Page 64 of Ice Me Out

“I’m sorry. Can you repeat that?”

The wiry man in a faded Led Zeppelin T-shirt and a permanent sneer looked Vera up and down with distaste—as if she were misplaced and didn’t belong in his store.

“That guitar is for real musicians, sweetheart, and I’m not taking it down for you to fiddle with and take your little social media pictures. That is a custom-made, $22,000.00 PRS, and the last thing I need is for you to break it. If you want to play Guitar Hero, then try out a Yamaha.”

Vera scoffed loudly, and I headed toward her.

“Is there a problem here?” I asked, gently pulling Vera away from the counter by her elbow and taking her place.

“There’s no problem. I was just explaining to your girlfriend here that the guitar in the window is for serious buyers only,” the man insisted, indignantly puffing up his chest, gearing up for a battle he would lose.

“And what makes you think she isn’t a serious buyer?” I challenged him.

Before he could respond, Vera called out.

“Don’t worry about it, Sweet Hart.”

Vera peeled off her leather jacket, dropped it on a music stand, and pulled something out of her handbag before plugging a guitar into an amp. She slung the guitar over her shoulder and unleashed. I was grateful for my mask because then Vera and the asshole clerk couldn’t see how far my mouth dropped in astonishment.

The first squeal of feedback nearly melted my brain. Her fingers flew as Eruption by Van Halen brilliantly spilled from her like she was born for this. The song was chaotic and wild, beautiful and brutal. I forgot to breathe as she shredded the song without any signs of distress, bobbing her head to keep up with the rhythm.

Hobby my fucking ass. This isn’t dabbling. This is mastery.

The last note ended like a gunshot in the silence, leaving the clerk and me suspended in disbelief.

Vera didn’t smile. She simply looked back at the clerk and casually asked, “Am I a real musician now?”

“Um,” he paused, clearing his throat. “Y-yeah. I’m sorry.”

She nodded and returned the guitar to its stand.

“Good,” I said, finally finding my voice. “Now that we have that straightened out. I need you to charge the PRS to this card,” I demanded, tossing a credit card on top of the glass counter. Vera opened her mouth to protest when I cut her off. “You’re not talking me out of this, Sugar. Let me do this.”

She smiled softly as she pulled her jacket back on, and I knew I’d buy that guitar twenty times over just to see her smile again.

“Thank you, Sweet Hart.”

“You’re welcome.”

We left the music store ten minutes later after I finished the transaction and had the guitar shipped to Vera’s apartment. Vera threaded her arm through mine, and we continued our journey to the hotel. I briefly paused to switch sides with her, keeping her away from the street.

“Am I tripping, or did you pull a guitar pick from your purse?”

She leaned on her toes and kissed me on my cheek.

“You’re not tripping.”

“Do you always carry a pick wherever you go?”

“It’s a memento from my mother.”

“I understand,” I said, nodding. “Did she teach you how to play?”

“It was a joint effort between her and my grandfather. Believe it or not, she wanted to be a country music artist, but that never panned out for her.”

“Why not?”

She chuffed a laugh and shot me a glance that said, “What do you think?”