Come Dancing by Leslie Wells Page A

about it, but …”
    “You can ignore everything you’ve read about me; they love to exaggerate,” he said with a twitch of his eyebrow.
    I had a feeling they hadn’t exaggerated much. “I’ll forget what I’ve read if you’ll tell me yourself.”
    “Okay, how we got our start. Patrick and I brilliantly realized we needed percussion if we were going to do anything more than strum’n’ hum, so we found Mark. Then we required a keyboardist. At first we weren’t going to go with Sammy because we thought an American might not blend in with us blokes. But when he drank us all under the table, we knew he’d fit the bill.”
    “What was he doing in London?” I’d always been curious why the group included one non-British member.
    “Getting the hell out of Marietta, Georgia,” Jack said. “He’d been kicked out of military school, if you can believe his parents thought that would work out. His mama figured he might pick up some culture if he spent a few months in England.” He paused to down a slug of beer. “I’ve always felt Southerners are akin to the Irish. The best ones are bullshitters, lushes, and underdogs. I’ve got some Irish in me, so watch out,” he added with a grin.
    “I’ll keep that in mind,” I said, smiling back at him. Our eyes met, and I had trouble pulling mine away.
    Jack reached for his guitar. “You ever listen to anything other than blues?”
    Was he fishing around about his own music? I didn’t want to turn him off by sounding like some gushing fan. “I like jazz, although I need to get more educated about it. And rock, of course.”
    “So you do listen to rock and roll. Who do you like?”
    No way was I going to admit I owned every one of their albums, and had played them until the grooves were worn thin. “All the great ones,” I said. Jack looked a little disgruntled, but I left it at that.
    “You ever played?” he asked, thumbing the strings.
    “Only some piano lessons when I was young. After my father left, we didn’t have the money for it. Did you take guitar lessons?”
    “Nope, never had one in my life. I don’t read music. I always figured it was more in the attack than the technical stuff. Here, give it a try.” Before I could demur, he laid the guitar in my lap. Reaching for his beer, he took a sip and put the bottle between his thighs.
    “I’ll show you a one-four-five blues progression. Put your hand on the neck.” He leaned in and positioned my fingers. “You have to press hard; that’s where it all flows from.” He started to place my other hand over the middle.
    “Aah, I can’t do it backwards.” Jack moved closer and put his arm behind me, his left hand covering mine on the guitar neck. He looked over my shoulder. “Put your fingers here,” he said, reaching around to position my right hand on the strings.
    His chin brushed my shoulder; I felt his warm breath on my cheek. I started to scoot forward a little, but his arms tightened around me. “Now hold these down and strum.”
    Awkwardly I tried to pluck the strings. If I turned a fraction of an inch, my face would be touching his. He seemed intent on teaching me the chords, when all I could think of was the intoxicating heat of his body.
    “All right, that was your A. Sort of. Now we’re gonna situate you …” He repositioned my left hand, his voice soft in my ear, “… so you can play a D.”
    His chest pressed against my back, his heartbeat like a drum kick through my shirt. My stomach was doing somersaults.
    “Just hold those in and then strum. That’s your basic D.” When I didn’t move, he stroked the strings for me. His arms encircling me felt like an embrace. Why is he showing me these stupid chords when I’m dying for him to kiss me?
    “Next you go to an E.” He lifted my pointer and positioned it, then my middle finger, then my fourth. “Don’t be afraid of it, Julia,” he said in a low timbre, his lips brushing my cheek.
    Suddenly my skin prickled with