I roll my eyes and shake my head. “If those dumbasses aren’t careful, they’re going to catch a nasty STI before we even have a shot at fame.”
He laughs and leans in to say, “That or they’ll fuck up and knock up one of these women. Can you imagine the child support a rock star has to pay?” His eyes double as he pictures the number.
I smile. “Better make sure you’re wrapping it up tight.”
He scoffs. “Why the hell do you think I’m over here with you? It’s not for my health.” He shrugs. “Or I guess in a way, it kind of is,” he laughs out.
I finish off my drink and push the glass away. “I think I’m going to call it a night, big shot.” I start to slide my way out of the booth.
“I guess I’ve got the van and the equipment?”
“You think I would trust that big of a job to those two jackoffs?” I point in their direction, but he just laughs and waves me off.
It’s going on 10 a.m. when I pull myself out of bed the next day. I practically sleepwalk to the shower, but I manage to pull myself together as the hot water wakes me up. I blow-dry my hair and curl the ends before applying some makeup. I have to sort through my clothes by picking them up off the floor and sniffing them. I find something acceptable and grab my things to head to work.
I’ve been officially working at Mick’s Music since I was 15. Because of that, we have a good relationship. I get any day off I need in exchange for managing the rest of the employees and the store. I slide my key into the lock and let myself inside. I disable the alarm and go to put my things away and open the register. At noon on the dot, I flick on the OPEN sign. It’s sad that not many kids are interested in learning how to play musical instruments anymore. When I was a kid, you couldn’t get me out of this place. Lucky for me, Mick is good friends with my dad, so I spent most of my free time here as a kid, playing instruments I knew we couldn’t afford to buy. My first guitar actually came from this store. It was a Fender Stratocaster. It was sea-foam green with a cream-colored pickguard. I had my eye on her the day she arrived. Mick knew how much I loved her and he made me a deal. I volunteered at the store after school and every weekend until I put in enough hours to earn the guitar, which at the time cost nearly a grand. That’s a lot of money for a 13-year-old kid. But I managed to get it worked off in one year. She was my pride and joy and I still have her to this day. She’s not as beautiful as she once was. Now, she’s got chipped paint, stickers, and scuffs all over her body, neck, and head, but the sentiment is still there and I’ll never get rid of her. I even named her “Journey” because I believed she was going to take me everywhere.
The store stays pretty busy throughout the first part of the day. I normally don’t make any big sales—mostly just people coming in to buy picks, new strings, and cables. Doesn’t matter much to me. I still get paid hourly, but I get commission on bigger sales, though they’re few and far between. It’s going on 4 p.m. when a man walks in wearing a finely-pressed suit. He screams money. I can tell by looking at him that he isn’t here to buy strings. He’s probably here because his busy corporate life is getting boring and he’s looking for a journey of his own—something to bring some meaning back into his life. Guitar or drums? I’m not sure, but I’m going to find out.
I walk up to the man. “Can I help you find anything?”
He turns and looks at me and I feel my heart skip a beat. He’s tall and lean and has neatly combed dark hair. His jaw is sharp and has a bit of scruff growing on it. His eyes find mine and I see they’re a delicious shade of green—something that reminds me of wet summer grass in the morning.
I see those green eyes of his start at the top of my head and work their way slowly down my body before making their way back up. He clears his throat. “Yes, actually. I was looking for a guitar for my niece’s birthday.”
“How old is your niece?” I ask.
“She’s turning 14,” he replies, and it seems he can’t keep his eyes to himself. He stares at everything from the waves in my hair to the deep, dark red of my lips.
“And are you thinking about something electric or acoustic?”
“Electric, I think . . .” His face twists up in confusion. “She likes rock and punk rock.”
I nod. “Then electric is the way to go. Right this way.” I lead him over to the far corner that holds all our electric guitars. “Does she have a favorite color?”
He looks at the selection on the wall. “I really don’t know her all that well. Pink is a girl color, right?”
I scoff. “I’m sorry, what did you say your name was?” I ask because he hasn’t told me and I want to know.
“Oh, sorry.” He holds out his hand. “I’m Daniel. Daniel Smith, attorney at law.”
I shake his hand. “I’m Luna. Listen, Daniel, when you’re picking out a guitar, you need to pick one that speaks to your soul. This guitar will be an extension of you . . . or rather, your niece. Do you know anything about her?”
He purses his lips together. “I have a picture.” He pulls his cell out of his jacket pocket and scrolls around until he has a picture to show me. He flips the phone around so I can see a picture of his niece. She has bright red hair—the unnatural kind—with black roots. Her blue eyes are lined darkly and her face is overdone with makeup. She’s wearing a Pink Floyd T-shirt with the Dark Side of the Moon prism on the front, but it’s been ripped and pinned back together in a very cool way. In the background, in what I assume is her bedroom, there are posters on the wall of all the greats, including Pink Floyd, Led Zeppelin, and The Rolling Stones. I’m actually impressed that a kid her age would even know these bands, let alone have their posters on the wall.
I smile. “She’s very cool,” I tell him. “She must have cool parents.”
He smiles as he puts the phone away. “Yeah, my brother is more of a free spirit than I am. So, did you find any clues about color?”
I shrug. “The pink guitar is a baby pink, so I don’t think she’d love it. I’d suggest going for the electric purple or green. Black is always cool, too, because then she could decorate it with stickers and stuff.”
He nods as he takes everything in. “I like the purple.” He points at it.
I grab it off the wall and take it down, handing it over.
He looks it over to make sure the body isn’t chipped.
“Do you want to give it a go?” I ask, grabbing a cable off the stand.
He shakes his head. “I really wouldn’t know what to do.” He hands it back.
I plug it in and turn on the amp. “I can play you something if you want to listen.” I hold out the headphones that are hooked up to the amp.
He nods and pulls them on.
I quickly think about a song and pick one that belongs to my band. My fingers glide across the strings like they have a mind of their own. At this point, they probably do. I play the first verse of one of our songs and lead into the chorus. He listens with wide eyes, causing his forehead to wrinkle. He’s surprised I know how to play. It surprises most people—they assume I just work here for the money. I want to snort thinking about my usual $450 paycheck.