My eyes comb over the instrument. It’s metallic mint green and rosewood, with a cream-colored pickguard and maple neck.

Holy shit. There’s no denying that shape.

“That’s a vintage ’59 Fender Strat,” I whisper.

He looks impressed. “You know your guitars.”

I silently nod. Fender is an American rock icon. My fingers tingle at the thought of touching the strings. “Whose is it?”

Latson shrugs. “It’s mine.”

“You’re kidding.”

He shakes his head.

“Are you playing tonight?”

“Hell, no,” he laughs. “Dean is. We played together in the Sin days. He’s been working on some new stuff and asked to borrow a few things. Well, actually, his van broke down and his equipment is stuck somewhere on 94.”

“That sucks. I hope he didn’t leave anything like that on the side of the road.”

“No, nothing like this.” Latson lifts the guitar, looks it over, and then holds it out to me. “Want to try?”

Hell yes, I want to try!  But, it’s a $2500 guitar. And that’s if it’s brand-new-to-look-vintage. If it’s really fifty-five years old, it cost thousands more. I take a step back. “I don’t want to break it.”

Latson sighs. “You won’t break it.”

“How do you know I even play?”

“I saw your acoustic when I picked up Oliver the other night.” He closes the short distance between us. “I know Pete and Jules don’t own a guitar. C’mon. You know you want to.”

He flashes his panty-melting one dimple smile. Coupled with the instrument he’s holding, it’s too much. Way too much. I need a distraction. “Let me see it.” I hold out my hands.

Satisfied, he gives it to me. As I pull the guitar strap over my head, I swear I feel dizzy. I’m holding a freaking vintage Fender Strat. The angels should start singing any minute.

He gestures toward the stool and I take a seat. I set the guitar across my leg and try to get comfortable. “Any requests?” I joke.

He flips a pick at me and, surprisingly, I catch it. “Impress me,” he teases back.

Oh, lord. Okay. I’m holding a Fender. I should probably break out some Clapton. He’s notorious for using a Strat. I rifle through songs in my mind. What wouldn’t Latson expect?

Ah ha. I grin.

I position my fingers and effortlessly play the opening chords to “Enter Sandman.”

“Metallica?” Latson looks suspicious. “You don’t strike me as a metal head.”

“I’m not,” I admit, “but I can appreciate good songwriting.” I tilt my head and think about what else to play until the song it took me the longest to learn jumps to the forefront of my mind.

I only intend to play through the first few lines of “Freebird” but, before I know it, one note morphs into the next. Latson doesn’t stop me and his presence fades the longer I play. The spotlight shining on the stage is warm and bright, making the bar fall into darkness and my skin feel like I’m under the sun. I close my eyes and forget where I am; it’s as if the only things that exist are me, the guitar, and the music. I’m not ashamed to say I’d stay forever in this spot if I could.

Despite my trance, halfway through the song, a metal chair scrapes against the floor and the sound pulls me back to reality. My hands still and my eyes spring open.

“Sorry,” I mutter to Latson. “I got carried away.”

He’s looking at me like I’ve sprouted a third eye.

“Are you okay?”

“That was Skynyrd,” he says like he can’t believe it.

“Um, yeah.” I start to hand him his guitar. “Thanks for letting me play. She’s awesome.”

“No.” He pushes it back into my hands. “Keep going.”

“With “Freebird”?”

“With whatever,” he says. “I like watching you.”

I raise an eyebrow, to keep my heart from racing. “You’re the rock star. Shouldn’t you be the one performing?”

He gives me a self-deprecating smile and doesn’t answer. He crosses his arms. “So?  What else you got?  Who’s your favorite to play?”

My face lights up and reveals my crush. “That’s easy. Eddie.”

“Vedder?”

“No. Not Pearl Jam. Ed.”

“Sheeran?” Latson’s mouth twists around his name. “Really?”

