Page 14 of #Moonstruck

The owner of the club, Rodrigo Sanchez, had taken a liking to us. None of us knew why, but playing at Rodrigo’s was the only gig we could consistently count on. Unfortunately, it didn’t pay a whole lot. Just a little bit more than what it cost us in gas and repairs on our dilapidated van.

I didn’t need the winking emoji to know he was teasing. I knew I really should put a stop to all this flirting we were doing.

What was he expecting? Was he still on that “We should hook up” thing from last night?

That should shut him down.

At least he wasn’t acting like every other shocked and outraged musician who had ever hit on me and expected me to swoon at his feet. It was refreshing that he could joke about it.

I had thought Diego was cute, and although I’d enjoyed chatting with him backstage, this entire exchange made me like him even more. His sense of humor was like mine. He’d made me laugh several times. He was quick and clever and fun. My brothers might even like him and possibly wouldn’t punch him if he tried to hold my hand or kiss me.

Cole’s phone buzzed. Another text from Diego.

Why did that make my heart pound and my skin flush?

And why was I picturing Ryan De Luna saying those words to me instead of Diego?

I hadn’t expected to hear from Diego until I saw him in person on Wednesday. But he texted me the next morning, asking who my favorite guitar players were.

Which I found out only after Cole came storming into my room to show me his screen. “Who is this fool texting you on my phone?”

I explained the situation to him, but it didn’t do much to calm him down. “Diego and I are just friends. It’s not a big deal.”

“Whatever. I read your texts. This dude does not want to be ‘just friends’ with you.” Cole handed me his phone. “Give him your email. Because if he sends you a picture of his junk on my phone, I’m not going to be responsible for what happens after that.”

I pressed my lips together so I wouldn’t laugh, and I told Diego to email me instead, giving him my address.

Then, sadly, I sat and waited for my in-box to load. It took so long that I nearly died of boredom.

But there it was! An email from [email protected] with just one question:

Who are your favorite guitar players?

I hit theREPLYbutton and wrote:

Joni Mitchell, Lita Ford, Christa Harbinger. Also, Bonnie Raitt is a goddess. What about you?

I pushedSEND, but I knew it would probably be a while before I got his response. I left my room and made myself some toast while I waited. Just as I sat back down at my computer, I had another email from him.

Hendrix (obviously), Jimmy Page, Muddy Waters, and Johnny Ramone are my favorites.

Most guys would say Eddie Van Halen or Keith Richards or Slash when you asked them. They were the more obvious choices. I liked that his picks were a little offbeat.

His next line asked:

Why don’t you have any men on your list?

I responded:

Why don’t you have any women on yours?

He replied:

Touché.

Back and forth we went, talking about our top five bands and singers, favorite albums, best live concerts. It was slow going because of my machine and the connection. Like Pony Express slow. I wondered if he was playing me. I knew from experience that the way to a musician’s heart was to ask him or her about their musical influences or why they’d written a certain lyric, or to tell them how much you loved a specific melody. I’d watched my brothers fall prey to many a girl who’d focused all her attention on just the music instead of gushing about how hot my brothers were. To make it seem like she was different from the others.

They fell for it every time.

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