Page 42 of Hauling Ashe

Sitting on the wobbly bench, I take a deep pull of my beer. My attention falls to the keys—fifty-two white and thirty-six black. The perfect combination. Closing my eyes, I picture my hands moving over ebony and ivory, playing songs from memory, writing new ones. Lawson was a good songwriter, guitarist, and singer. Denton played guitar and sang back-up. I didn’t consider myself much of a singer, but I could harmonize, and I was versatile. Guitar. Drums. Harmonica. But the piano was a focal point in the living room of my childhood home. No one forgets their first love. I was prodded to play the instrument to entertain guests at dinner parties my parents hosted. Being musically talented was acceptable when the skill benefitted Jonathon Ashford.

When I selected music I wanted to play, Dad disapproved.

“What is that fucking racket?”

When his father gave me my first harmonica, Dad wanted to toss the gift away.

“I’ll only buy him another one,” Grandfather threatened.

When I got my first guitar, I practiced when Dad wasn’t home, which was often.

“That’s lovely, baby. You could be a star one day,” my mother cooed.

My fingers hesitate. Curled at the knuckles, they bend and quiver, eager to touch the eighty-eight keys that I walked away from years ago. I gave up the band, my friends, and California. I became a father and a husband, instead. So many times, I wonder why I did it, and deep down inside I know the answer. I was twenty-three at the time. I wasn’t a child, but I wasn’t adult enough to make good decisions. My parents had died. Grandfather called. Rochelle needed me.

Sacrifice, Mae called it. Love, she said.

There was a time I thought I loved Rochelle. We eventually had Julia. I worked in the marketing department of Ashford’s. She stayed home and raised our children. I never faulted her for Jude’s paternity. He was mine. He had my blood through my father. The Ashford line was intact, and Jude would inherit the company one day. Only, with a downturn in department store patronage, the company was sold minus one location shortly before Grandfather’s death. His life’s work was gone. Maybe that’s what lead to his fatal heart attack.

I don’t trust myself to touch these keys just as I don’t trust myself with Mae. There’s nothing I want more than to bury myself inside her and wipe away all the memories for a little bit. That wouldn’t be fair to Mae, though. I’ve been unfair enough today.

The piano rests within eyesight of the long bar counter and the scattering of tables in the center of the place. Booths line the wall near the dance floor and curl around the L formation to the front door. Glancing up, I notice when Mae enters. She’s wearing a dress and she wobbles, suggesting she has on heels of some type. Her hair is down but flattened a bit as it must be raining again. She walks to the bar, clutching at her crossbody bag, and takes a seat, hesitating a second to look around her. The bartender greets her, and she gives him that smile. The one I want only for me.

My fingers fall to the keys, and an ominous sound thuds into the bar. The overhead music drowns out the sharp clunk and Mae doesn’t notice me in the corner tucked beside the counter. From this vantage point, I watch her as she orders a drink and casually sips from the straw, still glancing over her shoulders once or twice before turning back toward the television behind the bartender. Eventually, a man in a leather vest approaches her, and I’m close enough to hear their conversation.

“New around here?” The worst pick-up line ever.

“Just passing through,” she offers.

“Aren’t we all?”

“I’m hoping with a name like Shamrock, some luck with rub off on me.”

Oh sunshine. I shake my head and watch as a devilish grin curls the biker’s lips. I can almost predict what he’ll say next.

“I’d like to do some rubbing on you, pretty lady.”

“What?” Mae says, giving a nervous laugh and lifts her glass for another drink. Her lips close around the short straw, and I watch the biker watch her. He’s picturing those lips wrapped around a body part of his, just as I want them wrapped around mine.

“Runnin’ the route?” he asks.

“On a road trip,” she offers and I’m shaking my head again. She’s giving him too much information.

“On a bike?”

Mae lightly chuckles. “In a Prius.”

The biker gives a hearty laugh in response. “You need to spread your wings and fly, baby. Back of a bike is the only way to enjoy this road.” He pats his chest, and I see what he’s doing. He’s the road he wants Mae to ride. When he reaches out to brush her hair over her shoulder, that’s my cue to intervene. No one’s touching her but me.

I stand and grab my beer, and that’s when Mae notices me. Her eyes fix on me, holding mine as I stalk around the bar and stand behind the biker.

“Babe, whatcha doing?” I ask.

Her brows rise and her eyes shift to the biker. He’s leaning on the bar with his back to me and he turns his head, peering at me over his shoulder. He’s bigger than I am, broader and wider, but Mae is not leaving with him.

“This your girl?” he asks, keeping his profile to me.

“Yes, she is.” My eyes latch onto Mae’s, and her brows hitch higher. I’m waiting for her to deny it, but she doesn’t.