“What is that, bat shit?” I asked. I leaned in closer to him as the constant wind swept loose sand off the desert and flung it at the Jeep, coating my hair like styling putty.
He smiled and my heart did a weird skip in my chest. It made me smile back at him, grinning like an idiot, despite the gritty hair flying into my face.
“It’s a band,” he said. “I remember you being into all sorts of music when you were younger.”
“Oh,” I said, feeling momentarily stupid. I wasn’t very hip with new music, and though I was a big music junkie, I stuck to the stuff I knew and liked. “No, never heard of them. What do they sound like?”
“Spaghetti western rock,” he said and pressed a button. The sounds of slow drumbeats, violins, and a whistling tune worthy of a Sergeo Leoni film came out of the speakers, enveloping us before disappearing into the night air. It was cinematic and enchanting and right up my alley.
“Sounds like Calexico,” I told him, feeling excited about a new musical discovery. “One of my favorites.”
He nodded. “They’re from Italy. I think the dude from Calexico was involved with the band or something. Anyway, I’d love to email you the tracks. I think you’ll like them a lot. They kind of remind me of you.”
I frowned, my lips caught in a wary smile. “Reminds you of me?”
He shrugged and changed lanes to get ahead of an old Cadillac. “It’s rough and sweet at the same time.”
I let out a small laugh and tucked my gritty hair behind my ears. “I get the rough part, not the sweet one though.”
“I see you’re still not giving yourself enough credit,” he noted with faint amusement. “Fair enough.”
I thought about that and sat back in the seat. After the way things had ended between us all those years ago, the last thing he should think I am is sweet. Besides, I wasn’t sweet. I was planning to scam the poor bastard, which was something I kept on forgetting the longer I rode beside him. Funny how a nice ass, firm pecs, and a great smile could thwart a woman’s best plans.
But that’s what I got for picking a mark that I knew, a mark I was starting to like. I needed to keep my vagina out of the question and focus on what was really important: money.
We pulled into the small parking lot at the back of a bar called the Coppertank. A few musicians were in the midst of unloading under the orange streetlamp, their small cars packed to the brim with equipment.
“Did you need me to be your roadie?” I asked him, but he only smiled and brought his guitar case and pedals out from the back. As he lifted them out, clear above his head, his shirt rose up and I spied a distinct six pack with a thin treasure trail leading down to the waistband of his boxer briefs.
I turned away before he could catch me gawking at him and ignored the irony that I’d been staring googly-eyed at him when he used to do the same to me.
Not that I didn’t catch him checking me out from time to time. I particularly felt his eyes on my ass as we made our way through the back and into the dark and surprisingly smoky club. Even though California was strict about smoking inside, the patrons of the Coppertank didn’t seem to care. And, as I did a quick once over of the place, I could see why. They were a ragtag bunch comprised of goths, punks, rockabillies, and gearheads, and judging by the way they were drunk at seven in the evening and talking trash to each other, it was obvious that this was a bar where the customers called the shots.
That made my plan a lot easier.
“Can I buy you a drink?” he asked me after he placed his equipment in the back room.
“Sure you can,” I told him and I followed him to the bartender. Camden gave him a nod which signaled for the guy to make him what I guessed was “the usual.”
I leaned toward Camden, tilting my chin down coquettishly. “Do you play here often?”
“As often as I can.” He responded by leaning in closer, his bare arm brushing against mine. There were no sparks, but I did feel a few tingles that shot up along my arm and pooled between my legs. I clamped them shut and tried to ignore it.
“Where’s the rest of your band?”
“They probably won’t be here till nine or something. We don’t go on till eleven.”
I raised my brows at him as the bartender pushed two glasses of what looked like Coke toward us. “Eleven?”
He looked a bit sheepish, which was adorable with his glasses. “Yeah, we usually play after the smaller bands finish. I just wanted some alone time with you before the show, that’s all. You know, for old time’s sake.”
He placed a glass in my hand and nodded at it. “It’s got booze in there, don’t worry. I’m not that much of a saint.”