Page 36 of Hell House
“As a heart attack.” He growls, but what should scare me only has me moving towards him. The closer I get I notice his knuckles are coated with dried blood. He has several scars on his chest, a few that slice into the tattooed skull he has laying over his heart. My fingers itch to touch it, but I clench my fists into balls instead. I can’t trust them at the moment to not roam over his bare, hot as fuck chest.
“Here.” He gestures to the empty stool next to him, handing me the guitar. I settle onto the wooden stool, lifting my feet to sit on the bottom rung. He stands up, placing the strap around my neck from behind.
“Rule number one? Always support your instrument.” His fingers linger for a moment on my shoulder before he moves around to the front of me. A guitar pick sits between his teeth, as he talks around it, his voice coming out clenched. I look up into his whiskey-colored eyes and bite my lip, feeling nervous under his scrutiny.
“I’m going to teach you a chord, okay?” I nod, watching as he places my hands where they need to go.
“You want to hold right here, putting enough pressure on the strings right here and..” he lifts my finger pushing it against the biting metal, “…here. Now you want to take this.” He removes the pick and holds it out for me to take. I grip it between my fingers, and he laughs, readjusting how I’m supposed to hold it.
“Like this little wildcat.”
I scrunch up my nose. “Wildcat?”
“The shirt.” I look down at my borrowed sweater registering the university mascot. “Now strum your pick across the strings.” He pops on the amp, and I try but the chord sounds more like a strangled cat than an epic guitar wail.
He frowns down at me, moving behind me. He places his hand around mine as I keep my fingers pressed into the chord.
“You want to push a little harder, like this.” His words tickle against my ear, sending a shiver throughout my body.
“Again.” He demands, keeping his hand firmly on mine, his fingers pressing down on where the chord needs to go. I feel his warmth coming through my back as his scent of cinnamon cloves envelops me. I feel myself clench, wondering what those hands of his could do to me, before I shake myself out of it and strum the strings. This time, the chord is beautiful, echoing an almost ethereal sound around the room.
He releases me and takes the guitar with him. I feel the loss of both instantly.
“What’s your name?” I ask, realizing I was too caught up in the moment.
“Walker.”
“Like Texas Ranger?”
“If I had a nickel.”
“How many nickels would you have?”
“Probably a million. But yes. Unfortunately, just like Texas Ranger.”
“Don’t tell me your middle name is Texas.” He barks out a laugh. It sounds dark and warm, like honey. It’s a sound I want to hear over and over again.
“No, thankfully my parents spared me that fate. But it’s close enough.”
“What is your middle name then?” I ask raising my eyebrow and turning in the stool so I can face him more fully.
“You’re just full of all kinds of questions, aren’t you?”
“What can I say, I’m full of curiosity.”
He scratches his scruff on his chin. “Well, I’d hate to see that curiosity kill you like it did the cat.”
“So, maybe don’t keep calling me wildcat.”
“Maybe don’t be so curious.” He says his whiskey eyes dancing with amusement.
“If I wasn’t so curious, I would have never learned… whatever chord that was.”
“How can you say you learned the chord, if you don’t even know the name of it?”
“Well, will you tell me the name of it?”
He looks at me for a second, his dark eyebrows furrowed together in contemplation. “I could tell you, but what fun would that be?”
