Spring, 1972

Hey sweetie, wanna dance?

Duncan raised his arm to wipe sweat rolling under his chin onto his sleeve and threw her a glance, not bothering to turn the bar stool in her direction. Shagged brown hair topped her average-height frame; she was not much shorter than he was, he supposed. A modern girl, including her willingness to approach him in such a direct manner. Thank you, bu I am workin. He looked back to check on his ordered beer, smoke choking his mouth and throat.

She moved closer. Not at the moment, youre not.

Returning his eyes, he noted a tenacity in her expression and body language. A quality he liked, to a certain extent. Well, y are right. At the moment, I am tryin t cool off a bit. Then I am goin back t work. A trickle of sweat rolled down the side of his face from underneath the damp hair falling over his forehead, and Duncan leaned forward to pull the bottom of his T-shirt up, rubbing it across his face and letting it fall again.

Accepting the mug that finally came across the bar, he took a large swallow, the coolness against his hand echoing the stream of liquid pouring down his throat.

The girl cuddled into his shoulder. Are you ever here when youre not working? Fingers with painted nails touched his arm.

Ignoring a snigger from the new bartender, he again raised the mug to his lips, allowing time to consider an answer. Now and then. The chill of the glass distracted him from the girls flesh pushing against his and the muskiness of her cologne.

She broke through, sliding both hands around his fingers and the heavy mug, pulling it from him. So maybe youll dance with me another night? Sipping his beer, she kept her eyes on his. Narrow eyes. Lashes painted longer than natural matching thick black lines extending from the corners; the brushed-on green of her lids attempting to extend the brownish-green of her pupils. It didnt work well.

She rubbed a finger around the edge of the mug, hinting.

Duncan considered the offer. She looked fake, but not snobbish. And who was he to be too particular? Maybe.

She grinned, pushing the drink back toward him.

Keep it.

He watched her move away, flaunting the beer to her table of friends, repeating the conversation, he figured, making it more than it was. He never understood the infatuation girls had with guys in local bands. Hell, this wasnt even a good local band. His mates were okay guys, as far as it went, but barely third-rate musicians. It didnt seem to matter. They were only background noise for pick-up lines and attempts at relaxation by intoxication in the dark out-of-the-way bar.

Dark was helpful. It disguised the niched plank floor and scratches in the old wood tables with only patches of varnish left as pointless protection. Duncan could imagine his mother cringing about him playing at the little dive, though it was better than many hed played. For the most part, it was kept clean, though likely not clean enough for her. He was just as glad she didnt know how he was living day to day, city to city, jumping from one third-rate band to another while doing whatever other cash jobs he could find.

Ordering another beer, he watched the small crowd, studying the ones he recognized as regulars and the few he didnt. Mostly, he played to the same group every weekend. It was only a paycheck. There wasnt one, he imagined, who would even know if he played a wrong chord now and then. They werent listening, not more than enough to go through the motions of dancing. Their drummer was at least decent. They kept a good beat going.

A movement from the table of Thiel College students caught his attention; they were always easy to spot, dressed too well for the bar full of locals and holding their chins higher than necessary. One of them rose to retrieve his drink from the bar instead of barking an order at the girls serving. He was the only male at the table without a cigarette hanging from his mouth or fingers. Worst part of playing in bars; the damn cloud of nicotine.

The guy was heading in his direction. Duncan turned back, waiting to catch the bartender. Is tha beer comin tonight?

Make that two. And a wine spritzer. After his, of course.

Wine spritzer. For the girl at the table sitting sideways in the chair with her legs crossed and her shoulders straight, Duncan guessed.

How long have you been playing?

Glancing up to make sure the college guy was talking to him, he answered barely. A while. He looked away again.

Obviously. I meant, how many years?

Why? Duncan raised his hands in a questioning gesture at the new bartender. He would have to go back and play before he ever got it, at this pace.

The intruder took advantage of the stool next to him being vacated, and planted himself as if he actually belonged in the bar, raising his voice to talk over the recorded music played between sets. Youre wasting your talent here. Youre a hell of a guitarist.

Duncan looked over, unable to completely dismiss the compliment, since it wasnt from a girl this time. He sincerely doubted this guy was hitting on him. You play?

Not much since I started school, but when I can.

He nodded and turned away. Another beginner looking for pointers, and he had better things to do than waste time on a college student who wanted to learn just enough to pick up girls.