Brandy Winger had finished her last set, and polished off a fifth of gin as easily. She had her guitar case in hand, trying to bat away a lock of her caramel-colored satin hair. It still shown softly in the dim lights, looking like the mane of a well-brushed pony, moving gracefully around her face even as she tried an ungraceful exit from the bar.
“I’ll take you home, Brandy,” Naughton suggested reaching for her faltering arm.
“That’s okay. I’m walking,” she answered. “I promise you, I can’t kill people with this guitar case.”
His laugh was easygoing, and he took the guitar case from her hand in spite of what she said. And with his firm hand guiding her through the door, they made their way to the pale green pick-up truck where he helped the boozy singer climb inside.
“You down on your
