Page 5 of Deacon

I cut the ignition and killed the headlights.

Down on the sand, a massive bonfire flickered against the velvet black canvas of the night, throwing orange sparks into the sky.

Even over the sound of the wash of the lake on the beach, the energy was electric.

Music drifted through the air, blending with distant laughter, shouts, and the clink of bottles echoing up the dunes.

I grabbed my jacket, slammed the car door shut, and headed down the path toward the light.

Smoke wafted over me as I made my way down the beach, along with the scent of sausages, barbecue, and beer.

I soon found Sarah, and she grinned and waved me over.

‘Hey,’ I greeted her, kissing her cheeks.

We caught up for a bit before I grabbed a can of Coke and headed to the fire.

Everyone was in clusters, and I came across Bea and Saxony, two more friends from the same modeling agency, and joined their chatter.

Next to us, someone was strumming chords, and I swiveled when the dark-haired guitarist ripped into an awe-inspiring solo.

I recognized him with a lurch: Angel, the musician from the blues bar.

I listened, mesmerized, until he finished.

He moved on, messing with an old Beatles song, while lost in an argument with another tall, muscular, dark-skinned, gorgeous man with dreads.

They went back and forth about how pop bands played chords without understanding their intricacies, as a small crowd gathered to listen and chime in.

It was loud, fun, and chaotic, and I loved the vibe.

That’s when I had a sudden thought.

My heart racing, I glanced around at the different groups of people on the beach.

I peered through the flames toward a circle of lawn chairs a few feet away, and my stomach flipped.

It was him.

Deacon, the sax alchemist.

He sat on a cooler, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle, nonchalant, head thrown back, corded neck on display, laughing at someone’s joke.

His teeth glistened, his curls wild and falling over his brow, highlighting his mesmerizing eyes.

He wore an unbuttoned flannel over a white tee, a tribal scarf loose around his neck, and ripped blue jeans with hems rolled to his calves, as if he’d stepped out of a GQ ad.

I couldn’t stop staring.

Glancing up as if sensing my gaze, he locked eyes with me through the flames and tilted his head, as if asking a question or trying to place me.

Then he slid off the cooler and strode over, skirting the fire, until he loomed over me with a wry smirk.

My pulse kicked up a notch.

‘You’re from the other night, at Davis & Third.’

I arched a brow.