1
Tried and Tempted
Molly
Southernrockfloatsonthe sea breeze, drawing me in like the scent of a nice steak does to a foodie or vanilla to… well… men. Or anyone with a sweet tooth, really.
In my case, this isn’t a scent that just tantalizes — it’s more like that steak to a starving dog, or anything that sets an addict to craving a hit of their substance of choice. And I promised I wouldn’t. Not anymore. It doesn’t matter that the man I made that promise to isn’t here anymore and can’t make sure I keep on the straight and narrow. It doesn’t matter that, in his absence, no one is likely to remember that I should even be a concern. It doesn’t matter because I promised myself, too, after learning my lesson the hard way.
But the sound of the classic 12-bar rock progression grabs me like it has hands and is dragging me toward it by my shirt collar. Comfy sandals don’t provide traction when your feet simply refuse to stop moving.
That all-too-enticing sound is coming from the music shop down the street. It’s on the same block as Dream Weaver, the shop where I work. The summer season is just getting under way in the little seaside resort town of Mystic Beach, and it’s a weekday, so I’ve got a full hour for lunch today. And if I’m not very careful, I’m going to spend it doing something I’ll regret.
″Good Golly Miss Molly,” the distant singer intones amidst the bluesy guitar riff, doing a fair approximation of John Fogerty’s legendary rasp.
Of course. My eyes roll toward the heavens.It would have to be a Molly song...
The CCR version is just enough different from the original that it’s not the first thing you think of when you hear that progression. But it’s a straight-up rocker with an energy all its own. And the fact that it’s eponymous does nothing to stop my feet from their relentless forward motion toward that open door and the musician inside. If anything, it makes it worse.
I manage to grasp the frame of the door just as I’m set to cross the threshold. That’s good. There’s a physical threshold. Metal. It’s aluminum, not iron or steel, but thresholds are good, especially when I need help stopping. It’s like the architect put up a little sign saying, “One step farther and you’ll cross a line.”
But I can see the musician across the length of the shop, rocking slightly in time with the rhythm of the song, his hands dancing deftly on the frets of a beautiful electric guitar. This isn’t the standard factory-produced model made in close imitation of a Fender Stratocaster or a Les Paul. Even from the doorway I can see it’s a work of art that displays all the craft of a master luthier. Is it possible?
And just like that, my toes have crossed the threshold into the shop.
By Balor’s Eye!
I sigh in frustration, and it’s then that the man notices me.
″Welcome!”
The universe is just kicking me in the ass today. Why are people so bent and determined to lay out literal and figurative welcome mats in invitation to anyone who comes to their door? Do they not realize the symbolism of a blanket welcome given to any and all who may reach their threshold? Sometimes, what comes to your door is very unwelcome. And that doesn’t always — or often — mean a vampire. Why even chance that the outcome of a visit from the unknown will be a positive one? Don’t invite it in.
″How may I help you today?”
That depends, good sir. Are you wanting to risk your life for a little inspiration, or would you prefer I went on my merry way, as I would prefer to prefer. Even if I don’t actually prefer it that way at all.
″I heard the music…”
″Is that a good thing? People have been known to run in fear when they get a good look at me, even if my playing is pretty good.” He chuckles.
Self-deprecating humor. I have become an expert in this since I arrived in Mystic Beach. But this guy seems to come by it naturally. It’s disarming. Great. Like I needed to be disarmed…
And, despite his joke, this man is far from unattractive. Wavy brown hair down to his shoulders, brown eyes the color of a fawn’s coat, strong jawline cloaked in a short beard, a generous mouth that looks ready to smile given any excuse or none at all. There’s an old scar running across his brow almost to the inner corner of his eye. It looks like the wound was a deep one that could have meant the loss of the eye, but he was lucky. His vision is clearly intact and the scar has seasoned with the years, giving his face extra character.
No, he’s not frightening, at least as anyone else (well, me, mainly) would perceive him. And hewouldhave to have an impressive talent, too. Of course he would… (I have also mastered snarkandsarcasm recently.)
″It was very good. John Fogerty would be proud.”
″Thank you, milady. But you didn’t answer my first question.”
I scrounge my memory for what else he might have asked me. The lingering remnants of his song are still fogging my mind with whispers of auditory delight. It feels like I’ve just gorged myself at a feast and now have crumbs stuck to my face. I blush deeply. My skin will need to see some sunlight soon if it isn’t to remain moon-pale and give away every hint of shame or arousal.
″Oh! How can you help me?”That’swhat he’d asked.
″Yes. Though, if you just came in to listen, you’re welcome to do just that. I was giving Rose here a workout before I set her out for sale.”
″The guitar has a name?”