Page 11 of Lost Love on 6th Street

“Here, take it.” I switch my beer with the cocktail and settle into the chair beside her.

Eleanor’s cheeks flush. “That’s nice of you.”

I swig her cocktail. Not too bad actually, though the cinnamon of Southern Comfort reminds me of too many mistakes in my 20s. “I want you to get the full Texas experience. If you’re only here for three months, ya know.”

“Sure,” she says, then swigs the beer. I love a woman who drinks beer. The glasses and beer-drinking combination is too much for my heart to handle. She purses her lips, tilting her head to the side. “Huh. It’s sweet.”

“It’s Shiner Bock.”

She laughs, then tips the mouth of the beer toward the stage. “They’re good.”

I rest my arm on the back of my chair and gaze down at the band. Yeah, they might have been a pain in the ass before the show, but that’s the whole punk attitude. “I saw them at a little club a few months ago and I thought they could handle a bigger venue. They’ve got a cult following, as you can see.”

“Cowpunk, right?” she asks.

My mouth falls open. “You know a lot about music?”

“Oh, no, no,” she says adamantly. “I mean, not the way you probably do. The bartender told me about them. Gotta be honest, I wasn’t sure I’d like it.”

“I sense a but coming on?”

Eleanor giggles and presses the mouth of the bottle to her mouth. I try not to stare at her pretty lips as she takes a sip, but it’s hard. They’re not particularly pink or red, but they’re full and contrast nicely against her skin tone. Lips like hers have secrets and I don’t mean the kind she could whisper in my ear.

She leaves me hanging a couple more moments, watching as the lead singer of Fried Polyester swings a cowboy-booted foot onto an amp and yells about walking miles for gas. “But . . .” she finally puts me out of my misery. “I’m really enjoying their music. Actually.”

“Good, I’m glad,” I say in earnest. I place my foot on the rung of her chair. Just a little bit closer. See how she reacts. “Would have hated to have forced you to stick around for a show you didn’t even enjoy.”

Eleanor tucks a chunk of curls behind her ear, keeping her eyes downcast on the table. She’s shy. And curious. And ethereal.

Driving me crazy.

“So, um, anyway, the picture.” Eleanor grabs the picture and places it on the table.

I clear my throat and shift my foot back to my chair. “Oh, yeah. The picture.” I’d nearly forgotten about that.

She places it on the table in front of me. “So, The Lone Star isn’t The Lone Star anymore. That’s one thing . . . can you tell me anything else just by looking at this?”

I pull the picture closer to me and take it in. I’m not a sleuth. Not like Eleanor might be. But I’m going to do my damndest to come up with something else to give her, else I’ll look like a fool or a womanizer for keeping her around. I chew on my lower lip and look everywhere on the image except the woman’s face. My eyes land on the orange date emblazoned in the corner. “Okay, well ‘93 . . . that was in Kenny Zapeta’s time.”

“Kenny Zapeta?” she repeats.

I slide the picture away. Don’t want to linger for too long. “Kenny Zapeta, he owned and managed The Lone Star for a while. A couple decades if I’m correct. Sold it in the early aughts.”

“Do you think he’d have any information about this woman?” she asks eagerly. “I mean, I’m assuming she’s a musician. And from the looks of it, she looks so excited, I guess it’s a stretch, but maybe she performed here.”

I cock my head to the side and let my eyes linger on Eleanor for a long moment. Thankfully, the crowd has erupted in cheers for the latest song, which gives me a few moments before I can say anything. Eleanor is sat up straight in her chair, her whole body straining with desire to solve the mystery.

When the crowd settles down and Fried Polyester moves into their next song, a ballad, thank fuck, I say, “You really want to figure this out, huh?”

“Yes, absolutely.”

“Why?” I ask. “What do you get out of it?”

Eleanor’s face slackens. “I . . .”

“That’s not meant to be judgmental, I’m genuinely curious.”

“Me too! I’m a genuinely curious person. Some people can be curious and let things go. I . . .” Her hands tighten around the Shiner Bock. “I need answers. At least as many as I can get.”

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