I grabbed the old guitar from my back seat and walked inside, my blazer slung over my forearm. Humming filtered in from the back porch. Having identified the location of my problem, I set down the guitar, went into my room, and changed my clothes. Major had always been able to see right through me. I’d known it was ridiculous, wearing my suits in the off hours, but it had been keeping me sane. I didn’t know why I was aiming for sanity in the presence of Hendrix Cavanaugh.
Given the fact that Texas stayed scorching hot through early fall, I slipped into khaki shorts and a navy T-shirt, both classic Ralph Lauren. I might shed my armor, but luxury brands would always be my bulletproof vest. I completed the look with Sperry boat shoes, grabbed the guitar again, and made my way outside.
Hendrix’s head was bent over a notebook, his eyes closed as he hummed an unfamiliar tune. He opened his eyes to scratch outa few words, then closed them again, humming the same three bars over and over.
I was struck by the way his raven black hair glinted in the sunshine and proud of the fact that his manicure still looked good. Seeing him in all black again made me feel like the world had finally been put back on its axis.
After a few moments, his eyes flitted to mine. “You gonna stand there like a weirdo?”
“Just observing,” I said, holding up the guitar.
His mouth dropped open. “Is that my old guitar?”
“Yep. Stopped by your mom’s place. You left it behind when you struck out on the road, but she kept it stored for you.”
“Aww, cute. We both spent time with each other’s families today,” he said, fluttering his lashes at me.
“It’s not even remotely the same, Hen. Your mom said I was thoughtful, whereas my mom called you ahandful.”
“Probably because I told Cordelia your joke about usingfussbudgetas your FetLife handle,” he said, taking the guitar from me. “Even Ray laughed at that one.”
I blinked. “You…what?”
He waved away my concern. “Your parents are a hell of a lot cooler than you’re giving them credit for.”
“No, they aren’t.” I paced the small porch, pulling at my hair. “And how are you on a first-name basis with them?”
He lifted a careless shoulder. “What can I say? I’m good with parents.” Refocusing on the guitar, he asked, “Are these new strings?”
“Yes. I swung by the guitar shop and had them replace the strings with the ones you use now. While you were telling my parents about a fetish website.”
“How do you know which strings I use?” he asked, ignoring my distress.
“I asked Sago.”
“You have his number?”
“Robbie’s, too.”
“Why?” he asked, cocking his ear toward the guitar as he switched between strumming and twisting the pegs to adjust the tuning.
“They’re important to you.”
“Fucking Agnes,” he muttered, though he didn’t seem to be making fun of me.
He started plucking out a familiar tune, and heat rose in my cheeks. “This is one of the songs you like, right?” he asked, winking at me.
Menace.
“It’s my favorite.”
“Ozzie makes fun of the lyrics. He likes to point out that glass melts, so crawling through broken glass in hell doesn’t make any sense.”
“He’s being far too literal,” I said, sitting next to him.
Hen strummed a few more bars, then looked at me and did a double take. “Holy shit. Nice thighs, dude.”
“Shut up,” I shot back, tugging on the hem of my shorts.
