Page 4 of Worth Your Wild

Hello no. I don’t play it anymore.

I’ll never play it again.

I finish the current song and glance down at the set list taped to the stage. One more song before June comes out to sing the duet with me. I’ll admit she’s got a nice voice. One that I know instinctively will complement the lower register of mine. But that’s all the more reason to not want her performing with me. I don’t want to give these people what they want. I don’t want to please anyone. I want to go home and die in peace.

That girl is the opposite of peace.

Knew it as soon as I saw her.

Red hair, green eyes and a body built for sin.

Fuck. Me.

I’m not into younger women and she can’t be more than nineteen or twenty, but this one got me stiffer than a flagpole in January with her superior little attitude. There’s some soul lurking in her eyes, too. Some been there done that. Like she’s been through some tough times but still managed to maintain her optimism. Innocence.

That last part is why I’m steering clear.

Well, that and the fact that she’s Sandy’s niece. Sandy, my usual assistant, is one of the only people in this godforsaken world I can tolerate longer than two minutes. I’m not even going to think about fucking his niece.

Great.

Now I’m thinking about it.

Bending her right over the dressing table, red hair wrapped around my fist, that firm little ass hoisted in the air.

Christ. Only forty-two and I’m officially an old pervert.

She needs to go home.

Never mind that whatever alterations she made to my clothes are making this show a lot more bearable than it normally would have been. There’s a pleasing give in the shoulders of my button down when usually the material must stretch to accommodate the sizeable breadth of my back. Even the crotch of my jeans is less confining. What the hell miracle did she work in a matter of hours?

That Reuben sandwich went a long way to soaking up the whiskey, too.

Best one I’ve had in years. Reminded me of the Nashville diner I used to eat breakfast at when I was a young, struggling musician, playing late gigs to nobody.

My guitar sounds better, too, goddammit.

Who is this girl?

I finish the song and there’s no more delaying. The kick of anticipation in my blood is bad news and I ignore it while stepping up to the microphone, blocking the glare of the spotlight with my right hand.

A stagehand rushes out with a second microphone and the crowd reacts.

I take pleasure in letting them down. It’s easier just to let them down than try and stay on top. I’m sick to death of trying to stay on top and failing.

“Thank you, folks. As some of you might have heard, Lorna Paul was going to join me tonight to sing ‘Sweet Venom’, but she got stuck in Mississippi.” The wave of disappointment is deafening, and part of me enjoys it. The cheers have rung false in my ears for so long, the boos are refreshing. “We have a friend stepping in on short notice to take Lorna’s place tonight. Please give a warm welcome to June Bug.”

I’m not prepared for the girl who comes out on stage, waving like she’s done this before. No, I’m not prepared at all. She was obnoxiously hot in jeans and a white tank top. While I’ve been on stage, however, they’ve put her in cowboy boots and a strapless denim dress that makes her legs look a mile long and barely covers her ass.

Her tits are just slightly bigger than average.

More than a handful for most men.

Not me. My hands were fashioned for playing guitar.

They’d fit right into my palms.

I catch a nose full of her scent when she reaches me at centerstage. Coconut.