Tall, Tatted and Tempting(4)

He leans on one butt cheek so he can pull out his wallet, and he throws in a twenty. He doesn’t say anything, but he points to my guitar and raises his brows. I don’t know what he wants, and he can’t tell me, so I just look at him. I don’t want to acknowledge his presence. But he’s sitting with his knee an inch from mine.

When I don’t respond, he puts a hand on my guitar. He points to me and strums at the air like he’s playing a guitar. I realize I’ve stopped playing. But he did put a twenty in my case, so I suppose I owe him. I start to play I’m Just a Gigolo by Van Halen. I love that tune. And love playing it. After a minute, his brows draw together and he points to his lips.

I shake my head because I don’t know what he’s asking. Either he wants me to kiss him, or I have something on my face. I swipe the back of my hand across my lips. Not that. And the other isn’t going to happen.

He shakes his head quickly and retrieves a small dry-erase board from his backpack.

Sing, he writes.

I have to concentrate really hard to read it, and there are too many distractions here in the tunnel, so I don’t want him to write anymore. I just shake my head. I don’t want to encourage him to keep writing. I read the word sing, but I can’t read everything. Or anything, sometimes.

He holds his hand up to his mouth and spreads his fingers like someone throwing up. I draw my head back. But I keep on playing.

Why does he want me to sing? He can’t hear it. But I start to sing softly, anyway. He smiles and nods. And then he laughs when he sees the words of the song on my lips. He shakes his head and motions for me to continue.

I forgot he can read lips. I can talk to him, but he can’t talk back. I play all the way to the end of the song, and some people have now stopped to listen. Maybe I should sing every time.

He writes something on the board. But I flip it over and lay it on the concrete. I don’t want to talk to him. I wish he would go away.

His brows furrow and he throws up his hands, but not in an “I’m going to knock you out” sort of way. In a “what am I going to do with you” way. He motions for me to keep playing. His fingers rest on my guitar, like he’s feeling the vibrations of it. But what he’s concentrating on most is my mouth. It’s almost unnerving.

A cop stops beside us and clears his throat. I scramble to gather my money and drop it in my pocket. I’ve made about thirty two dollars. That’s more than the nickel I had when I started. I pack up my guitar, and Blue Eyes scowls. He looks kind of like someone just took his favorite toy.

He starts to scribble on the board and holds it up but I’m already walking away.

He follows after me, tugging on my arm. I have all my worldly possessions in a canvas bag over my right shoulder and my guitar case in my left hand, so when he tugs me, it almost topples me over. But he steadies me, slides the bag off my shoulder in one quick move and puts it on his own. I hold fiercely to it, and he pries my fingers off the strap with a grimace. What the heck?

“Give me my bag,” I say, and I plant my feet. I’m ready to hit him again if that’s what it takes. But he smiles, shakes his head and starts to walk away. I follow him, but getting him to stop is like stopping a boulder from rolling downhill once it gets started.

He keeps walking with me hanging on to his arm like I’m a Velcro monkey. But then he stops, and he walks into a diner in the middle of the city. I follow him, and he slides into a booth, putting my bag on the bench on the inside, beside him. He motions to the other side of the bench. He wants me to sit? I punched him in the nose two days ago and now he wants to have a meal with me? Maybe he just wants his $20 back. I reach in my pocket and pull it out, feeling its loss as I slap it down on the table. He presses his lips together and hands it back to me, pointing again to the seat opposite him.

The smell of the grill hits me and I realize I haven’t eaten today. Not once. My stomach growls out loud. Thank God he can’t hear it. He motions toward the bench again and takes my guitar from my hand, sliding it under the table.

I sit down and he looks at the menu. He passes one to me and I shake my head. He raises a brow at me. The waitress stops and says, “What can I get you?”

He points to the menu, and she nods. “You got it, Logan,” she says, with a wink. He grins back at her. His name is Logan?

“Who’s your friend?” she asks of him.

He shrugs.

She eyes the bandages across his nose. “What happened?” she asks.

He points to me, and punches a fist toward his face, but he’s grinning when he does it. She laughs. I don’t think she believes it.

“What can I get for you?” she asks me.

“What’s good?” I reply.

“Everything.” She cracks her gum when she’s talking to me. She didn’t do that when she talked to Logan.

“What did you get?” I ask Logan. He looks up at the waitress and bats those thick lashes that veil his blue eyes.

“Burger and fries,” she tells me.

Thank God. “I’ll have the same.” I point to him. “And he’s buying.” I smile at her. She doesn’t look amused. “And a root beer,” I add at the last minute.

He holds up two fingers when I say root beer. She nods and scribbles it down.

“Separate checks?” she asks Logan.

He points a finger at his chest, and she nods as she walks away.