Page 8 of Shattered Chords

Groaning, Camille dropped her hands to her sides and stared up at me with fierce intensity. “Okay then, but I’ll need to see some ID.”

No woman had ever carded me, but for some unknown reason, I was ready to walk through fire for this stubborn redhead. As long as she agreed to my offer.

“Umm, sure.” I pulled out my wallet and handed her my license.

She took it and studied my information for what seemed like forever, then scrambled for her phone and snapped a photo.

“Do you want my social security number to run a background check?” Thoroughly amused, I laughed.

“You can never be too careful.” She returned my license.

“True.” I pocketed my wallet.

“What brings you to this part of town, Dante?”

“I live here. Up on the hill,” I explained.

“Your ID says you live in Beverly Hills.”

“I used to. I still own real estate there.”

Confusion twisted her face. “I see.”

“Do you want my current address?” I wasn’t certain why exactly I said it—to make sure she felt safe letting me buy her daughter an expensive gift or because I secretly hoped she’d stalk me to my place. I almost wanted the latter.

Camille took a second to ponder my question. “Well”—she threw both hands in the air—“I have your name and a copy of your license. I think that’ll be enough to report you to the police if you try to look for ways to contact my daughter behind my back.”

“I would never,” I reassured her. “I’m considering seeing her band on Friday, though.”

She glanced up at me with a rapt expression on her flushed face. “I can’t believe I’m letting you do this.” The corners of her lips lifted. One, then the other. It was a strange yet adorable gradual smile.

“You’ll thank me later.”

We stared at each other for a long moment.

“Hey, Hendrix,” I called to Ally. “Your mom is cool.” My eyes darted back to Camille.

“Why do I feel like I’m going to regret this later?” She shook her head.

“You won’t.”

“I better not.”

“If you do, you know where to find me.”

Ten minutes later, the three of us walked out of Bruno’s Rare Guitars with Les Paul.

“Well.” Camille motioned at the dark green 4Runner parked in front of the nail salon. “This is us.”

Her hair shimmered in the blistering sun, blinding me with its light and taking the air out of my lungs. Outside, she shone even brighter than in the confines of the vintage shop, where the guitars had been a distraction.

Right here, right now, in this parking lot, there was nothing else that could possibly own my attention. I was all hers. My eyes devoured every detail as if they’d never seen a woman before.

A huge smile covered Ally’s face as the three of us came to a halt.

“Can I take a photo with you?” she asked tentatively, blowing at a stray strand of hair that had fallen across her nose.

The question caught me off guard. I couldn’t remember if I’d posed for a photo with a fan since the overdose, except for the night I left Passages to ambush Frank. I’d been disconnected from the world for a hot minute, trying to find my way and trying to figure out where the fuck I fit in now. I was broken and I didn’t want this brokenness to spill into the photos that would then circulate online and outweigh all my past achievements.

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