Page 14 of High Note

“Here you go,” Kirsten said, handing her a bottle that, thankfully, didn’t say Coors. It said Fat Tire.

“Amber ale, huh? Is that like a bock?”

“I think a bock is maltier than this.” Kirsten leaned back against the sofa cushions, throat working.

She didn’t usually like neck tattoos, but on Kirsten it was hot, erotic, strong.

It kind of made her want to lick it.

Which was probably a mistake. Not that she wasn’t all about learning from her mistakes, and thus making a good damn many of them.

“You want to play some more? We have some time.” Kirsten picked up her guitar again.

“I do.” She would just jam all night if she had the chance. Kirsten might regret asking her.

“Me too. This is—this is something I’ll be talking about forty years from now.”

Kirsten didn’t seem like she was fangirling. It was more…true. It felt true.

“I sure hope so. You’re memorable, honey. And I never forget anyone I write a song with regardless.” It was a business thing in Nashville, but any songwriter worth their salt put real emotion into the songs they wrote. They mattered more that way.

“I never forget anyone I write a song for…there’s something there, you know what I mean?”

“Yes. We leave some of ourselves in it.” She nodded at Kirsten’s ink. “Like a tattoo. I don’t let anyone touch my skin that I couldn’t trust, and I’m not going to lie to the people I sing to. I have to feel it.”

“Yeah. I have a good woman here. Starr. She’s something else. She’s done most of my ink.”

“Oh, now. That sounds promising too. This town is full of surprises.” She would so add to her ink. She kept most of it covered, but there were a few she let show by the end of a concert.

“It’s a little mecca for those in the know. I heard about it and moved here as soon as I could.” Kirsten strummed her guitar, her fingers dancing idly.

She watched them, wondering what they would feel like on her skin. Skyla had to be careful who she hooked up with. Country music was supposedly more accepting these days, but coming out was pretty much a way to stop getting mainstream airplay. Kirsten might just be worth the risk.

One way or the other, the woman was a temptation, and Skyla found herself resettling her guitar to hide the fact that she was squeezing her thighs together, her body insisting she had an itch to scratch.

She cleared her throat. “So. How do you feel about rednecking it up a little?”

“Let’s do it. I’m pretty sure I can channel my inner Gretchen Wilson.”

“Oh, man. She’s classic. I like the Chicks, too.”

“They’re from your neck of the woods, right?”

“The lead singer is from Lubbock, yeah.” She had no idea where the other two girls were from in that band, but they had a damn good sound and a kick-ass attitude. “We had a jam session once in Austin. Just a four-part harmony deal for a radio station.”

“Oh, man. I mean, I’m not into commercial stuff too much, but they have the real deal. Like you.” Kirsten smiled, but it had a wry edge.

“Hmmm. Something tells me a week ago you might have called me too commercial?”

Kirsten chuckled. “Then I heard you sing.”

“And I heard you pick, and that told me you’re the real deal too.” She winked. No hard feelings. Disco, for fuck’s sake. She couldn’t blame anyone who wondered if she was real or auto-tune.

“So, where do you want to start?” Kirsten started a chugga-chugga Johnny Cash bass line that thrummed inside her.

“I like that. Like an old freight train on the tracks, picking up speed.” She added a little ching-a-ling to it. Man, this was a hoot. So much damnfun.

She’d written with some of the best, but there was something here, something way more raw than commercial. And it was hot. Like really hot, making her pulse kick up, and her mouth dry. She watched Kirsten, who was playing by instinct, eyes closed, body swaying, and damn.

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