Starting From the Top (Starting from 5)

“Hey, it’s been a while.” I moved the coffee mug from the high stool in the middle of the room to the smaller one near the keyboard. “This is quite a collection.”

“Yeah. Some of it technically belongs to Zero. We all end up bringing instruments home to practice…and then forget about them. But a bunch of these are mine. Like that Stratocaster. It’s one of my prize guitars.”

“I bet. Do you play the drums and keyboard too?”

Johnny grabbed another stool from the corner and set it in front of me before perching his ass on the edge. He curled his bare toes around the bottom rung and flashed a bright smile my way. Fuck, he had a pretty smile.

“I can fake it on the drums, but I’m wonky at best on keyboard. I keep them around so my friends can play with me. But guitar is my thing. Always has been.”

I studied the curve of his neck when he shifted to twist the pegs. His damp hair curling slightly around his ears looked boyish, but his five o’clock shadow was all man. The juxtaposition of soft curls and masculine lines was sexy as fuck. It went nicely with his copious ink. A Celtic cross entwined with ivy gave way to the wings of a phoenix. It was lyrical yet edgy…like him.

Or was it? Johnny was more happy-go-lucky and good-natured than a would-be rock star with something to prove.

And me? I got caught staring. Again.

I licked my lips, inclining my head toward the instrument propped on his knee. “Why the guitar?”

“ ’Cause it’s cool.”

“That’s it?”

He chuckled. “Pretty much. I was a scrawny, nervous teenager—smart enough, but not special—and my home life sucked. I didn’t know how to fit in or be cool by being myself, so I’d lose myself in video games, books, and music. One day, I saw an old video of some eighties glam-rock hair band. It might have been Poison or Whitesnake. I can’t remember. I loved the look. All that fuckin’ attitude and a guitar. I didn’t have much of either. So I borrowed my mom’s makeup and stole my neighbor’s six-string. Here you go.”

Johnny slipped the strap off and handed over the guitar.

I held it flat on my lap and fixed him with a bemused look. “Uh…you stole a guitar?”

“Kinda.”

A mischievous grin quirked one corner of his mouth, then spread like wildfire across his handsome face. He wasn’t wearing lipstick or eyeliner now. He was fresh-faced, clean-smelling, and really fucking adorable.

“Kinda?”

“Yeah. Donny was a lowlife drug dealer. He took the guitar as collateral from a client who couldn’t pay for their smack with cash. He didn’t play…that’s for sure. He just collected shit from other lowlifes and desperados. Like my mom. One day, I went with her to pick up her ‘medicine’ at his apartment. She brought me with her like a bodyguard or something. What a joke. I was so skinny, you could barely see me sideways,” he scoffed without heat. “Anyway, while they argued, I noticed the guitar propped in a corner, half-hidden by a stack of moving boxes. I bided my time, made a plan, and waited till the coast was clear to break into his place and take the guitar.”

“You broke in?” I asked incredulously.

“Yep. It was ridiculously easy. And no, I don’t feel regret or remorse. He fucking ruined my mom’s life. I wished I’d been smart enough to do something more impactful…like flush his stash down the toilet. Not me. I stole a guitar,” he huffed. “It didn’t save my mom, and Donny never even noticed it was gone. But it turned out to be a pretty good move for me in the long run.”

“Donny was your mom’s dealer?”

“Yep. And a useless piece of garbage.”

“Is she okay?”

“My mom? No. She’s dead.”

“I’m sorry.”

Johnny set his hands on his knees and sighed. “Me too. At least now I am. When it happened, I was relieved. That’s terrible, isn’t it? I mean, it’s not. She wasn’t a typical mom. It wouldn’t have occurred to her to arrange guitar lessons for me because she wanted to ‘reach me.’ Isn’t that how you put it?”

I pursed my lips thoughtfully. “I can’t remember.”

“I do. And yeah, that’s what you said. You know, you kind of surprise me. I used to think you were full of yourself. That might be true to a degree, but you obviously care about your kids. They’re lucky.”

His earnest tone undid me. Yes, I loved my kids more than anything, but I didn’t want him to think I was a martyr, for fuck’s sake.

I let out a slow rush of air and shook my head. “I’m the lucky one.”

“That’s what the good ones say. My mom literally didn’t remember I existed some days. And check this out…when I was learning how to play guitar, she’d hear bits and pieces from the other room and yell at me to turn off the radio.”