Page 303 of Call Me Baby 2: Side B

then his fingers pluck the strings.

The notes ripple, the opening riff of “Little Wing” spilling out dirty

like mist swirling around the room

before drifting into a soulful ache.

I melt into the wall, watching him.

He doesn’t so much sing as hum the lyrics, a sandpapered rasp, an absent-minded murmur, his voice barely more than breathy friction.

It’s stripped and tracing my skin,

making the fine hairs on my neck stand.

Hendrix bleeds through his fingers,

but it’s Harding cutting me open,

sounding like heaven…

if heaven smoked Camels

and fucked lazy with the lights on.

Halfway through the lick, he looks up,

eyes lingering heavy,

that filthy grin spreading across his lips.

And it dismantles me.

After the strings go silent,

and the last note fades,

Andrew leans back,

chest caving as he exhales,

“Cristo santo…

“l’ho sentito nelle cazzo di ossa.”

I sit up taller.

“Check the back,” I tell him.

He tips the Strat forward,

eyes crawling the wood.

Then they freeze

where there’s a signature—Hendrix.

A chuckle blows out of him,