The sound of his knuckles cracking filtered through the stillness as a bright spotlight illuminated the front of his guitar. I gasped. It was my guitar; my dad’s guitar. I knew every single inch of my dad’s guitar and this was identical, even down to the bright blue details. I felt my heart fall to the floor, shattering into a million jagged pieces. He was another one, another guitar player obsessed with my dad. I found them everywhere, or more accurately, they found me. I think some of them had a tracking device attached to my ass with how quickly they could locate me. I’d spent my life fighting off Kirk Savage wannabes. Which never made sense to me—I’m his daughter, so their path to becoming my “Rock God” dad should not include them vying to be in my pants.
I heard Deacon slowly inhale then let out a long, steady stream
of air. Not a nervous gesture, but a
prayer for strength. He lightly strummed
his guitar and the sound invaded my senses.
He played a slow, light melody that had tears burning my eyes.
His fingers moved over the smooth strings, creating one of
the most genuine sounds I’d ever heard—every movement of his hand giving voice
to the desires of his heart. I’d been around enough musicians to know that was
the only way a mere human could compose such a melody, and in that moment, our
hearts were beating to the same rhythm.
His voice rang through the calm
bar and every eye was turned, hanging on his every word. His voice was light and rough, his words ran
together, just barely clear enough to understand.
Take her now; you need her more than I
She hasn’t ever truly been mine
Strike your claim; it’s been too long
I’ve been fighting, but you’ve won
There’s no way, don’t hide your eyes
Unused, unwanted, unclaimed
Some of my earliest memories were of me, sitting cross
legged in the middle of my dad’s studio, intently watching the faces of
musicians as they poured their heart and soul into their gift. My dad used to say, if the fans didn’t feel
like they’d lived an entire lifetime in his shoes after he performed, then he
needed to find another job. “Maybe an
accountant,” he’d joke, “they don’t need emotions.”
Music has always been the driving force in my life. It soothed my fears when I was overcome, and
guided the way when I was lost. I looked
to music like a religious man looks to his God – and it had yet to let me
down. If Deacon’s face wasn’t covered by
the darkness, I knew I would see every emotion evoked by his words. Music was easy, life was hard. Each haunting syllable he uttered crawled
deep into my soul.
“Holy shit, are you crying?” Willow shrieked from beside me,
and then laughed.
I touched my cheeks and felt wetness; I hadn’t even realized
I was crying. I wiped it away before
turning to look at her.
“No, I wasn’t crying.
Are you crazy?”
“Bullshit Elizabeth, you were freaking cryin’ and don’t try
to deny it.” She pointed her finger in my face and shook her head at me.
“Whatever, c’mon.” I said, looping our arms together and
heading toward backstage. “Do you, or do you not, want to meet Duke?”
“Damn right I’m gonna meet him; gotta meet him before I can
make him put a ring on it.”
She said with a laugh.
Author Bio:
Sarah Dosher was
born and raised in rural Oklahoma where she currently resides with her cowboy
husband and twins (one cowboy and one cowgirl). She spends her day slaving away
in healthcare and her nights pouring her heart out to her keyboard. She is
addicted to books and The Golden Girls. Her love for reading inspired her to
start her writing journey.
Website:
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Twitter:
Twitter.com/sarahdosher
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