Page 56 of A Boy Called Lovesong

Something else was missing too—

The acoustic guitar that had been hanging on the wall.

That’s when I heard a distant sound floating on the warm night breeze.

A bluesy strumming of guitar strings.

A riff on a C major.

A chord progression from G to D, all drifting over the sea of cotton plants beyond the church, milky in the moonlight and swaying in the wind.

With the sheer curtains billowing on either side of me, I stepped warily toward the open French doors.

On the floor I saw the muddy footprints of the intruder.

One foot after the other I moved forward, until I stepped out onto the balcony, my fists bunched up and ready to fight whoever might be hiding out there.

I looked left and saw nobody.

I looked right and saw nobody.

I looked down and followed the trail of muddy footprints from the French doors to the post at the far corner of the balcony.

Cautiously I stepped toward the railing, looked over the edge… and saw nobody on the street below.

From across the cotton fields, I heard the playing of a distant guitar.

And all I could do was ask myself—“What the fuck is going on here?”

CHAPTER 11

I tried to stay awake.

I closed and locked the French doors.

I sat up in my bed with Chet, holding him close, determined to stay awake until Lovesong returned to his bed.

I wanted to see if he had mud on his feet.

I wanted to know if the sound of the distant guitar in the cotton fields was him.

I wanted to ask who the fuck had crept onto our balcony and into our room in the dead of night.

But at some stage I drifted off, exhausted, spent, in desperate need of sleep.

Not even Chet heard Lovesong when he finally crept into the room, right before he tripped on the electric guitar that he wasn’t expecting to find in the middle of the floor.

There was a bang and a twang of strings, and I woke with a fright, sitting up in my bed and blinking back the bright light of dawn.

“Who’s there? What the fuck? Lovesong, you’re back. Where the fuck did you go?”

“Me first. Why the fuck is my guitar on the floor?” He promptly placed the acoustic guitar he’d been carrying onto hisbed, and on his hands and knees he felt for the electric guitar he’d just kicked across the floor.

He needed help and I jumped out of bed and knelt beside him, bringing the guitar to his groping hands. “Sorry, it’s my fault. I needed a weapon in the night, and it was the first thing I grabbed.”

He turned his head toward me, concern washing over his face. “A weapon? What the hell did you need a weapon for? Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

One hand reached toward me and rested on my bare leg, high up on my thigh.

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