A Perfect Life?. Dawn AtkinsЧитать онлайн книгу.
the open feeling, the sense of limitless possibilities. Long straight stretches of highway, winding mountain roads. And all the climates he could want, from baking Sonoran desert to high, cool Rockies.
In the smoky dimness of Chez Oui, while he waited for Erik to finish up with the beer delivery guy, Trip found himself thinking about the woman again. Claire. She had pretty eyes. Mink dark with flecks of milk chocolate. Smart eyes. And an expression both vulnerable and sturdy.
That was a lot to notice in a few passing glances and one quick collision, but he was good at reading people. You learned that in foster homes. You quickly figured out what counted, because things always changed, got lost or showed up out of the blue. You learned what to hang on to, what to fight for and what to shrug off, and always to be ready to move on. Lessons he maybe got too young, but good ones all the same.
He didn’t blame his mom too much. Hadn’t really at the time. She’d done her best. She was just…limited. He visited her whenever he blew through Colorado. She always baked him something awful. And he always ate it like it was gourmet.
He picked up the bar phone to sign up with a palm-trimming crew to make enough money for the next couple of months’ rent at the guest house where he was staying. The work was dangerous—climbing hundreds of feet in the air to work with sharp blades—but that was why it paid so well.
Plus, he liked variety. He never stayed long in any place or at any job, choosing both for the opportunity to learn…about people, ideas, music and himself. He liked college towns, so he could take classes from people he admired. Gigs were easy to come by near universities. Gig money paid his tuition. But he was happy to work in restaurants or bars, on yard crews or as a handyman to make his daily wage.
Just as he hung up the phone, Erik slid onto the stool beside him, his guitar in hand. “’Sup?” he breathed in his rumbling bass.
“Not much.” Trip said, smiling at his teacher.
“You’re wearin’ that look.” Erik winked at him.
“Yeah?” Trip opened his guitar case and removed his baby.
“Yeah. The look of a cat after a big slurp of cream.”
Trip chuckled. Erik was smart and wily, and the best guitarist he’d had the privilege to know.
“It’s a girl, am I right?” Erik said, fingering his strings.
And he was intuitive. “Could be.” Trip plucked through a tune-up.
“So tell me about her.”
“She’s pretty. Nice eyes. Brown.” He sighed.
“Uh-huh.” Erik began to play Van Morrison’s classic “Brown-Eyed Girl.” “I ain’t heard ya talk about a woman since you been in town.”
Trip shrugged, then started up a harmony line to the tune. “I like spending time on my own.”
“My ass. You’re jus’ too lazy to call any of ’em.”
Trip shrugged again. There had been women who let him know they were interested, but none had caught his eye. Except this Claire. Maybe because she was different than the women he usually spent time with. Which made her off-limits completely, of course. He moved into the chords he’d been learning from Erik, who’d stopped playing to muse a while.
“Women love musicians,” he said. “I was always gettin’ busy in the old days. But once I moved out here, Sara got her hooks in me….You want to make that a minor seventh.”
“Right,” Trip said, adjusting his fingering.
“You probably think you’ll never want to stick to a place, but there’s a good side to it. A steadiness.”
“I like variety.”
“Watch that chord. Keep the arch and it’ll flow easier.”
“Yeah. Got it….”
“There’s a joy in learning all one woman’s tricks.”
Trip didn’t reply.
“I’ve got a gig on Tuesday if you want,” Erik said.
“Sounds good.” He reached for the new chord. And got it. He loved that feeling. Music was the best companion.
Erik gave him the details about where and when they’d be playing. “I could keep you busy if you’d stay around. You going after this brown-eyed girl?”
“Too much trouble.”
“But that’s the best kind of woman,” Erik said, cackling. “The ones that are trouble.”
“I don’t think so.” Trip didn’t like disappointing people. He’d stayed some months in Denver for a woman, but she started getting on him about the future and his plans, and he’d itched to be on the road. It was always easier to think, to learn, to be himself when he kept moving.
She’d reminded him of Nancy, the girl he’d been with during that mess with his final foster home. He’d fallen hard and when she broke it off, he’d been wrecked. But she’d pointed out what he needed to know about himself and he’d never forgotten.
“So you say,” Erik said, nodding and smiling his wise Buddha smile. He strummed something so complex that Trip had to work to follow it. Good. He’d rather focus on music than women any day.
“SO, I GUESS YOU GET the master bedroom,” Kitty said to Claire Friday afternoon as they stood in the narrow hall of Claire’s apartment. When she’d said Kitty could move in, it had never occurred to Claire that her own bedroom might be up for grabs.
They’d agreed today was a good day for the move, since Rex had the day off and could muscle her stuff upstairs.
Barely moved into the duplex, Kitty hadn’t had much to pack. She’d boxed up her kitchen and bedroom stuff, emptied her closets and rented a truck yesterday. Kitty moved fast when she wanted something. She and Rex had loaded the truck last night and now, Rex was dutifully trotting Kitty’s bed frame through the front door.
“I guess you could pay less rent for the smaller bedroom,” Claire offered.
“No, no,” Kitty said, tapping a French-cut fingernail on her lip, wearing her real-estate-deal look. “Having the bigger bedroom will be like a finder’s fee. You found the place, after all, and paid the deposits.”
She gave her an abrupt, bruising hug. “I’m sooo glad we’re doing this. We’ll have so much fun. We can do each other’s makeup, drink wine and dissect men all night.”
“Sure,” Claire said, trying to look on the bright side of the situation. Kitty wouldn’t let her mope about Jared, that was certain. Plus, a pint of ChocoCherry Rumba Swirl shared seemed way less sinful than one shoveled in alone.
“It’ll be just like college,” Kitty added.
“Uh, yeah.” God, she hoped not. Claire had spent many an evening studying in the library so she didn’t have to listen to Kitty’s headboard thump against the other side of the living room wall. At least the apartment walls here were thick.
“That room,” Kitty said to Rex the Robust, directing him to what they’d agreed would be her bedroom. The two women followed him inside to watch as he bolted the bed frame together. Just watching his muscles ripple from butt to ankle gave Claire thoughts.
“Gonna be tight,” Kitty said.
“Huh?” Claire startled from her fantasy.
“The bed,” Kitty added.
“Oh. Yeah. The bed.” The frame did nearly cover the floor.
“Big bed,” Rex said, rising to stand between them, his face red from exertion.
“All the better to amuse you with,” Kitty said to him, scraping a finger through the stubble on his jaw.
“Really?”