I roll my eyes, because I am annoying the hell out of myself, then go to slide the guitar case under the register but stop.
I couldn’t really see what kind this was through the window, and anytime we’re face to face he holds it weird or I’m not paying attention to anything except getting him off the sidewalk.
His voice is nice despite what I told him, and I hate to admit it, but he can play the guitar very well, too. Also something I’ll never admit. It has me curious about his instrument, though.
Lifting the case to the counter, I confirm what I thought when I picked it up; this isn’t a chipwood case. It’s solid wood, probably hand made, and covered with real leather. It looks old.
I won’t know until I look at the guitar, but I’d date it pre-1970’s.
The hinges are dark with aging, all the hardware on the outside is, but not rusted, just from regular handling and use. The leather is sturdy, it’s held up well but the seams have started to split over the wood in some places, one in particular by the center latch that’s starting to fray.
The handle has seen better days. I can tell it’s been repaired multiple times, which is strange when it could be easily replaced, but maybe that’s just my line of thinking.
I run my fingers over the dark leather, the texture still soft and smooth save for where it’s distressed and when I push up the neck to unhook that latch, I pause at a small octagonal plaque sitting just above it.
IRW
Those initials are engraved on it in pretty clean and simple lettering.
They might not mean anything to Bentley. I can’t remember, have no idea what his last name is and obviously his name doesn’t start withIorR, so maybe he lifted it from someone just so he could use it to come torture me. Then again… He has been protective of the case and contents. For all I know,IRWis a dead relative or ex-partner.
That makes me frown.
Not that Bentley would have an ex, the fact that Icarehe has exes. The idea is irritating, and so is thinking about it.
I am losing my mind.
Shaking my head harder than I probably needed to, I pop all three latches and lift the lid, my breath hitching when I look down into the case.
It’s definitely handmade. I can see the individual marks around the edges where someone’s fingers pressed the velvet securely over the plush cushion. I can see where scissors or sheers were taken to the overlapping and extra fabric. But I’m finding it hard to breathe because of what’s sitting safely inside that.
It’s a Gibson Hummingbird.
Acustom1962 or 1963 Gibson Hummingbird acoustic guitar.
And it’s blue.
The staining over the wood is a deep blue, not quite navy but some variant, and the scratchplate has all of the trademark flowers and butterflies along with the hummingbird itself, but it’s black. An almost, iridescent black and the design looks like it’s overlaid in opal, pearl, and silver. The flowers and ivy up the neck are made the same, and so is the color behind it.
Something like this would go for eight to ten thousand dollars today, easy, especially when you can tell it’s been cared for and loved most likely sinceIRWslapped his initials on it.
This is hands down the most beautiful guitar I have ever seen and Bentley just earned my respect because of it.
I’m completely ignoring how many times I may have seen him out in front of my store with it, because I never really let myself see it before. I could make an entire career out of being oblivious to the world.
“There has to be a story behind this,” I say to myself as I ghost my fingers over the six strings. Who walks around with something so expensive all the time? Then plays it on the sidewalk like a bum for any old asshole to steal?
Oh my god that gives me so much anxiety.
Bentley has been playing ten thousand dollars worth of music almost every day for the last few weeks right outside a store that attracts the only other people in this town who might know that.
I would have a goddamn panic attack leaving the house with this thing. I sure as fuck wouldn’t have forgotten it at that same store.
Deciding I’m not about to leave this alone for one second until I can hit Bentley over the head with it, I quickly close and latch the case just as the bell above the door goes off.
Fucking great.
It was bad enough having a persistent alpha who smells nice and sings well asking me on a date, now I have to deal with two alphas who have a combined IQ of 7 and are going to be far less polite.
