Wet and Reckless (Private Pleasures 4)

“Thirst.”

She rolled her eyes and then bounded off the bed. “All right. All right. I’ve got lemonade in the fridge. Make yourself at home. I’ll be back.”

He watched her saunter out, beautifully bed-wrecked and bare-assed naked, and then got up himself, snagged his discarded boxers from the floor, and walked into her dollhouse of a bathroom to dispose of the condom. Items he placed under the general heading of “girl stuff” cluttered the narrow shelf above the sink and decorated every available surface in the small shower. How one human could find a use for so much product he couldn’t fathom, but for someone who claimed to prefer a nomadic lifestyle, she nested like a Bowerbird. He, who had been actively attempting to settle in for half a year, could pack up his entire apartment in less time than it would take her to clear out the bathroom.

He tugged his underwear on and wandered back to the bedroom to find more of the same. With the overwhelming distraction of Roxy gone, other details moved to the forefront.

A stack of photos sat on the nightstand. Curiosity got the better of his manners. He flipped through them, but instead of Roxy, they featured a young woman with the same infectious smile engaged in various high school events. Her mom. She’d made dupes from Addy’s aunt’s yearbook. Her guitar stood in the corner just beyond the nightstand. He lifted it by the neck, sat on the bed, and settled it across his lap. She walked in as he gave it a strum. He looked up to see her wearing her red kimono and an odd expression—a guarded expression, if he had to pin it down.

“Sorry,” he said as she placed two glasses of lemonade and a bowl of grapes on the nightstand. “I should have asked.”

“Don’t be silly. I told you to make yourself at home. Do you play?”

“Not really.” Just to put a smile on her face, he plucked out a very rickety rendition of the opening notes from “Stairway to Heaven.” “Only enough to get kicked out of the guitar shop.”

“You’re a natural. Big hands, long fingers.” She sat beside him on the bed and corrected his index finger placement to barre the fifth fret. When he picked the strings again, the notes rang out clear and recognizable. “See?”

He raised his head to find her smiling. Mission accomplished. “I don’t know much about guitars, but this seems like a nice one. Old.”

“Vintage,” she corrected. “And rare. It’s a 1965 Gibson SG Electric, with cherry finish and pearloid inlay on the face and headstock.”

“Sixty-five, huh? This guitar is older than my first car.”

“That’s what makes it vintage.”

“What’s this?” He pointed to some gold ink scrawled on the face, above the bridge.

“Tom Petty’s signature. That’s what makes it rare.”

He angled the face up to examine the letters. “Tom Petty autographed your guitar?”

She smiled and shook her head. “Tom Petty autographed his guitar. Then he gave it to my dad.” Her smile dimmed a little. “My father toured with him a few times.”

“And now it’s yours.” He held it out to her.

For a moment, she simply stared at him, lips slightly parted, looking like she wanted to say something.

“Roxy?”

“It’s mine,” she agreed quietly.

Free of whatever conflict had held her in place, she scooted to the center of the bed and crossed her legs show-and-tell style before taking the instrument. Her robe slouched and gaped intriguingly, but the guitar covered most of what the robe didn’t. Still, as she sat there holding the guitar, with her hair caught up in a loose knot and the lines of her body visible beneath the careless drape of silk, he couldn’t take his eyes off her.

She strummed once and then slid into a song, effortlessly bending the notes into something iconic and haunting. “You Got Lucky.”

No argument there. He watched her fingers dance over the frets and stroke the strings with the easy precision of someone who knew every sweet spot by touch.

“You play it like an old friend.”

She nodded and kept playing, drifting into a song he didn’t recognize except from her midnight sessions. “Gib’s my oldest friend. My best friend. This guitar saved my life.”

“That’s quite a feat for an inanimate object.”

“Especially one I ignored for a long time.” She switched up the notes and transitioned into “Free Falling.”

He liked the song, but for some reason, just now, it tightened his gut. “What happened?”

“I was in a dark place, dealing with a lot of pain.”