Wasted Heart Read Free Page B

presence. At that time, being inexperienced with males in general, I tended to keep to myself, remaining as invisible as possible in baggy t-shirts, jeans, and a cowboy hat with my hair pulled up inside. He told me later that he saw through it, straight into the heart of his soul mate.
    Even now, in my mind, I remember the first night he finally spoke to me. I can still see the small, smoky bar filled with patrons, their guitars in one hand and a pen usually in the other, ready to jot down any inspiration that comes to them. Lyrics, music notes, and sometimes curse words when you have a brain fart flood the wrinkled notebook pages. That day, I had my Gibson Hummingbird guitar in my lap that my dad gave me for graduation. Actually, it was the only one I had at the time. I have no idea how he paid for it, but I cherish it more than life itself.
     
    On the bar table in front of me sits my black and white composition notebook where I write down everything. Big Kenny, one of the local musicians, has asked for help to come up with some chord changes for his new song. People brainstorm around the room, shouting out comments and playing different riffs on their guitars. I strum and switch up a couple chords to see what works best when I look up to catch him staring again. Even from across the room, his gaze causes a tingle to course up my spine, stealing my breath. I bow my head, secretly peeking up through the brim of my cowboy hat to watch him.
    Gripping his guitar in one hand, he strolls over to the side of the bar that’s not ten feet from me and leans his hip against it. Several guys stop to talk to him, but not once does he take his eyes off me. His shaggy brown hair escapes out from under his straw cowboy hat. The blue of his eyes stands out against his tan face, and two matching indentions of dimples are created on both sides of his mouth when he smiles at my assessment of him. A grey, raggedy t-shirt flattens over a defined, god-like chest, and blue jeans cover solid thighs. My gaze travels down to his well-worn brown cowboy boots. He looks like he just stepped off the farm which, in my mind, equates to a New York City runway.
    My mouth waters, and I squirm in my chair under his direct gaze. Despite our past run-ins, he’s never attempted to speak to me. Instead, he’s kept his distance, playing and singing with the crowd, but when I would catch him sending covert glances my way, a big grin would emerge on his face.
    This time, he smiles that charming smile and proceeds to walk my way with his Martin guitar. He has an innate swagger that screams, “I know exactly what I’m doing.” I’m glad someone does because I’m trying to keep my untouched body from twitching and looking like a cat in heat. Every drop of liquid dries up within my mouth, and I instantly wish I had ordered a Sprite as soon as I sat down. He comes to a stop inches in front of me, still giving me that megawatt smile with gleaming, pearly white teeth. I get a good whiff of whatever cologne he has on, and my senses go haywire. He’s got a nice guitar, a nearly perfect grill, and he smells like something I want to lick. Wait. Did I just think lick? I giggle at the thought and look down to write it in my notebook. Maybe a song about looking good enough to lick?
    “Any other guy would probably feel intimated by a beautiful girl laughing and ignoring him,” he jokingly remarks, laying his guitar down on the table.
    At the sound of his voice, I slowly raise my head, allowing his almost perfect vision to fill my sight. God, he is crazy good-looking up close. The Lord knew what he was doing when he created this boy. Guys don’t make me tongue-tied. I only stay away from them because it’s better than putting myself in a situation that I can’t talk my way out of, not that I would want to talk myself out of anything to do with him at this moment.
    “Any other girl might feel a little intimated by a country cutie finally talking to her,” I reply,