Every guitar he had ever owned was given a woman’s name: Evelyn, Sue Ann, Cheryl, Donna, Lacey, and half a dozen others. When Kane got his first guitar, he’d named it Betty Jean, because Jimi Hendrix had named his guitar Betty Jean … after his high school girlfriend.
Jimi was the man—could play his ass off—and was the main reason Kane detoured into the music store one day. Of course, Kane figured it wouldn’t hurt his chances with the ladies, either.
He slid into Honey’s strap, and then looked at himself in the mirror on the wall. Blue eyes, enviably white teeth, the nose that had been broken. Hair was short, only slightly longer than when he was in the Army. Guys who got out sometimes went a little crazy with the hair, growing beards and ponytails, but Kane liked his trim. He smiled when he realized he probably hadn’t combed it since before basic training. Never needed to after that—just rolled with it as it was, straight out of the shower.
“You almost ready, darling?”
Kane turned and found Lucy smiling at him, even as she chewed her gum. She had a bar tray tucked under one arm.
“Born ready,” he told her. “Are you going to be ready to fight off the crowds when I start playing?”
She laughed, moved in closer, and put her hand on his forehead. “You feeling okay? This is Marathon … we don’t exactly get crowds here.”
Pale blue-green eyes peered up at him, expectantly. They were almost turquoise—reminded him of the water in Destin, Florida. He’d done some training with the Air Force guys down there at Hurlburt a few times. Every now and then, he’d gone to Destin in the evenings to relax and get away from all the alpha-male bullshit that surrounded him for eighteen hours each day.
He’d pick a spot in the sand and just drop down to watch the Gulf of Mexico. There was an indescribable peace in those waters…
Not that he felt peaceful. Not now. The scent of her perfume invaded his senses, and it made him lightheaded. The air seemed to grow dense around them. Familiar stirrings awakened below his beltline.
Before he knew it was happening, the two- or three-inch gap between them vanished. Her chest pressed against him, and he couldn’t help but appreciate the view down the front of her white cotton blouse. With a husky sigh, he leaned down and kissed her, and she returned the kiss, looping her arms around his neck.
A throat got cleared.
Then it got cleared again, louder.
“Oh hey, Bob,” Kane said sheepishly, pulling back from Lucy, who snapped upright and began straightening her clothes while looking everywhere except at Bob’s face.
Bart Hopkins is originally from Galveston, Texas, but has lived all over the world during his 22 years in the Air Force.
He was born in the middle of the 1970s, owned an Atari, and loves 80s music. He can use a card catalog like nobody's business.
Now, Bart likes to travel, enjoys pretending he's a photographer, and shares as much time as possible with his beautiful wife and three awesome children. They own a Westie Yorkie named Lulu ... or maybe Lulu owns them.
Subscribe to Bart's newsletter for updates on new releases and giveaways. For a limited time, you can download a copy of DEAD ENDS free when you subscribe! http://www.barthopkins.com/blog/news