Side Trip(7)

“Thanks for understanding.”

He understood more than she realized. Dylan worked in an industry where a minute piece of personal information could explode into a gossip magazine maelstrom. He was picky about what he shared of himself and with whom. Which was why he’d try his best not to pry further, no matter how enticing it was to write a song about her.

Dylan held his hands up to the dash vents to cool off. Joy had the AC cranked and convertible top up. It seemed sacrilege to drive Route 66 without the top down, but he wasn’t going to complain. He was hot and in desperate need of a shower. He hoped the bar where he was playing tonight had a place where he could wash up.

“Are you a professional musician?” Joy asked.

“More of a songwriter, but yeah, in a way, I guess. How can you tell?”

“Aside from the guitar in the back seat? You mentioned you were gigging tonight and your vocals are off the hook.”

“Thanks.” A little smile touched his mouth. He could listen to her compliment him all day. In fact, he wouldn’t mind just listening to her. He’d bet a pack of Screamer blue guitar picks she had a mean set of pipes.

“What about you? Do you sing?”

She raised a hand. “Humble brag here. You’re looking at the number-one shower-singing superstar on the west coast.”

He laughed loudly, his head falling back. “Play any instruments?”

“No. But I’ve been obsessed with music for as long as I can remember. My favorite toy was a plastic boom box.”

“I had a plastic horn. It sounded like a dying moose. I took it everywhere with me. What did you do when you weren’t rocking out to the Wiggles?”

“I competitive surfed.”

His mouth fell open. “No way. I didn’t expect that. Though now that you mention it,” he said, assessing her, “I can see it.”

Her nose crinkled. “You can?”

“Blonde hair. Blue eyes. Freckles across the bridge of your nose. You probably tan after one day in the sun.”

“You totally stereotyped me,” she grated. “Why do I feel insulted?”

“Don’t. You’re a California girl. Nothing wrong with that.” Unable to resist, he crooned the chorus from the Beach Boys’ song. Joy laughed; she even rocked her shoulders and did the Christina Aguilera with her finger to the beat. That was the reaction he wanted. If she loosened up, maybe she would open up. He also loved listening to her laugh. She’d looked sad and lonely at the diner and melancholy again when he’d pegged her with questions about her sister. When she smiled, she beamed. A fun energy radiated off her. Too bad he wouldn’t see her again after today.

“Where are you playing tonight?” she asked.

“Some dive bar.” He didn’t remember the name and didn’t really care. He’d look up the name and address he’d written in his notebook when they got closer to town. Settling deeper in the seat, he angled his body so that he didn’t have to crane his neck to look at her.

“Do you have gigs lined up all the way to New York?” she asked.

“For the most part, but only to Chicago. I’m doing this trip for my dad. He died a few months back. Sudden heart attack.”

“Oh, geez. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He brushed aside her sympathy. He didn’t want it and Jack didn’t deserve it. But maybe if he shared a bit about himself, she’d reciprocate. “Jack made this trip thirty years ago when he moved out to LA. I’m playing in all the same joints he did, the ones that are still around.”

“That’s cool. Were you close?”

“Me and the old man? Nah. My uncle Calvin was more like a father to me. Jack’s death was sudden, which is why I’m doing this now. Figured this trip is a good way to say goodbye.” Not quite true. But he couldn’t legally share more.

“That’s a nice thing to do.” Joy glanced at him, then looked back at the road. Her lips moved, forming his dad’s and uncle’s names. Dylan cringed at his slip, turning his face to watch the passing scenery. He wondered if she’d figure it out. He hadn’t been thinking when he’d strung Jack’s and Cal’s names together. He held his breath, his fingers tapping his knees.

“Your dad wouldn’t happen to be . . . Nah, never mind. No, I gotta ask. Was he Jack Westfield?”

Dylan crossed his arms. His gaze flicked upward. He didn’t respond, but she must have seen the answer in his expression. Her mouth fell open.

“Jack Westfield of the Westfield Brothers?” She sounded amazed and dubious at once.

Damn, she was quick. He’d have to be careful around her. “The one and only.” He scratched at the stubble on his jaw.

“No. Way. They were amazing. I’ve heard them play. I went to one of their concerts. I have their greatest hits album.” She pointed at her iPod. Her voice pitched up an octave, going fangirly. “They have like, what, eight Grammys?”

“Nine.” And Jack’s drive to have Dylan share his limelight was what drove them apart.

“Holy bleep. You’re Dylan Westfield.”

“Did you just say ‘holy bleep’?” He laughed.

“I read about you in Rolling Stone. You’re the Dylan Westfield. You’ve written songs for River District and Sal Harrison. Your lyrics are the awesome of awesomeness. I love them. And . . . and . . .” She snapped her fingers, then pointed in his direction. “Your parents named you after Bob Dylan.”