Broken Read online

  Dave hired me to give him free time to spend with his family. Before me, he was working every day bar Sunday, the only day of the week the shop closes, but I think Emily was getting a little fed up with Dave never being home, which is understandable with three kids under seven. With me around he’s free Friday afternoon through to the end of play Sunday, and although he had a few issues letting go of the reins for a while, he’s getting there and his trust and confidence in me is growing; he no longer pops in to check on me on a Saturday anymore. Unless the misunderstanding with his wife is a ploy and he’s secretly checking I locked the place up properly last night. Now there’s food for thought.

  I do think being a musician myself and a quick learner has helped Dave relax as far as passing the baton is concerned though. I spent the first month on the job reading and learning as much as I possibly could about every instrument and piece of equipment the shop has to offer. That way, I can answer anything a customer should ask, and Dave was impressed by my dedication and progression knowledge-wise. My entire life, apart from work, revolves around music so apart from performing or songwriting as a profession, a music shop is about as good as I’m going to get and if swotting up is what it takes to keep my job, then I’m going to do it. I pride myself on being a hard worker in any job that I do.

  Dave leaves, and I set about cleaning the guitars, which are aligned closest to the shop window. I handle each one with care, as any instrument should be handled, and I’m about five guitars in, standing on Dave’s rickety old stepladder when I hear the doorbell sound. Dave’s doorbell is a much better sound than Lloyd’s, a simple ding-dong, and I turn to look towards the door. I’m highly surprised to see Americano wandering in looking as gorgeous as he did yesterday in that khaki jacket, a black, figure-hugging T-shirt and dark denim jeans that cling to his muscular thighs.

  “Daniella?” Americano sounds equally surprised.

  “Americano.” Did I really just say that out loud? I subconsciously groan. That’s not embarrassing at all.

  “I’d love one,” he teases.

  “Sorry,” I say, the blood rushing to my cheeks. “I nickname Lloyd’s customers based on their choice of drink.” I’m not sure why I’m explaining myself as it’s doing nothing to ease my embarrassment. In fact, I think I’m just digging a bigger hole. “I just wasn’t meant to say it out loud.”

  “So, in your head, you call me Americano?” he asks, his eyes amused.

  “Yep,” I admit, climbing down the ladder. “Sad, I know.”

  “That’s your cue to ask my name.” He smirks.

  “I’ll only forget it,” I say, shrugging. “But go on then, what’s your name?”

  “Damien.”

  Damien. It’s not got the same finesse as Americano, but it’s a nice name. Although… “Is that not the name of some devil kid in…” I cannot for the life of me remember the film’s title.

  “The Omen,” Damien answers my unfinished question, and I can tell from his indifferent expression it’s not the first time someone has made that reference.

  “Sorry,” I say again. “You probably get that a lot.”

  “Only sometimes,” he admits, and I can appreciate his sarcasm.

  “So, what can I do for you?”

  “I’m looking to try out a Gibson Les Paul,” he states. “The Studio if you stock it?”

  Direct and to the point, I like it. Amer – I mean, Damien obviously knows his guitars, and it only makes the fluttering in my stomach heighten. Gorgeous and a guitar player. I’m growing increasingly aware that, under different circumstances – if I thought I was open to intimacy – Damien is looking like my kind of guy.

  “Okey-doke,” I say, grabbing and moving the stepladder to the opposite side of the room. “Can I ask why the Studio?”

  “It came recommended.”

  “I only ask because you’re a fairly tall guy,” I explain. “The Studio’s slim frame might look a little lost on you. It’s a great-sounding guitar though, and a good all-rounder. Is it an all-rounder you’re looking for?” Damien nods. “If it’s a Gibson you want, you might be better with a Standard rather than the Studio, but if you’re not picky about brand, you might want to consider the Fender American Performer Stratocaster. It’s what I’d describe as a jack-of-all-sounds. With the HSS model, you get a bridge humbucker that you can split into two single coils, and it gives so much versatility. You still get the traditional Strat sound, but it’s great for experimenting with genres. I’d say the only downside is the large headstock ain’t to everyone’s taste.”

  Damien eyes me inquisitively, and I fight the resurfacing blush embellishing my cheeks. “I thought you were a keyboard player.”

  “I play the guitar too,” I admit, shrugging.

  I refrain from stating the obvious and reminding him I work in a music shop. Irrelevant of whether I can play an instrument or not, I’m paid to have musical knowledge. It’s my job.

  “Multitalented,” Damien praises.

  I climb the stepladder, acutely aware Damien is watching my every move, and retrieve the guitar he requested. I gesture for Damien to take a seat on one of the two bar-stool-style chairs.

  “Do you want headphones?” We offer headphones as a form of privacy. Not everyone wants to be heard playing, something I can one-hundred-percent respect.

  “Nah, I’m good, thanks.”

  Fair enough. I swiftly plug the guitar into the resident amp and carefully hand the guitar to Damien. He smiles that beautiful smile, and I mentally shake my head at the grin inching across my lips as I move to polish the guitars on the lower, no-stepladder-required level. Damien starts to play a melancholy tune, and although I had planned to keep busy, I find myself staring at him. It’s a beautiful tune, and its unfamiliarity is causing me to wonder if maybe he wrote it. My uncharacteristic over-friendly nosiness is making another appearance.

  “Did you write that?”

  “Yeah,” he answers, pausing playing. “Back when I was in college.”

  “It’s nice,” I offer.

  I’m distracted by the bell and in walks our only familiar face, an older, stuck in the eighties, right down to his quiff hairstyle, guy in his fifties. He’s an avid vinyl collector, and he pops in roughly once a week to see what Dave has to offer.

  “Good afternoon, Daniella,” he says in his deep Scottish accent.

