9. Chapter Nine
Chapter Nine
Betty
I should be excited. He’s here. Standing five feet away, talking to me.
Me.
“Can you believe any of this?” he asks as if I’m part of his inner circle. I’m not. Ricco Hanlon, the veteran rocker from another generation, is talking to me. My hands shake as I adjust the row of chairs in front of the podium where he’s standing. A line stretching down the boardwalk is queued up just outside the front door of the bookstore, and I know we don’t have enough chairs.
But that’s not why my nerves are on edge. You’d think standing in a bookstore having a one-on-one conversation with a musician who is practically a legend in this part of Oregon would make my bones rattle. And normally, they would. But not today.
Today, something else has me shaking. It’s the voicemail Laredo left on my phone when I didn’t respond to his texts. A short, cheery message announcing his arrival in town and a desire to connect. Like his text, I’ve ignored it. But with Olivia’s mention of him visiting the bar, I know he’s on the prowl. I pray he gets distracted by the next short skirt that crosses his path and I’m forgotten, like I’ve been for the last year.
“I guess they were right when they said it’s never too late to learn.” Ricco steps around the podium and approaches me. Faded jeans, a Pepsi-Cola T-shirt, and a matching jean jacket with marker signatures of musicians he’s played with completes his ensemble. I stare at the jacket and recall the article in Rolling Stone magazine, where a curator tried to get him to donate the jacket to the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame.
The worn jacket is valued at over three hundred thousand dollars, with signatures from over thirty members of the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame, along with nearly two hundred other signatures from the famous to the obscure. Like everything in his life, Ricco shrugs off its value, deciding to wear it to the beach and sweating onstage with it on. His catchphrase is never far from his lips: Memories, baby. It’s all about the memories.
I adjust an autographed book of his memoir on the seat just to have something to do. “You should be very proud.” I tap the thick book that captures only a smidgen of his forty-plus years in rock. He’s joked that he’s withheld the best stories to protect the innocent.
His dry laugh captures my attention. I turn to face him. Ricco is white, thin, with the weathered, wrinkled skin of a man who has spent too much time in the sun. His blue-gray eyes glaze over, and a scoff escapes. “I wasn’t until my granddaughter asked me to speak at her career day. When an eleven-year-old isn’t embarrassed by their grandpa, that’s when you know you’ve done something right.”
He’s closer in age to sixty than fifty, but if you watched him from a distance, you’d peg him for forty at the most. He moves with the grace of an athlete. He paces back to the podium in front of the seats, a poster announcing his book signing, along with the book cover, behind it. Overnight Sensation: 30 years in the Making. The title is an homage to the long journey his career has taken to fame, a long, winding road filled with crossing paths with music giants and living in the shadows for decades before finding success.
“Shouldn’t you let the people in?” He waves a hand toward the door, where I spot the queue of anxious eyes peering into the bookstore. “I’m no business magnate, but I would think you’d want them in early to browse and buy as many other books as they can.” He points to the stack of merchandise his manager dropped off. “Or a T-shirt or two.”
I stand frozen in place and peer at the line. He’s right, of course. For other signings, we encourage readers to arrive early. But it’s midmorning on a weekday, which means I’m the senior staff member on duty. Which merely means I outrank the only other person on duty, the sixteen-year-old cashier who is happy to scroll on her phone while the store sits empty.
I locked the doors with a weak excuse of having a line form makes the event appear as a can’t-miss moment that will make others come running. I’ve seen other promoters do it all the time at the dance clubs and bars I frequent. Rather, frequented. I remind myself that part of my life is in my rearview mirror, no matter how much I still feel the pull. My decision today, however, has nothing to do with creating a buzz for the bookstore. It’s all about avoiding the man with the silver tongue who’s unexpectedly returned to my town.
As much as I tell my eyes to cooperate, they continue to scan the line in search of the man who upended my life. Okay, maybe that’s not a fair assessment. He did nothing I hadn’t expected. He’s a smooth-talking rock musician. I knew what I signed up for the moment our paths crossed. Yet…
Movement to my left causes me to turn. Ricco is making a beeline to the door. He’s not about to do what I think… I’m too late. He clicks open the lock and flings open the door. “Let’s get this party started!” he shouts over the cheers from the crowd. He high-fives two older men before three women wrap him in a group hug. People filter into the bookstore. Some race to the limited number of chairs, while most fan out, headed to their respective favorite sections of the bookstore.
The entrance floods with moving bodies. Too many for my anxious eyes to track. My heart pounds in my chest every time I glimpse another man with dark hair and a thin profile entering. None of them possess the sexy glint of steel-blue eyes. None of them carry a unique smirk that makes me want to drop every inhibition I possess.
None of them do until my eyes capture a pair of scuffed black Converses. My eyes begin a slow perusal that jump-starts my heart. Thin, dark blue jeans, but it’s when they capture the distinctive sterling silver belt buckle of a Fender guitar that a yelp escapes my lips. I lose the ability to breathe and snap my gaping mouth shut. I don’t dare look up.
He’s here. He’s back. He’s standing in front of me.
He lifts a hand, a warm finger underneath my lowered chin. My chin rises with his gentle prod, and I’m face-to-face with the man who has owned my dreams and nightmares for the last year. The name I’ve cursed into the swirling seaside wind way too many frustrating nights.
“L… Laredo.” His name is nothing more than a whisper, one I’m not sure reaches his ears. One look into those blue eyes lets me know it doesn’t matter. The corner of his lips curls up into a sexy smirk I know too well.
“Betty Belle.” The nickname he gave me slips across his gorgeous lips as if he’s been speaking it every day since we last met. He tilts his head, his gaze intensifying, boring through me. I’m wearing a plain cotton top with a long-sleeved pink sweater, simple khaki slacks, and flats. An outfit I wouldn’t have been caught dead in a year ago. I hold my breath and wait for his assessment.
“Something’s different,” he teases me. It’s a unique rhythm we possessed. He’d tease, I’d return in kind, and we’d end up curled in each other’s arms in laughter or lust. Always one or the other, most nights both.
But this isn’t last summer. I don’t possess the fortitude or the cockiness I once did. “If you’re here for the signing, you should grab a seat. We’ll be starting shortly.”
I step out of his orbit. The one that sucks me in and makes me forget the words boundaries, restrictions, and appropriate behavior . I barely make it two feet when I feel the pull on my wrist. My head turns, and I stare down at his thin fingers. The talented ones that not only know their way around a guitar but have also explored every inch of my body.
I make the mistake of looking up at him just as his eyes lock on mine.
“I’m here for you.” His words are much louder than a whisper. He doesn’t share the concerns I possess about making a scene. He never has.
Four words. Four words that upend my day. Four words that let me know I wasn’t just a passing fascination. Four words that let me know that, once again, the universe has no regards for my plans.
“And you know why.”
I spin to face him head-on. He may think he knows why, but if he finds out what truly happened between us, the last place he’d want to be is here with me.