Page 7 of The Devil's Tattoo
I opened my case and pulled out my guitar while Frank plugged me intoanamp.
“Sweet guitar.” Chris wasinlove.
“I’m so jealous,” Dee declared. “You should see her effectspedals.”
“That sounds like a dirty pickup line,” Frank declared, wiggling his eyebrowsatme.
Before I could chicken out, I played the opening bars to Black Rebel Motorcycle Club’s ‘Ain’t No Easy Way,’ and Chris whistled. “You’retight,Zoe.”
“That’s what all the boys say.” I winked, and heblushed.
“How long you beenplayin’?”
“About two years give or take.” I shrugged, putting theguitardown.
“Yeah, she’s like a prodigy or something.” Dee was up to his oldtricks.
“Just had a lot of time on my hands, and I got into it.” It was thetruth.
“That’s a tough song.” Frank handed me a cider. “I dunno anyone who’d be able to play that after twoyears.”
“That’s because you only know people in punk bands, and they only know three chords,” Dee shot at him with alaugh.
“Let’s look at your songs,” I said to Dee. I’d heard some of his stuff before when he played it on the street, so I knew he coulddoit.
He handed me a tattered notebook. “It’s a bit different,” he said. “I wanted to try something moreclassicrock.”
“Like what?” Frank asked. “Led Zeppelin classic? Deep Purple? Oh, I know, glam rock likeT.Rex.”
“Led Zeppelin,” Dee and I echoed at the same time, and he grinnedatme.
He picked up his guitar and played through the first song in his book. It was a fastrocksong.
I read his lyrics and whistled. “Nice words,DeeDee.”
“Nah, not really. I want you torewritethem.”
“Me?”
“Sure,whynot?”
“They’re all about love and sex,” I said. “Not exactly myforte.”
“How is it not your thing, Zo Zo?” Frank exclaimed. “Lookatyou.”
I looked at myself andshrugged.
“She doesn’t see it,” Dee said to the others. “Notyet.”
I looked down at the song Dee had written so I could hide my blush and played the first few bars the way he’d just hammered them out. Dee’s idea of writing was to illegibly scribble the chord down and demonstrate. I knew it was meant to be fast because he’d scrawled the wordsfast as fuckat the top of the page followed by letters and numbers that indicated how many notes. Unlike me, he hadn’t bothered to learn how to read or writemusic.
He’d intended it to be fast, but I turned it on its head and slowed it down. Filtering out the others, who were sitting there watching my every move, I played around with the notes. I was surprised at how it soundedthisway.
“Fucking hell, Zoe,” Dee exclaimed, and at first, I thought he was mad, and my fingers scratched across the strings making a horriblesound.
“Don’t stop,” Chris said from hiscorner.
“I never thought of it that way.” Dee was practically wetting his pants. “Thatsoundshot.”
