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wood around him, the dusty lamplight. His fingers slipped to a stop on
the strings, closing with a chord that sounded like a smirk, a nod like a
tipped hat and a last old-fashioned tango step before heading off to the
firing squad.
He leaned back against the chair, light-headed and disoriented. And
yet somehow the knot in the pit of his stomach was gone, dissolved,
replaced by a pleasant weariness throughout his entire body, a low-
brimming, steady confidence that hadn t been there before. He hadn t
even realized how tense his muscles had been until now; he stretched his
neck back, feeling the lingering soreness, rolled his shoulders, and his
lips relaxed in an almost smile. God, it was better than a thousand
people cheering, better than all the booze and pills and girls from his
mashed-up memories of his last years. How had he ever forgotten this?
He rested his hands protectively on the ever-so-slightly convex body of
the guitar. He was so grateful this old friend hadn t abandoned him, that
he d found a way back and not lost himself completely. And, even if it
was too late, at least he could face the devil with a scrap of dignity. That
was good enough for him.
Nice, the voice rasped, snapping Logan out of his headspace. The
barman had pulled down a chair at the other corner of the room and was
comfortably seated, one leg resting over the other, arms loosely folded.
He was staring at Logan with his head cocked to the side and what
looked like the hint of a smirk on his face. There was something familiar
in that expression. Much better than the jerk I saw on stage last night.
Heat rushed to Logan s face. Burning with shame, he tried to
decipher the guy s expression. Did he know who Logan was? Was he
making some sly . . . but no. Looked like he was blessedly oblivious, and
Logan realized with a start that it was all he wished: after years spent
chasing fame, he was desperately hoping that the man wouldn t recognize
him. He hadn t realized just how disgusted with himself he was, just how
deep and visceral the shame was, and it slammed into him like a fucking
train. He swallowed and wiped a nervous hand over his mouth. Were
you . . . were you at the concert?
The man stood up and strolled behind the counter, bending to grab a
glass. Yeah. You?
Logan s hand clenched on the guitar. No. He watched the
bartender fill a pint of dark beer nearly to the top, then place it on the
counter to settle. How was it?
A disgrace, that s how it was. The guy s fingers loosely wrapped
around the beer lever. Wasted money. That asshole could barely hold a
guitar up. Drunk off his face, passed out on the stage at some point. He
shook his head, taking back the glass and adding the last inch of beer. I
doubt he even knew what he was playing. Didn t give a shit about the
music, you know? A cryin shame.
With every word, he shoveled up some more crap from the deep,
deep pit of shame where Logan wanted to crawl and die. He opened his
mouth to reply, but his lips and tongue had suddenly stopped working.
He watched, grateful, as the bartender placed the pint on Logan s table.
The white froth was level with the brim, and a drop had spilled over as
he walked, rolling down his fingers in a thick trail. The man put down
the glass, then lifted his fingers to his mouth and carefully licked the drop
away.
Logan s mouth went desert-dry.
He gulped down half the pint, swallowing heavily, then wiped the
leftover foam from his upper lip and considered whether to mimic the
man. Instead, he wiped his knuckles on his jeans and went back to rest
his fingers on the guitar. It made him feel secure, like he d ventured into
hostile territory and this was his only talisman.
What about you, nighttime bluesman? The bartender leaned
casually against the table. What are you doing, walking around in the
middle of the night?
Oh, nothing big, I m just running away from my career. The
disastrous last six years. My entire life, and my impending agonizing
death. I just . . . had some thinking to do, Logan said.
The man nodded, looking perfectly understanding, as if he might just
say, Why sure, I too routinely stroll down deserted highways in the
night to ponder my life.
And did you? Think? he asked instead. He was staring straight at
Logan, with eyes that reminded Logan of one of those cats that always
seem to know more than they re letting on. When Logan nodded, the man
continued. Care to share, then? What are you thinking now?
I think . . . Logan paused, tracing minute circles on the guitar with
his thumb. He really didn t know why he should be telling his business to
this stranger. But saying it out loud that would be nice. I ve . . . made
some mistakes. A lot of em, really. And I think . . . I think I ve had
enough. At last.
The bartender nodded again, and, if Logan hadn t known it made
absolutely no sense, he d have sworn the man looked . . . satisfied.
Well. Maybe you ll have time to set things right.
I . . . don t think so. But that s all right. Strangely relieved, Logan
realized he actually meant that. He gestured toward the Pignose. And
this . . . this was nice. It really helped. Thanks.
The bartender was smiling openly at him when Logan caught a flash
of of something predatory, like too-sharp teeth. When he blinked, it
was gone. He must have been delirious. You re welcome, the man
said, then pushed himself off the table and stretched languidly, his T-shirt
riding up to expose a sliver of pale stomach. Well, I d say my job here
is done. Time to pack up for the night.
I sure. I ll be on my way in a sec, let you close down. Sorry.
Logan reached to unplug the jack from his guitar. The poor man didn t
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