay. Kind of creepy, but also somehow not…”

“My uncleiscreepy as fuck, so that’s fair. Anyway, he refuses to come into town anymore, so I run the store for him. The pay is shit, though I do get a small commission for every instrument I sell. Not that I’m bothered, really, because I get to spend my nights performing at Bandits with my band. Makes up for the shit wage,” he shrugs.

“Wait, are you a member ofPrincetown Bandits?” I ask, remembering Ben telling me about the band he manages when we were dancing together at the wedding.

“You’ve heard of us? Don’t tell me you’re a fan who’s travelled all the way from the US just to see us play? Nice accent by the way,” he replies with a cocky kind of swagger that makes my cheeks heat. He’s most definitely got that cool, rock vibe going on with his faded tee, tattoos trailing down his arms, torn denim jeans and scuffed up leather boots.

“Erm, well…” I pull a face, not wanting to offend him, but equally not wanting him to think that I’m some groupie, one that’s a good few years older than him at that.

He tips his head back and laughs. “I was just joking. Sorry, I couldn’t help myself.”

“Oh, right. Sure,” I laugh, my shoulders untensing.

“So how did you hear about us?”

“I met your manager, Ben, at my mother’s wedding a few weeks back. He told me all about your band.”

“Ah, that’d explain it,” he replies, then he cocks his head to the side and studies me. “Wait a minute, are you the woman Ben wouldn’t shut up about? He said your voice was shit-hot.”

“He did?” I let out an embarrassed laugh, waving away the compliment.

“Yep,” he says, popping the p.

“That was nice of him.”

“Believe me, he wasveryimpressed. Anyway, ummm….” His voice trails off as he holds his hand out to me to shake. “Sorry, he did tell me your name but I’m a forgetful bastard, and I’m blanking on it.”

I take his hand, shaking it. “Harlow Richards, and you?”

“Blake Black,” he replies, giving my hand a squeeze before releasing it.

“Very Rock ‘n’ Roll,” I say with a soft smile.

He shrugs. “Fits the vibe of a bass player, I guess.”

“You play the bass?”

The grin that seems to be permanently painted on his face widens as he pulls a pick from out of his pocket and strums a few chords on the guitar, his deft fingers moving up and down the frets with accomplished ease. “The guitar, violin and cello too, but in the band I’m the bassist. Sexiest instrument by far in my opinion. Though my bandmates would probably disagree. How about you, do you play an instrument as well as sing?”

“The piano. Though it’s been a while to be honest,” I explain, eyeing the piano in the corner of the store.

“Want to give it a play?” he asks, following my gaze.

“I don’t know. I’m probably a little rusty.”

“How long has it been since you last played?”

“About a year, give or take.”

“Well, that beauty over there hasn’t been played in forever, and whilst I’m a talented bastard and can play most instruments, I’ve never quite got the handle of percussion, string is more my area of expertise. These fingers prefer to strum and pluck, if you know what I mean?” he says with a flirtatious wink. “Give it go.”

I can’t help it, I laugh. “Sure, I guess it wouldn’t hurt to try.”

Blake gives an exaggerated nod, his grin widening. “Exactly. Plus, if it sounds terrible, I’ll just blame it on the piano.”

“Yes, let’s do that,” I agree, still feeling a little hesitant as I take a seat on the bench and rest my fingers gently over the keys.

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