“Are those calluses on your fingertips?” I asked, frustrated that I’d somehow missed this detail. “Do you play guitar?”
Looking almost guilty, he lifted a shoulder. “A little.”
“How come I’ve never seen you play?”
He crossed his arms, hiding his hands in his armpits. “It’s just for fun. I’m not, like, a professional.”
Another obvious lie. People who were just having “fun” didn’t grow a set of perfectly manicured nails, and they sure as hell didn’t have such well-defined guitar string grooves on their fingertips.
“What genre do you enjoy? Do you sing?”
He dipped his chin, his cheeks going red. “I can carry a tune, kinda? But I prefer mostly Spanish instrumental. And I love percussive guitar.”
“Percussive guitar? Like that young guy?” I tapped the bar, trying to remember. “Marcel?”
“Marcin,” he corrected.
“Can you play any of his songs?”
“Not as well as he can, but I like to warm up with his version of Carmen.”
I snapped my fingers. “That’s the one. Ilovethat song.”
“I do, too,” he said, his smile widening as the loud room disappeared into the background. “And you don’t realize how much punishment his hands and fingers must take until you actually try to play it.”
“Oh?”
Rowdy pushed his hair behind his ears, his eyes lighting up with excitement. “Absolutely. Let me show you.”
Using the top of the bar like a guitar board, he showed me the techniques used in percussive playing. I didn’t know why he’d felt the need to hide this—I could tell from the rhythm he maintained on the shellacked hardwood that he was better than he thought he was. Or at least better than he was willing to admit.
Something about that line of thought stuck with me. I wondered what else he wasn’t willing to admit. I loved our banter and had now twice tried and failed with what I thought would be an in with him—his sexual prowess.
It was something he talked about a lot. I’d assumed his sexual expression and freedom were a pretty core part of his being, but I had never seen him as alive as I saw him now, gushing about what that style of music meant to him.
“I’m surprised you don’t pursue it,” I said, wondering how much money he could make with his talents.
He scrunched his nose. “I’ll never make money off of that.”
I signaled for the bartender to refill Rowdy’s soda, then turned to the man who’d so thoroughly captivated me. “Don’t say that about yourself. I can tell just from the way you tapped on the bar that you are more talented than you’re letting on.”
He leaned forward, and I followed suit, curious about what he would say. He lightly rapped my forehead.
“Look, Kess. I know you’re very good at capitalism. And that’s not a knock on you,” he quickly added when I opened mymouth in protest. “But not every talent has to be monetized. I like what I do with the sanctuary, and with Emery and Stevie. I enjoy playing guitar by myself because I don’t have to layer any expectations on top of it.”
I sat back, lingering on his pretty lashes. “I suppose I get that. I’m not out here trying to make furniture for a living. I just like the accomplishment of building something.”
He smacked my chest. “That’s exactly what I’m talking about. Going after a particularly difficult piece of music gives me a sense of accomplishment when I get it right.”
I rubbed my chest, right where his hand had landed. “I can see that.”
This brought out his genuine smile again. “But enough about me,” he said, a now familiar pattern of deflection. “Tell me how things are going with the house. Are you settled in?”
I hesitated for a second. I contemplated asking him why he was changing the subject, but we were having a good time, and there was no need to fuck with the mood.
“It was going well until I found a scorpion in my sock drawer this morning. That was unpleasant.”
Rowdy shook his head, clearly disappointed. “It’s just a spider, Kess. As long as you found the other scorpion, you’re golden.”
