Rock Chick Rescue (Rock Chick #2)(8)

“No!” I shouted, “No, I can’t tel him, you can’t tel him either.”

Al y came around by Indy; she was smiling too, “You have to tel him.”

“I’m not going to tel him. No one can tel him.”

“No one can tel who what?”

The voice came from behind us. It was Lee. He was looking at me like I’d crawled out from under a rock.

“Jet’s not a racist, she’s got a big ole crush on Eddie,” Indy announced, al smiles.

I closed my eyes and I felt my face heat up.

When I opened my eyes, Lee was looking at me.

“Strange way of showin’ it,” he said.

“She’s f**kin’ shy. Gets tongue-tied. Says stupid shit,” Tex summed it up quickly.

“Please, can we stop talking about this?” I asked.

“No way!” Al y said, “I’ve been watching Eddie with you and I’m pretty certain—”

“Al y,” Lee cut her off.

“Please!” I cried. “Can we stop talking about this and you al have to promise not to say anything to Eddie.”

“You want him to think you’re a racist?” Indy stared at me like I just beamed down from Mars.

“No! Of course not but… um, yeah. It would make avoiding him easier.”

“You’re loopy-loo,” Tex said.

“Shut up Tex.” Al y came up and put her hand on my arm,

“Seriously, Jet…”

“Please,” I said (or kinda begged).

Luckily, Lee came to my rescue and when he talked, people listened. “Let her be.”

“Lee!” Al y dropped her hand from my arm.

“You al have to promise not to say anything,” I said.

“Sure!” Indy replied quickly, so quickly I thought maybe she was lying. I also saw Lee’s eyes narrow on her and then he shook his head and the crinkles by his eyes deepened. I got the impression that I was in more serious trouble than I’d been in when they thought I was a racist, but that wasn’t even the half of it.

* * * * *

Later, in the early afternoon, Eddie came in. I didn’t expect him to, I thought he would avoid me too but there he was.

He walked in, his eyes scanned the room cutting across me like I wasn’t even there, and I immediately changed my mind that I didn’t want him to think I was a racist.

He looked good; worn Levi’s that fit real well (tight in al the right places, loose in al the right places), black cowboy boots, a black, long-sleeved t-shirt that was snug on his chest and biceps, and a big silver belt buckle on his black leather belt. His black hair was kind of messy from something, the wind, his hand running through it, whatever.

He made my mouth water.

I was behind the espresso counter with Tex and Indy was behind the book counter. Eddie saw Indy and walked right to her, ignoring everyone else.

I was terrified Indy would say something, even more so when Tex elbowed me.

“You should go talk to him,” Tex stage whispered.

“I’m not going to talk to him!” I hissed back.

“You’re loopy-loo,” Tex told me.

Then the bel over the door rang again and as I was concentrating on semi-arguing with Tex, I didn’t look up.

At first.

Then I heard someone sing.

“Jet! Jet!”

I looked up.

Tex looked up.

Indy looked up.

Al y walked to the front from the back where al the bookshelves were.

Eddie turned around.

And there was Ray McAlister, my Dad, standing in the middle of Fortnum’s, banging his head and playing air guitar while he hummed, loudly.

My mouth dropped open.

Then Dad went on, singing the Paul McCartney and Wings song “Jet”.

He was real y going at it. Dad was. Singing al the lyrics, the “oo-oo’s”, jamming on his air guitar like there was no tomorrow, snapping his head around so hard I thought he’d give himself whiplash.

When the lyrics included the word “father”, he got a big, goofy grin on his face, put his hands on his heart and, I couldn’t help it, I started around the counter toward him.

“Dad,” I whispered.

Everyone was staring. Tex in avid fascination with a huge grin on his face. Indy was giggling. Al y was nodding her head. Eddie’s arms were crossed on his chest, watching, blank-faced, with his hip leaned against the book counter.

Dad wasn’t quite done. More air guitar. More “oo-oo’s”.

Then, when I made it to him, he grabbed me in his arms, pul ed me close and started dancing with me, flipping me around, stil singing, but louder this time.

In fact, he was at the part where McCartney begs Jet to love him and Dad was kind of yel ing (as he always did when he sang this song to me, which was a lot, in fact, it was every time he came back to town and first saw me).

He did the catcal and I started laughing, I couldn’t help it.

My Dad may have been a crap Dad but he was crazy and he was funny and even though he’d only been in my life for what amounted to hours in the past fourteen years, he was stil my Dad.

“Dad!” I shouted over him humming the musical part.

He was half swinging me around, half dancing with me, total y ignoring me, and he kept going. He ended the song as usual, on a hug, swaying me side to side and humming the sad saxophone finale.