Page 27 of Puck Love

I push inside the shop. I tracked down this guitar two days ago and had it sent in from the US. It seems weird to have a singer occupying my house and not make her sing to me a time or two, and I can tell she’s going out of her mind with boredom. She keeps drumming her fingers on the coffee table, and she’s been humming a few bars of the same song since shearrived.

I found the Epiphone acoustic guitar online. It’s signed by Loretta Lynn—someone she told me she idolizes. It’s also expensive as fuck, but it is perfect, and it reminds me of her. My littlesongbird.

Jesus.Where the fuck did that comefrom?

I head straight for the counter but Eli shoots me a look when he sees a pretty brunette in uniform standing by a wall of shiny new guitars. I shake my head and keep walking. I want to get this over and done with as quickly as possible, but at least with the distraction of the hot brunette he’ll be tied up for a fewminutes.

The old man behind the counter looks up at me through rheumy eyes. “Can I help you,son?”

“Yeah, I have a special order to pick up for Ross.” It’s just easier to use Ross as my first name in situations like this. That way there won’t be some overzealous sales assistant who activates her hockey hooker phone tree and we won’t have to worry about leagues of fans showingup.

“Ross.” The old man scratches at his beard as if he vaguely remembers the twenty-two-thousand-dollar guitar he sold me over the phone, but just can’t quite place it. “Ross?”

“The signed Loretta Lynn Epiphoneacoustic.”

“Oh, you’re the big spender. What are ya? Some kind of rock star orsomething?”

“Huh, no. Not a rock star, justa—”

“Big klutz who’s good with his hands,” Eli finishes forme.

“What, no number? You must be losing your touch,” I tease. Right at that very moment, the old man finds what he’s looking for and hefts a hard case onto the counter. He opens it, and gleaming back is a pristine white guitar. It’s inlaid with mother of pearl and a little blue songbird. It’s perfect. The man pulls it out of the case with a low whistle. “She is a thing ofbeauty.”

Eli screws up his nose. “Kind of a girly guitar isn’t it, even foryou?”

My face heats up. “It’s for mymom.”

“Nora playsguitar?”

“She’slearning.”

“I thought you werelearning?”

I glare at my best friend. “And I think you’re walkinghome.”

“You wanna check the inscription?” The old man hands it tome.

“Er . . . no, it’sfine.”

“Of course, he does,” Eli says. I sigh as he takes the guitar from the old man and hefts its weight. “Little heavier than a hockeystick.”

“Maybe heavier than your stick. Seems about right for mine,” I shoot back. We both know we’re not talking about the sticks we use on the ice. I snatch it from him before he can find the inscription. I’m also terrified he’s going to drop it, so I carefully put it back in the case and slam it closed. “It’sperfect.”

The old man shuffles off, muttering something about printing an invoice and needing a signature, and Eli turns on me. “You dog. What? You got some pretty piece of ass hidden away somewhere that you can’t even tell your best friendabout?”

“Idon’t.”

“Uh-uh-uh. Don’t bullshit the bullshitter. You’re pussywhipped.”

“No, I’m reallynot.”

He frowns as he studies my face. “What is she? A virgin or something? One of those good Christian girls with the perky tits and the frizzy hair who wear nomakeup?”

“That’s not it.” The old man comes back and has me sign some papers, and places the receipt on top of the guitarcase.

“Thenwhat?”

“Nothing. I just mether.”