Flynn
My dad’s band was playing in a microbrewery in the suburbs that caters to an upper-middle-class fifty and older crowd. The Nighthawks are a solid choice, as they play the music of that generation although it might get a little louder than the manager anticipated.
I park in the lot and unload my guitar and amp from the van. Nadia tries to take the guitar from me, but I don’t let her. “You’re not my pack mule, Peaches.”
“What am I?” she asks.
“My muse.” My girl. My inspiration. My everything.
She likes my answer.
I grasp her nape and pull her in for a kiss, breathing in her butterscotch scent. “Your job is to look beautiful and be you. Can you handle that?”
I love seeing the laughter light up her pretty face. “Yes.”
“Good.”
We walk in together. My dad is up on the stage, setti
