Page 33 of The Rebel with Broken Strings
Charly’s eyes widened with excitement. “Are you serious? That would be incredible!”
“Damn straight,” Gunner replied, winking at her. “I’ll reach out to her.”
As the others chattered excitedly about the possibilities, Gunner smiled. It had been a long time since he’d felt this…useful. This wanted. He caught Aubrey’s eye across the table, and the pride shining in her gaze made his heart skip a beat.
Eli pushed back from the table, his chair scraping against the floor. “As much as I’d love to sit here and enjoy the conversation and the warmth, I’ve got work to do.” He turned to Gunner, a glint of mischief in his eyes. “I’m headed to the ranch, if you want a ride.”
Gunner nodded, rising to his feet. “Count me in.”
As they started clearing the table, Gunner found himself marveling at how natural it all felt. The easy banter, the sense of purpose, the way they all moved around each other like a well-oiled machine. For a moment, he let himself imagine a life like this—waking up to Aubrey every morning, sharing breakfast with friends, heading out to work at the ranch instead of chasing the next big hit.
It was terrifying. And exhilarating.
“You coming, Woods?” Eli called from the doorway, keys jingling in his hand. “Or are you gonna stand there daydreaming all day?”
Gunner shook himself out of his reverie. “I’m right behind you,” he replied, grabbing his cowboy hat from the counter. He turned back, finding Aubrey at the sink. As she began to scrub a plate, he closed in on her.
“Forgot something,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble even to his own ears.
Aubrey’s breath hitched. “Oh? And what might that be?”
Instead of answering, Gunner brushed her hair aside and pressed his lips to the sensitive spot just below her ear. The kiss was tender, a stark contrast to the passionate encounters they’d shared last night.
“That,” Gunner whispered against her skin.
Aubrey leaned back into him. “You’re going to be late,” she managed.
Gunner chuckled and said, “Worth it,” before sliding his hat on his head and heading out the door.
Ten
Later that night, the firelight flickered and played along the walls of Gunner’s living room. Aubrey, weary from a long day, was happy that she had a night off tonight. Cocooning herself in a large armchair near the dancing flames, she wrapped her knees close and watched as Gunner’s fingers moved deftly over his guitar strings. The tune he played was raw and unrefined—simply him, free of performance or artifice; there was no audience, no spotlight, just his unguarded vulnerability. The days seemed to pass quickly as Aubrey and Gunner made the most of their time together, balancing Aubrey’s shifts at the bar with Gunner’s volunteer work.
God, he was gorgeous.
When he paused to fix a tuning peg, her eye noticed a crinkled, yellowed piece of paper peeking out from his guitar case. “What’s this?” she murmured, reaching out tentatively.
Gunner shot a glance over his shoulder, and for an instant, his jaw tightened as an emotion flashed behind his eyes—a mixture of warning and plea that she couldn’t decipher. “Just an old photo,” he replied quietly as his fingers grazed an accidental, lingering note that seemed laden with extra meaning.
With careful gentleness, Aubrey opened the picture and let her thumb trace its creases as if trying to ease the sting of old memories. Though faded, the image clearly showed a young Gunner—maybe six or seven years old—sitting next to an older man whose kind eyes and weather-beaten face radiated warmth; they both held guitars and smiled. “Is this your grandpa?” she asked softly, her touch along the edge of the photo delicately caressing what once was.
Gunner fell silent. He set his guitar aside and leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees as his eyes remained fixed on the shifting flames. Finally, his voice emerged, rough yet measured: “Yeah. That was the summer he taught me to play.” He drew in a long, heavy breath before continuing, “He was the first person who ever made me feel like I was good at something. More than just…good—worthy.”
She sat quietly, letting the silence between them deepen. “He used to say that music wasn’t about chasing perfection; it was about sharing your truth, even if it hurt,” Gunner went on, locking his eyes with hers and causing something to tighten painfully within her chest. “I stopped visiting him after I got signed. I kept promising myself I’d find the time, you know? But I never did. And then he was gone.” His hands clenched into fists under the soft light, the slight tremor in his voice betraying deeper wounds that simple words couldn’t mend.
Without thinking, Aubrey slid off her chair and knelt beside him. She reached out and took his hand, their fingers intertwining in a grasp that was both tender and conflicted. The warmth of his skin reminded her vividly of what she longed for, yet it also stirred the fear of dismantling the walls she had so carefully erected. As she gently rested her forehead against his thigh, she realized with painful clarity how deeply she cared for every flawed, scarred part of Gunner.
When she pulled back slightly, he began to strum his guitar again. Her gaze wandered back to the old photo, where genuine smiles and a palpable bond leaped from the sepia-toned memories. “Tell me more about him,” she urged softly.
For a long moment, Gunner’s fingers hovered uncertainly over the strings. The pause was heavy with unspoken memories until he finally said, “He was more than just family to me. He taught me about life, about love and about the soul of music. When we played together, it was like we were speaking in a secret language meant only for us. His lessons weren’t solely about chords and melodies—they were about staying true to yourself, to the music and to the people you cherish.” Each word painted a richer picture of the man Gunner hoped to become—a man forever tethered to his grandpa’s wisdom, yet haunted by the loss of that guiding spirit. In the intermingling of past and present, Aubrey saw not only the acclaimed, mysterious artist but also a wounded soul still aching for healing.
She understood completely. She herself carried broken pieces of a soul she wasn’t sure would ever fully mend.
Eventually, Gunner let his fingers rest on the guitar, leaving a resonating note hanging in the air. His eyes drifted back to the lively flames. “When I was a kid, we’d sit on the porch together, watching the sunset. He taught me the value of honest work—the kind that leaves your hands rough and your soul quietly satisfied.” Gunner’s voice shimmered with memory.
Aubrey absorbed the details: the way his jaw tensed on certain words, how his broad shoulders seemed to curl inward, as if trying to contain the ache. “Grandpa had this way of making things simple, you know?” he said. “He’d work sunrise to sundown, and no matter how busted up his hands got, he’d still find time to make up stories or whistle old hymns. I think he believed if you just kept moving, kept doing, nothing bad could get too close.”
But there was more, something swirling just beneath the gentleness—a storm brewing in Gunner’s faraway gaze.
