She stands and approaches my equipment, peering into the tub of cables.
“You lug this stuff around with you every time you gig?” she asks.
“Yeah, you get used to it after a while. It becomes second nature—the more you do it, the quicker it is to pack up at the end.”
I watch as she circles the room, her forefinger trailing lightly over my amp, speaker, and guitar case.
There’s something about the way she touches my gear that I like.
She stops in front of my guitar case, thumbing the latches before lifting her gaze to mine. “May I?” she asks.
I raise my eyebrows. “Go for it.”
Her whole face lights up—not just a polite grin, no. It’s a full, beaming smile that catches me off guard. I watch as she clicksthe latches, swings the lid open, and lifts my bass, sliding the strap over her shoulder.
“This thing is heavier than it looks,” she says, her fingers brushing lightly over the strings. I slip my hands into my pockets, watching her with intrigue.
Honestly, I could watch her all bloody night.
“How’s practice been this week?” She glances up at me.
“It’s been good. We’re getting there,” I reply.
“Well, if you play anything like you did tonight, they’ll love you,” she says, looking at me with a sincere expression.
Her sparkling eyes hold mine. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” she says, her voice soft.
There’s a pause as we watch each other, and I want to reach out and touch her more than ever. But then, the audition, the possibility of landing the gig, and the reality that I’d be away for seven months of the year all come rushing to mind, and I stop myself.
“So,” she says, breaking the stillness, “how old were you when you started playing?” Her fingers fumble over the strings. The notes are scattered, but I can’t help the twitch tugging at my mouth as I watch her. There’s something endearing about the way her fingers glide up and down the neck, pressing on the frets as if she’s trying to figure it out by feel alone.
“I was twelve when my dad gave me my first guitar—an old Yamaha acoustic. I begged for a guitar for the longest time. We didn’t have much money growing up, so I never expected it. But that Christmas, I came downstairs and spotted a guitar case poking out from under the tree. I couldn’t believe it. I remember skipping the last two steps and rushing over to open it. It was the best gift I’ve ever received.” I shrug. “From that moment on, I was hooked. I spent hours learning to play. I played until my fingers were raw, but I didn’t care. It was everything to me. Years later, I picked up the bass.”
I reach out, wrapping my hand around hers. “Here,” I say, gently pressing her finger down on the fret. “Hold your finger there.” Then I guide her other hand, trailing it down the fretboard. Still holding her hand, I move her fingers to demonstrate a walking bass line. I let go and begin to step away, noticing the way she watches me.
“I’m doing it,” she says, looking up at me excitedly—and my heart almost bursts out of my chest.
I return her smile. “You’re a pro.”
She plays around, moving her hand up and down the neck of the bass, trying out different notes. “God, this hurts my fingers. How do you play for so long?”
“I mainly use my pick, but you do get used to it after a while.” I shrug.
“Ouch.” She drops the neck, inspecting her finger. Without thinking, I step forward and take her hand in mine, examining it closely.
“Does it burn?” I ask.
“Yes,” she says.
Our eyes meet, and, without thought, I lift her hand to my mouth, gently sucking her finger and soothing it with my tongue. Her lips part slightly, and she sucks in a breath, but she doesn’t pull away. I know this is entirely inappropriate, but at this point, I can’t bring myself to care.
Her lashes flutter, and I slowly remove her finger from my mouth. She rubs the glistening tip with her thumb, her focus on me unwavering.
I lower my voice. “Better?”
She swallows. “Much.”
