MoreThanWords Read Free Page B

than a messy pussy.”
The crude joke got a laugh. He slipped the strap over his neck and started
plucking and fine-tuning. The stage lights were still low, making the press of
bodies visible if he looked up from his pearl-white Fender P Bass. If he’d
pushed, maybe C would have told him her full name and where she lived. Between
Toronto and London covered a lot of ground, and he was smack in the middle of
it. If she lived close enough, he could have told her where he’d be playing,
and…
    Get real. Not only was she likely a monster to look at, but
she probably lived in some hick-town hours away. And the whole point of
chatting on that site was to avoid groupies, not make more. A woman who found
him interesting for his brain, who wanted more than to ogle or idolize him,
that was what he wanted. Well, that was mostly what he wanted. He’d be
strumming another kind of instrument later tonight to take care of the rest.
    The house lights dimmed. A rumble erupted from the crowd as
the bar manager stepped onstage for the introduction.
    “We’re packed to capacity tonight, folks. If you don’t have
a drink yet, flag down one of our beauties and get a couple, because you’re
gonna need ’em. Our favorite homegrown boys are here to rock you into a hot,
sweaty mess. Ladies, and the rest of you ugly lot, give it up for Black Box,”
he said, then jumped into the mash of patrons.
    Applause, screaming, hooting. Travis’ adrenaline spiked with
the noise. He struck a chord and led the band into their first song, letting
the sensations take him over. The neck of the guitar became an extension of his
arm. Blood surged through his veins, into the frets, along the strings and back
into his body, carrying his soul into the music and the music into his soul.
The crowd was there—the electricity of them surrounded him—but he saw nothing.
Two songs turned into five, then the bar manager was back, announcing their
break.
    The stage lights dimmed. Stubbs, their keyboard player,
crouched at the edge of the stage. Talking to a woman, of course. Travis slung
his guitar aside and sipped ice water, scanning the crowd through lowered eyes.
Hundreds of bodies, tons of them women. If he wanted to hook up later, all he
had to do was make eye contact with one of them. Or more than one. Been there,
done that. Yah, being with more than one woman was hot, no denying that. But
all of it had gotten so meaningless. Sex for the sake of getting off, nothing
more.
    Still, he found himself searching. Tons of women with long,
dark hair. Any one of them could be his Scrabble mistress. Or none of them.
He’d never know…unless they chatted again and she opened up. Maybe he’d get the
ball rolling. Something about her made him want to take the risk.
    Behind him, Luke plugged in his guitar and began playing a
medley of riffs. Travis joined in, the lights came up and the crowd screeched
approval. Not much topped that sound.
    They ended the night’s performance with the Guns N’ Roses
cover he’d mentioned to C. He usually went to a totally free place during his
solo, but tonight he was thinking of her comment that it was a romantic song.
He closed his eyes, tried to conjure an image of his mystery girl. If she was
real, the flesh and blood kind of real, he’d play it for her. Acoustic, slowed
down to make it sexier. And close up, so they could share the heat of it.
    He very much needed to get a grip.
    “Dude, come sit at the bar.” Victor, Black Box’s crazy-ass
drummer, poked Travis in the ribs with his drumsticks after their last set had
finished. “Bring your strings, chicks love that shit.”
    “Nah, I’m out of here, for which you should thank me,
otherwise I’d steal all the best ones from under that hideous moustache of
yours.”
    Victor laughed, smoothing his fingers over the bushy
inverted horseshoe. “The ladies love it. They say it tickles them in all the
right places.”
    “I’ll try not to keep that in mind,” Travis said as