Mister Dick

“Yeah. Make sure you tell your mom dinner was great.”

I didn’t bother with Echo because I was done playing games. It was time for me to grow the hell up and concentrate on the things that mattered, like finishing my goddamn album. My label was so far up my ass that if I didn’t hand it in soon, I wasn’t sure my manager could smooth things over. Artistic sensibilities, as he liked to say, only went so far.

I headed upstairs, and though it was early, barely eight, after the long drive from Tennessee, the shit weather, and intense dinner, I was exhausted. I flopped on the bed and was out before I finished that thought.

When I woke up, it was dark. A glance at my watch told me it was two in the morning, and, restless, I grabbed my acoustic and headed downstairs. The house was quiet. I wondered briefly where the hell Zach ended up, but then figured since I was concentrating on my work and not my dick, it didn’t matter. I shoved my feet into my boots and headed for the back door, not bothering with a jacket. The air was cool and crisp, and with slivers of the moon peeking through the night sky, I made my way down the path that led to Axel’s onsite studio. The old security code still worked, and once inside, I felt a little bit of the weight I’d carried the last few weeks subside.

This was where I belonged when I wasn’t on stage, in a studio with my guitar and nothing else. And this studio was something out of a dream. It had vintage equipment, amazing acoustics, and I had no

idea why Axel didn’t record all his stuff here.

I got comfortable and began to play, fingers flying over the fretboard as I ran scales to warm up. It didn’t take long for the magic to take over, and I lost myself in my instrument, coaxing melody and blues and feel. I played until my fingers cramped. Until my head was empty. Until my T-shirt was soaked in sweat.

Most people don’t realize that playing a guitar is physical work. It becomes a part of you. It moves because you move. It sings because you make it sing. It’s an extension of your soul, your mind, your hopes and dreams. It is everything.

As the last note resonated, I closed my eyes and drank in the sound. It washed over me, and when there was nothing but quiet, I set down the Gibson and collapsed onto the sofa.

I’d run tape and knew when I checked later, there would be good stuff there. Axel’s analog gear recorded sounds digital couldn’t touch.

It was still dark outside, and, eventually, I closed my eyes, finally in a place where I could relax. I had space at home, but nothing like this. Maybe it was time to get it to the next level. I thought about it a bit, about the nuts and bolts to get something like this up and running. I made a mental note to get in touch with the guy who’d designed Axel’s studio, and I must have drifted off again, because when I opened my eyes, an angel stood in front of me. An angel dressed in nothing but an old T-shirt and a pair of knee-high furry boots. Hair spilled down her shoulders, a tangled mess of blonde silk I wanted to drag my fingers through. Her eyes were wide and soft, and her lips glistened as if she’d just run her tongue across them.

I stared up at her, wondering if Zach had run his fingers through her hair. Wondering if he’d laid his mouth on hers. If he’d touched her in places that belonged to me.

Then I gave my head a shake, because this girl would never belong to anyone. And it would be a cold day in hell before she gave herself to me.

“It’s five o’clock,” she finally said, her voice hesitant.

I wasn’t sure where she was going with this, so I stayed quiet. I stretched a bit and held her gaze before dropping it to her chest, where her T-shirt did nothing to hide hard nipples and soft roundness. She followed my eyes, and when she slowly raised her head and met my gaze again—she did nothing to hide the desire that darkened her eyes from hazel to aged honey.

“Come here,” I said, sitting a little straighter.

She made this sound, like a half sigh of pain or pleasure, and slowly shook her head. I studied her for a long time. How long exactly, I couldn’t be sure. But it was long enough for me to know the girl was conflicted.

“Why are you here?” I asked, watching her closely.

Her mouth fell open, but she didn’t answer right away, and when she did, it was to question me. “Why are you?”

“I asked first.”

She looked down at her boots and shrugged. “I come out here when I can’t sleep.”

“Zach not a good bedmate? He take all the covers?”

I waited for some sarcastic retort. Her usual fare. The kind that cuts glass or busts balls. But she surprised me.

“Do you really think Zach is in my bed?”

The air suddenly thickened with an all too familiar feeling that’s hard to describe. It was heat and sizzle. Desire and longing. It was denial and need. It was wanting something so damn bad, it became a physical thing that made it hard to breathe. Or think. It was like the whole world shrank until there was only me and Echo.

“No,” I said, looking up at her. “Zach’s not the one you want in your bed.”

She exhaled slowly and glanced around the studio. There were framed photos on the walls, mostly of Axel’s cover art, but there were also several of the girls at different ages. My favorite was one of Echo at about age five, holding on to a big standup bass. It was literally twice her size, and she looked so damn cute and fierce as she tried her best not to let the instrument topple over. I took a closer look and frowned, noticing something I hadn’t before.

She seemed kind of sad.

“When I was younger, I used to sneak down to watch Daddy play. He’d be here all hours of the night making music. It’s one of the reasons my mother left him. She said he was married to his guitar, and that the songs he wrote were his mistresses.” Her voice was low and husky, like melted honey over toast. “I guess she was right about that.” Echo smiled, a small kind of thing that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “He made magic with his fingers, and when he sang, that magic took off like it rode on wings or something.”

She walked over to the picture of when she was a kid. “I worshipped him, and I wanted him to worship me. Maybe I was a needy kid. I don’t know. I was always trying to stand out. To make him notice.” Her voice wavered a bit. “To make him love me more than he loved his Les Paul or the music he created. It was always a competition. When I got older, I did stupid things to get his attention. I thought I had to be outrageous for him to acknowledge me.”