Dirty (Dive Bar #1)(53)

“Absolutely.”

“And a new waiter.”

“Yep.”

“I mean it, Nell.” I waved a pointy finger at her.

“I know you do.” She smiled beatifically.

I didn’t trust that smile one bit. “I have to go meet Vaughan.”

“Speaking of which.” She delicately scrunched up her nose, eyes alight with mischief. “Can you please use more concealer on the hickeys next time? Either that, or ask my bro to stop using you as his chew toy. You’re bringing down the class of the place with your kinky sex play. It’s not okay. We’re a serious, well-respected establishment.”

“Oh, yeah,” I said sarcastically. “Playing punk music all day definitely reinforces that image.”

“It was Boyd’s turn to pick the music. He says he chooses punk to soothe the ghost of Andre Senior.”

“Do you really think the place is haunted?” I asked, curious. No ghost had ever crossed my path, but you never did know. There was a lot in this world I could neither explain nor label.

Nell just shrugged. “Might be. The old man was definitely married to the place. He hardly ever went home, ask Andre Junior about it. His mom was a model, always traveling for work. Eventually she met someone else and settled in New York. Andre traveled back and forth a bit, but he basically raised himself.”

“Tough childhood.”

“Yeah. Andre Senior loved this place so much it didn’t leave much room for anything else.”

“Some people shouldn’t have kids,” I said, sounding more than a touch bitter. Memories poisoned my present, the same as they ever did. “Self-absorbed *s, it’s ridiculous.”

“Yes.”

“It’s not like you have to. There’s no legal requirement to reproduce. But people with no real intention of actually bothering to be a parent keep doing it just the same.”

No response apart from a sad smile.

“Anyway.” Ugh. The lid on my emotional shit needed fixing, pronto. “I better go.”

“Thanks for coming in again, Lydia. You saved our asses.”

“Sure.” I pasted a smile on my face and made for the exit.

“And thanks for listening to me whine.”

I stopped, then retraced my steps, sticking my head back into the room. “Ditto, Nell.”

The smile she gave me made a lot worthwhile. It was nice having a friend.

*

Outside, the afternoon sun beat down, baking the top of my head. An occasional car swept past and a few shoppers lingered. Mostly, however, it was quiet. As if the whole area had fallen into an afternoon lull. Siesta time. I shook off the lingering remnants of my bad-parenting rant. Seeing Vaughan would work wonders. I swear my body started tingling at just the thought.

A sign sat out on the hot sidewalk advertising how Inkaho would be open until eight. Distantly I could hear the buzz of the tattoo needle doing its thing. I hadn’t seen Pat since the night of the great fight and I certainly didn’t stop and wave through the front window. God knows what I’d say to the man.

While the Dive Bar shone like new and Pat’s tattoo parlor appeared to be well maintained, the Guitar Den was of a simpler style. I stepped inside, grateful for the chill of the air-conditioning. Gray industrial carpeting that was worn down to next to nothing covered the floor, beneath a large battered metal and glass shop counter. Amplifiers were all over the place, a drum kit sat set up in the back, and the walls were covered by every kind of guitar—the bulk of which I knew nothing about.

A portrait of Bill Murray hung behind the counter. An interesting choice of patron saint.

From deeper within the shop came voices, the sound of music. I followed it into an open area hidden behind a wall of amps. It was a secret garden made for six strings. Sort of.

“Hi,” said Andre, leaning against the end of a ceiling-high rack of guitars. How the man managed to look dapper in a bright red vintage Hawaiian shirt I had no idea.

Some people are simply born cool. I wasn’t even remotely one of them.

“Hi, Andre.”

“Check this out.” He jerked his chin in the same direction the music was coming from.

Vaughan sat on a low stool, playing an acoustic guitar, while three kids of varying ages stood watching. Their faces were rapt. I completely understood why. Vaughan with a guitar in his hands would enthrall anyone.

He was magic.

The precision of his fingers and the dance of muscles in his arms. Jaw set and eyes distant, he wove the music out of thin air, filling the shop with its beauty. It wasn’t anything fancy, full of finger picking and over-the-top showmanship. Just a simple old soft rock song. By Dylan, I think, though I’d heard it covered a million times. The care Vaughan gave it, however, the heart, made it special.

“C to G,” said one of the kids, who looked like she was in her early teens.

“That’s right.” Vaughan smiled as he kept on playing.

“Then D,” added another, pointing at the bottom strings.

“Yep. You got it.”

The third remained silent, staring at his fingers.

“He’s good with them,” I said quietly to Andre.

“No, he’s f*cking great with them,” he whispered back. “This has been going on for over an hour now.”