“What’s wrong with Ed?” I defend my pretend boyfriend. “He’s talented. He writes his own songs, he collaborates with other musicians, he –”

“He’s a pansy,” Latson goads me.

My mouth falls open. “He is not.”

“Yes, he is.”

“He’s romantic!  Not that you would know anything about that.” My eyes bore into his. He can’t mess with my Ed and get away with it.

“What did you say?” Latson steps closer and towers over me.

“You heard me. Garage band ex-rock stars don’t know anything about romance.”

I can see the wheels turning in his head. One side of his mouth quirks up. “That’s what I thought you said.”

He steps back and rolls his neck, as if trying to relax. “Enough about Ed. What else do you like to play?”

“Besides my music boyfriend’s songs?” I stress the word.

He begrudgingly nods.

I readjust the guitar on my lap, then take a breath. I play the chorus of the new song I’ve been working on. The Fender must inspire me, because the next few chords I’ve been struggling with appear in my head. Yes!  Finally. I play it one more time before I stop.

“Who was that?” Latson asks.

I smile. “Elliott.”

“Who?”

I stand and remove the strap from around my neck. “Me. Jen Elliott.”

“You wrote that?”

I nod.

Pounding footsteps pull my attention to the right as someone bounds up the stairs. “I need to know you,” he says and makes his way toward me. He holds out his hand. “Dean McCarthy.”

I take in his rugged looks. Mussed hair, five o’clock shadow. He must not have had time to get ready with the van breaking down. I tentatively shake his hand. “Jen.”

“Is she new talent?” Dean asks Latson.

“Maybe,” Latson answers. “I just heard her play.”

“No. I was goofing around. Latson was nice enough to let me hold a classic.” I hand him his guitar. “Thank you.”

“How long have you been playing?” Dean asks.

“Since I was nineteen.” That’s when I inherited my brother Josh’s guitar. He didn’t want it anymore, and I couldn’t let him give it away.  I had always wanted to play, but he never had the patience to teach me. Plus, God forbid I touched his stuff.

“You’re a natural,” Dean says.

“Thanks.”

People wandering in the front doors of Torque distract me.

“Shit!” I push past Latson. “I left Gwen alone and got stuck dicking around with you.” I still haven’t forgiven him for the Ed comment.

“It was good for me, too,” he says.

Smart ass. I don’t bother with the stairs and hop off the stage despite my almost-healed incisions. It’s only a short drop. “I have to get to work. Nice to meet you, Dean.”

“You, too,” he says.

I speed walk to the bar and crawl underneath. “I’m sorry, Gwen.”

“For what?  Impressing us with your hidden talent?  I swear we all stopped to listen to you. Well, most of us.”

I frown. That’s both embarrassing and weird.

She misunderstands my reaction as offense toward the people who didn’t drop everything for the Jen show. “Heidi was the only one who wasn’t impressed,” she explains.

“Heidi?  What’s she doing here?”

“Dean’s playing. He’s a former member of Sacred Sin. You do the math.”

“Ah.” Cue groupies.

Some girls step up to the bar and order. As I make their drinks, I think. Apparently everyone at Torque is aware of Latson’s past. After I start a tab for the girls, I ask Gwen, “Am I the only one who didn’t know about Latson and the band?”

“You didn’t know?” She looks shocked. “He only hires people he trusts. I’m surprised you got in.”

“Well, I am Pete’s sister.”

She smiles. “Pete’s a good guy.”

As the night wears on, Dean blows me away with his set. He’s an incredible guitarist, and it’s a miracle he complimented me. The crowd is full of energy for him, even though it’s not as packed as when Riptide was here. Everyone who came tonight easily fits between the bar and the stage, including Heidi and her entourage. She has five girls with her who are acting like they’re here to see Elvis. I mean, I get it – Dean’s wicked talented – but, they’re dressed to the slutty nines, and they’ve even designated one of the waitstaff as their personal server for the night. Poor Kenzie.