“I’ve heard good things about you and your work,” Pete said. “Sounds like if anyone knows what to do with rough edges, it’s you.”
She tried not to let the flattery get under her skin, but she couldn’t help blushing.
“I hope Mark hasn’t totally poisoned you against me. I’m not all bad.”
“I always reserve the right to make my own judgments.”
“I admire that.”
An awkward moment settled on them, and she didn’t know what to say next. He didn’t fill the silence. Finally she said, “Anyway, I just wanted you to know, Mark and I both really appreciate your willingness to stop by today. Takes a big man to give a guy a second chance, let alone a third. I respect that.”
She watched his face carefully for signs she was troweling it on too thick, but he just nodded and got a faint smile on his face. “Well, I mean, no biggie. My pleasure.”
“This tour’s going to be great,” she said. “You guys are going to kick butt and take names.”
She’d found it worked well to talk about things she wanted as if they were fait accompli. This put her in the right mindset, and she found it helped her get other people there, too. Sure enough, Pete was still nodding. “Yeah, hell, yeah. We sure will.”
“Hav?” It was Bennie again. “Mark Webster.”
“Send him in.”
“Hey.”
Mark barely made eye contact with her, and he didn’t acknowledge Pete at all. Not a good start. “Hey, Mark—I was just telling Pete how much I appreciated his willingness to talk this out.”
“Yeah.”
Jesus. What was she going to do with him? Get this over with as fast as possible before it blew up on her, that’s what. And before—before she started thinking about how good he looked. He was wearing camel-colored cords and a soft brown sweater she’d picked out for him. She knew how soft it was, and she’d seen it on him in the dressing room, so she didn’t have to stare at his pecs to know how well it fit his shoulders and chest. She thought of Judy’s hands tracing Mark’s seams, fussing over the line of his clothes, and how much she’d wanted to brush Judy off and put her own hands on him.
She thought of the way his hands had felt on hers, urging her into intimacy with the guitar. She thought of the wistfulness he wore when he talked about his dad.
She thought about the night at Village Blues and those moments when they’d talked. He’d revealed so much of himself to her, and she understood that he couldn’t hear his own talent, that he’d made himself sacrifice the music lessons he loved to give. He was only half living his life.
That night he’d smelled tangy, some kind of sea-scented aftershave that made her want to put her fingers in the holes in his jeans, the ones in the knees, the ones where the pockets were stitched to the butt. And the one just opening up from strain alongside his zipper, barely big enough for the tip of her pinky.
She’d thought, I wish we were alone, and Thank God we’re not alone.
“So...” Pete said impatiently, and she jumped.
“Pete—we asked you to come here today because Mark has something he wants to say about the breakup of the band.”