Page 5 of Shattered Chords

“Exactly.” Half smiling, I slipped the strap over my neck and brushed the stock of the guitar with my fingers, saying hello. Nothing could possibly compare to the feeling that rushed through me when I touched the instrument I was about to play. We were ready to make sweet love, and this—caressing the body of the guitar—was foreplay.

A prelude.

The fear that had been following me ever since I’d woken up in a hospital with a head full of cotton was still there, lodged deep in my gut, but I fought it relentlessly. I couldn’t let it overtake me.

“I follow your Instagram,” Ally said casually once Lance was gone again, then handed me the pick she’d used.

“You got a favorite?” I asked. The lollipop in my mouth had shrunk to nothing. It was just a piece of plastic between my teeth. A sad imitation of a cigarette.Or a sad imitation of the feel of a cigarette.

“Sure. Can you play ‘Back Street’?”

I didn’t say anything. Instead, I eased into the chords and whipped out a riff I wrote for my first solo album. Mean sounds poured through the shop. My chest swelled with blissful heat as I picked the strings one by one, giving into the steady rhythm. It felt good—playing in front of someone after so long.

But panic slowly settled in my stomach as the composition progressed. I was nearing the solo and my brain started to fail me. Then I missed a note. Once. Twice. My fingers couldn’t keep up and didn’t understand what they needed to do. I halted and one hand choked the neck while the other slammed against the body of the guitar. A screeching sound of defeat pierced the air.

Mustering a smile, I looked back at my only observer.

“Sick shit.” Ally nodded, ignoring my fuck-up during the solo. “You still kick ass.”

“Eh, could have been worse.” I pulled the strap over my head and handed her the Les Paul.

She settled it over her neck.

“You want it?” I asked, tossing the lollipop stick into the nearest trash can.

She stared at me with wild eyes. “The guitar?”

“Yes.”

“It’s six thousand bucks, dude.” Her voice was a frail whisper.

“Last time I checked, I was still rich.” I grinned. “It’s yours under one condition.”

Ally was quiet for a second as her eyes evaluated me. I heard the ding of the chime and Lance speaking to someone at the counter. The silence that stretched between us became heavy.

“You’re hot and famous and all,” she said quietly, “but I’m not sucking your dick.”

I almost bit my tongue. “Holy fuck, darlin’.” Laughter erupted from my throat. “Don’t ever say that to a guy my age, or any guy for that matter. First, you’re still a kid. Second, there are too many pervs out there. Third, I’m not one of them.”

Blush colored her cheeks, so I decided not to dwell over this misunderstanding and embarrass her even more. “When’s your birthday?”

“Next year.”

“Okay, well—” I paused. “Let’s pretend it’s a Christmas present then.”

“Are you for real?” Ally blinked rapidly, hugging the guitar.

“Yeah. I’m for re—”

“She’s fifteen, asshole,” said a female voice.

I snapped my head in the direction of the woman who’d just called me a name I hadn’t been called in months. At least, not in person. She was a carbon copy of Ally—heart-shaped face, wide eyes, full lips, but with red hair and dressed conservatively in plain blue jeans and a lavender shirt.

Sister? Cousin? Aunt?

Her bright yellow nail polish and sneakers dotted with sunflowers told me she was probably anti-rock’n’roll.

“Mom.” With a groan, Ally rolled her eyes. “Come on. Stop embarrassing me.”

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