Immediately, a man and woman started talking to him.
I sipped at my second beer, which wasn’t even half consumed, waiting and hoping.
It was stupid to wait.
It was stupid to hope.
Every damned thing that happened to me in thirty-one years of my life had taught me that.
There might only have been about twenty-five adoring fans, but he talked to them, still carrying his guitar, and I knew that was his unspoken indication he wasn’t going to grab a whisky, sit down and gab awhile.He was going to allow them to say their words, then he was going to go home.
Five minutes slipped to ten, then to fifteen, and he didn’t look at me in any of that time.
Oh yes.
It was stupid to wait.
It was insane to hope.
I got up, shrugged on my denim jacket and wrapped my scarf around my neck.I slung my crossbody over my head, took a last sip of beer and went out the door.
I was unlocking my faded red old Ford pickup when I heard, “You followin’ me, or am I followin’ you?”
I turned at the deep, silken voice and saw what I considered in my perhaps not-so-amateur opinion was one of the best singer-songwriters of my generation standing there carrying his guitar case.
“You’re following me,” I told him.
He jerked up his chin and headed to a big, dark-blue (lumberjack bartender didn’t skimp on outdoor lights either), one-ton GMC truck.
I got in, reversed out, and headed to the exit to County Road 10.
He followed me.
I lay naked,curled up on my side, staring at the man bathed in moonlight beside me.
He was on his back.
He was naked too.
The sheets were down to his waist.
He had the same russet-brown hair covering his evenly moving chest, one leg cocked, the knee and most of his thigh sticking out from under the covers.He had one hand resting on his flat, ridged stomach, the other arm was on the bed between us.
He snored.
And damn the man, even his snores were melodic, quiet, low, rhythmic.They were the kind of noise that would lull you to sleep, not keep you awake.
How I wasn’t asleep was a mystery.
He’d worn me out.
He was the best lover I’d ever had.The best lover perhaps in history.
Among other activities, we’d had sex three times.
He knew every inch of my body.
He was deliciously controlling in bed, so alas, I could not say he allowed me to learn every inch of his, but the (many,many) inches he’d given me, I’d enjoyed thoroughly.
