Page 52 of On The Rocks

“Hell.”

A purple Jeep wasn’t exactly inconspicuous.

Well, too bad there. I didn’t care if people knew we were together. I guess I’d find out how she felt when she woke up.

I shot off a quick text back that I’d catch up with them tomorrow and tossed my phone onto the end table. I climbed the few stairs to the kitchen and grabbed a can of water from the fridge, draining it as I scoped out the freezer for something to eat later.

Laverne kept me in frozen dump meals—her name for them.

I chose a beef stew and peeled it out of the gallon bag, then dropped it into the Crock Pot she’d brought with the food.

Being mothered was a new and welcome aspect of living at the orchard. I turned it on medium heat, then grabbed a can of Coke Zero for a kick of caffeine.

While Lennon slept, I’d work on the music space I was planning.

I’d pulled my gear out of storage, now I just needed to load it on the pulley system Kain had built into the steel supports.

Trailing my fingers over the worn leather of my guitar case dredged up shitty feelings. And then some. I hadn’t touched my Taylor since the day Reversal of Fortune had dissolved.

It was time for that to change.

I hauled my ancient Fender house amp over to the support camouflaged with decorative gears that actually worked. I flipped down the heavy metal plate and set the amp on it and flipped the switch. It slid up almost silently.

I climbed up the ladder to the upper deck. There was already a long, low-slung couch perfect for chilling out and playing music. Mostly, I played acoustic guitar, but I wanted the option to pull out my Les Paul.

I was hoping working with Justin during the concert series would help remind me why I loved music.

Other people’s music was easy. I could listen to other artists all damn day—but my own creative sound had been missing for a damn long time.

I made a few more trips with the scent of beef stew finally drifting up from the kitchen by the time I had the last of my gear set-up. My stomach growled, but I ignored it in favor of restringing my Taylor Sunburst GA.

I brushed my palm over the marks along the body where my bracelets used to rub. The deep grooves had been made during a show in…Colorado. We’d jammed deep into the night. Marc and I had created a one-of-a-kind solo for “Bleed”.

I looped my strap over my head and the custom leather fell into place as my fingers picked out the familiar chords. The old calluses knew right where to slip into grooves on the fretboard and strings.

The soft strains burrowed inside of me and ripped open the scars that weren’t quite mended.

I flattened my palm over the strings to kill the sound.

“Why did you stop?”

I looked up from the guitar at her voice. She was standing outside my bedroom, wearing only my Johnny Cash shirt.

“Hey, you’re awake.”

She padded across the living room, then she paused. “How the hell did you get up there?”

“I’ll come down.”

She shook her head and put her hands on her hips. “I want to come up.”

I sighed. “Stairs are on this side.” I gestured to the wall with the big window.

She darted over and gave a delighted grin when I looked over the edge. I swung my guitar around my back to give her a hand up the final step.

“Thanks.” She looked around at the guitars in their stands, her gaze lingering on the open leather box, with a few percussion instruments inside. “Tell me there’s a cow bell in there.”

I shook my head and sat down, pulling it in front of me. “Of course I do.” I held up the cow bell that only came out when there was a lot of drinking involved.

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