Page 49 of Johnny Gun

Therese returned with their beverages, and they gave their order. She turned to leave, but Isolde stopped her. “Is the jukebox working?”

“Sure, but the songs need updating. You’ll find most are country. That is, if you’re thinking about putting coins in. It’ll set you back fifty cents.”

“Thanks.”

“Don’t ask me. I’m not giving you any change,” he said moments after Therese left.

“And I’m not asking, you grouch,” Isolde snapped. “I have my own change.” She lifted her small purse.

“I just don’t think it’s a good idea to bring attention to ourselves.”

“What attention? How? By playing music?” She gestured toward the empty tables. “None of these people give a flying hoot about us. We’re just another tourist couple spending a few days in a small town by the Suwanee River. End of story.”

“Please don’t get upset. I’m only looking out for your safety.”

“Is that what you call your silence…and this…this absence?”

“What absence? I’m right here. Lower your voice, Isolde. You’re almost yelling.”

“Yelling?” she hissed. “I’m not… You don’t… How dare you?” She could barely speak. And his placid expression made her even angrier.

Folding her arms, she sat back, staring into space. A long silence ensued until a young man arrived with their plates. But now, her appetite was gone. She stabbed at her scrambled eggs, then bit on a crispy rasher of bacon. Hungry or not, she had to admit the food was good.

The front door opened, and three young men entered the place. “Hey, Therese,” one of the guys called out.

“Morning, Buddy,” Therese replied as all three sat at the bar.

Isolde gave them a cursory glance. All three were clean-cut, somewhere in their early twenties, and not bad on the eyes.

“Stop that,” Johnny growled.

Tilting her head, she asked, “Stop what?”

“You know.”

Johnny’s placid expression had disappeared, and so had the distance. He was present and engaged.

The devil whispered sweet nothings in her ear, and she took the suggestion. She rummaged inside her purse, found her wallet, and took out a couple of coins. With a big smile, she pushed back her chair.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Johnny grated.

Ignoring him, she stood and walked to the jukebox. Somewhere in that old list, there had to be a good song.

Don’t do this, the sane part of Isolde warned, but she was beyond any advice and fully committed to this course. Even better than an unraveling thread, she’d found a huge chink in Johnny’s armor. Nothing could stop her from digging at it.

Peering into the glass, she studied the selections. As fate or crazy luck would have it, her eyes fell on B5, “The Devil Went Down to Georgia.” She dropped the coins and pressed the number.

As the iconic fast-paced fiddle intro filled the restaurant with its rousing sound, Therese laughed, and the three guys sitting at the counter whooped and hollered. The guy Therese had called Buddy rushed to Isolde, and without asking, he whirled her into his arms, going round and round. He was moving her so fast that she only had quick glimpses of Johnny rising to his feet. When the song reached the bridge, she laughed and stepped back from Buddy.

“Aww,” he complained, holding her in place. “Don’t stop. The song’s not over.”

“Isolde.” Johnny’s deep voice rumbled next to her. “We have to go.”

“Oh, but?—”

“You heard me. Now.” He removed Buddy’s hand from her arm.

“Hey. Let go, asshole,” Buddy griped.

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