Three
Annabeth
With my head pressed firmly against the woodgrain, I let my mind return to the cowboy that just graced my presence, and the way his huge, muscular frame loomed over me – I’m not exactly short but he made me feel tiny.
His jeans were covered in dirt, well-worn in just the right places as they rested perfectly against his hips.
Those damn jeans fit so well it looked like he had to squeeze his thighs into the denim; every skerrick of material stretched to its limits around his bulge.
My mind instantly dives straight into the gutter as a delicious image of me on my knees for this man floods my psyche.
I wonder how good he would feel in my mouth. Knock it off, Annabeth.
The weathered leather of his boots matched the distressed denim of his jeans, and his T-shirt hugged every gorgeous curve of muscle on his stomach, leading straight to his full chest. He had a dark-brown Akubra hat planted firmly on his head, giving way to a hint of salt-and-pepper sideburns that peeked from beneath the brim, resting just above his thick brows.
His piercing hazel eyes shone through a sea of long, black lashes. He had to be in his forties…
I finally lift my head from the desk and let my gaze pan across my classroom.
Several chairs are haphazardly pushed into their tables, most of which are coated with weird pen marks or covered in messy carvings that look like they were done with scissors.
The blackboard in the far-left corner is scribbled with notes from today’s class.
We’d been discussing the use of the capo and how it can manipulate string tension, creating different tones to the chord.
I’m a fan of this lesson as it usually provides a good opportunity for practical learning while still engaging the kids.
Plus, I get to break out my favourite guitar, and she’s always a hit.
I trail my eyes across to the corner of the room, letting them fall on the large, leather guitar case that rests beside my desk.
It may not look like much from here, but inside that worn-out leather lies the most beautiful piece of wood you’ve ever seen: the 1980's Gibson J45 guitar that my dad left me.
It was his guitar on the road. This old girl and her strings – well, some of them anyway – have been all across the world in that case.
My dad picked her up at a yard sale before I was born.
According to him, the owner had no idea what he had sitting there on his front lawn.
I feel my cheeks rise as a smile creeps over my face, and a low chuckle creeps out from behind my lips. My tongue peeks out and curls across the full flesh as I reach forward and lift the case to my lap.
I click open the locks, the familiar creak reminding me of home.
My guitar glides out of its case, and I caress the smooth wood as I lower the case and position the guitar across my legs.
My hand rests lazily over the saddle and finds the strings.
The other hand finds the A chord, and I find myself strumming a song that I’ve played time, and time again.
I open my lips slightly and let my voice ring out in a whisper as I sing along to the song my dad sang to me every night when he got home from being on the road.
This life, it ain’t for us all. It ain’t for the weak, bruised and broken. We do what we can when times get tough.
I’m a diamond in the rough, but I do it all for you. My little bird, my world, my girl.
I take the scenic route home, via my favourite Asian takeaway restaurant and the bottle shop.
I desperately need a glass of wine and a healthy serving of Lee’s Pad Thai.
As I pull into my driveway, I notice the front porch light is already on – my roommate, Ella, must be home.
She owns the local bar and has turned it into the town's hot spot.
Ella usually worked late, so her being home before me is kind of unusual.
I occasionally pick up a shift to help her out on busier nights, or when there is an event in town.
No use wasting my professional cocktail making skills– and by that, I mean overfilling shot glasses and pouring beers that had more head than a brothel.
The bar is a short walk from our house, which makes the late nights easier on both of us.
We often stumble home together after the few cheeky drinks we down on the closing shift.
When I first applied for the teaching position here at Hawks Hollow Area School, I found her ad in the paper looking for a roommate, and we met up for coffee.
We were both young and single, hitting it off immediately.
Ella had moved here with her cousin years ago, but she’d taken a job in the city and Ella was desperate for some company.
I hadn’t realised then that she would soon become my best friend, confidant, and personal stylist – her words.
I strategically balance my food, the wine, my guitar, and my work bag in my arms as I kick my car door closed and shuffle towards the house.
I feel like a fucking octopus. Edging closer to the front door, I do the ‘bum knock’.
You know the one where you position yourself in the doorway and wiggle your butt against the fly-screen as if that’s a suitable substitution for an actual knock.
To my sincerest surprise, my roommate appears within moments with a huge smile across her face.
“Annabeth Harrington, don’t ya know you shouldn’t be carrying this crap inside all by y’self. Your daddy would be rollin’ in his grave.”
I scoff a laugh as I twist my way past her and through the hallway towards the kitchen. “A little help would’ve been nice,” I say with a pretend cranky face, poking my tongue in her direction.
“I was gonna head out, but you seem like you could use some company,” she offers.
“And what makes you say that?”
“Baby girl, you’ve got Lee’s and merlot.” Her brow furrows as she steps closer to me. “What’s the matter, Annabeth?”
“I just had a bit of a weird day, that’s all,” I reply, popping the cork from the bottle and reaching into the cupboard to retrieve our Riedels. Wine must be consumed in a fancy glass, and you can’t change my mind.
“That’s it, we’re watching Wicked and I’m making waffles,” she announces, proudly. Wicked and waffles has been a staple event in our house since I moved here in June, although, it’s usually a breakfast tradition.
“Waffles? Ella, it’s like 6:00 pm on a Tuesday,” I protest.
“And?” she questions, cocking her perfectly arched brow playfully.
“Okay, fine. But I call dibs on being Elphie.”
“Honey, you’re always, Elphie,” she says with a smirk.
Ella plants a kiss on my cheek before twirling herself into the pantry and collecting the ingredients for our waffles.
I carry our glasses into the living room, setting them on the white oak coffee table, and plonk myself lazily onto the couch.
The soft, maroon velvet caresses my curves as I melt into the upholstery with a loud sigh.
I nestle into the couch, prop my feet up on the coffee table, and raise my glass to my lips. The smooth, velvety liquid coats my throat as I swallow. Ahhh, heaven.
Twenty minutes later, Ella waltzes into the living room with a huge plate of waffles, and a grin bigger than her hair – it should be mentioned now that Ella closely resembles a pin-up icon and frequently has her hair teased so high it could genuinely touch the sky.
“So, why the weird day?” she asks.
“Well, not to be dramatic, but I think I’m in love.”
“Ooh, spill,” she exclaims with an excited giggle.
I take another sip of my wine, gather my thoughts, and describe the cowboy of my literal dreams to my roommate. Right down to the way his eyes bore into me and the delicious way his Wranglers hugged his ass.
“Oh, you are absolutely screwed,” Ella laughs.
“Bitch, I know.”