  “All right, Brian,” I reply. “You’re gonna be disappointed, I’m afraid. Dave didn’t manage to nab much this week.”

  “Slim pickings everywhere lately,” he says with a hint of dejection.

  “Ever thought of getting yourself a smartphone?” I ask. “Or an iPod?”

  Brian cackles. “Over my dead body.”

  He proceeds to have a quick look through the records as Damien continues to play, albeit a little quieter. I’m not sure if he’s turned the volume down out of politeness or to earwig.

  “You’re right,” Brian suddenly says. “I’m disappointed.”

  “Sorry,” I offer.

  Brian turns his attention to Damien. “I see you’re trying out the Gibson Studio.” Damien nods politely. “I prefer a Yamaha personally, but I’m sure Daniella would disagree with me, and you’d be wise to listen to what she has to say.”

  “Yes, sir,” Damien says, continuing his politeness.

  “From what Dave tells me she’s a bit of a know-it-all when it comes to instruments.” Sounds like Dave.

  “Know-it-all, huh?” I say, faking offence. “I prefer the term knowledgeable if you don’t mind.”

  “My apologies,” Brian offers, fully aware my offence is merely playful banter. “The point was, you’re definitely more than a pretty face, lass.”

  It’s a compliment, and I should take it, but all Brian has done is put the emphasis on my scarred face, and I’m conscious of Damien’s eyes on me. The blush is redecorating my cheeks.

  Brian continues to nosey for a few moments longer before admitting defeat and saying his goodbyes. It’s then I notice Damien has stopped playing completely and is on his feet, eying up the Fender guitar I mentioned earlier.

  “You want to give it a whirl?” I ask him.

  “Why not?” Damien replies brightly.

  I move, lifting the guitar from its stand, handing it to Damien, and return to my polishing.

  Unfortunately, working in a music shop is not the most glamorous of jobs. Yes, I get to spend the day with instruments, but the majority of my time is spent polishing rather than playing. To be fair to Dave though, if I get all the required tasks completed before the end of shift, I am more than welcome to have a little recreational time, and I tend to do just that. Like I said, Dave is an awesome boss.

  “So,” Damien asks, now sitting and casually playing a little tune. “You got any more jobs up your sleeve?”

  “Just the two.”

  “This one makes the most sense,” he muses. “As a musician.”

  “I’d work here full-time if I could.”

  Damien starts to play a familiar melody, and I can’t help but quietly sing along. In fact, I’m so lost in polishing and singing, it takes me a minute to register Damien is playing a lot quieter than he was. I turn to look at him, and he’s smiling that beautiful smile, his eyes playful.

  “You have a nice voice,” he compliments. “You do anything with it?”

  “Like what?” I ask, turning away and keeping my back to him.

  “Performing.”

  “Nope,” I answer bluntly.

  “Can I ask why not?”

  “You can ask,” I say. “Doesn’t mean I’ll tell.”

  I hear Damien laugh, but I don’t look at him. I would’ve thought the reason behind my unwillingness to perform was obvious.

  “Humour me,” he says, and I can pictur
e him shrugging whilst speaking.

  I sigh. Damien’s curiosity is unnerving, and frankly, it’s none of his business, yet my mouth is opening, and I’m sticking to the less complicated answer. “There’s not much point playing for a bunch of people who will be so busy wondering what happened to my face, they won’t even hear my music.”

  “Is there something wrong with your face?” Damien asks, and I force myself to turn and look at him, throwing him a what-do-you-take-me-for glance. “Music isn’t about appearances last time I checked.”

  “Bollocks.” Excuse my French. “And so easy for you to say. You walk down the street and people think Hey, he’s a good-looking guy…”

  “You think I’m good-looking?” he asks, his tone mischievous.

  I sigh. “Not really the point.”

  “So, it’s a confidence thing,” Damien says, or asks, I’m not entirely sure which.

  “Something like that,” I admit, resuming my polishing and turning my back to Damien once more.

  Chronic anxiety is probably more accurate. I don’t do people or crowds, and I cannot abide being the centre of attention, all thanks to a past I can’t forget. Unfortunately, my scars run much deeper than the one on my face, and even though the stranger in the room appears to be effortlessly dragging a little honesty out of me – the last time that happened was with my former therapist – I’ve discovered if I keep the focus on the scar I can’t hide, it tends to stop people from delving deeper.

  “And what about the songwriting?” Damien continues to probe.

  “That usually involves showcasing your songs,” I say. “But you already know that.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Army boy or no Army boy,” I say, “you’re obviously a musician.”

  “Ex-Army boy,” Damien corrects, and I’m back to looking him in the eye. “Medically discharged.”

  “Sorry to hear that,” I offer.

  “Thank you,” he says. “I got off lucky compared to some though.” My stomach churns at the sadness in Damien’s voice. I can empathise. I understand how hard it is to lose people. “And I wouldn’t go back now even if I could.”

  “Really?” I ask, surprised. Stereotypically, Army boys are gluttons for punishment.

  “The Army was the family business.”

  “Music is the passion then?”

  “Unfortunately, music doesn’t pay my bills,” he says, and I get that. The music industry is a bitch. “But I’m in a band. We do gigs, pubs and events, that kind of thing.”

  Interesting. I had Damien pegged for a solo artist. I don’t know why, it’s not like I know the guy, but he gave off a solo vibe. “You’re in a band?”

  “Yeah,” he says. “But I’m a self-employed personal trainer by day.” I grimace and Damien laughs. “Not the fitness type?”

  “Definitely not,” I answer a little too quickly, shaking my head for dramatic effect. “A personal trainer would be a personal hell for me.”

  “Maybe you just haven’t found the right trainer.” Was that a flirtatious comment? If it was, I walked right into it.

  “If that’s an attempt to gain business,” I say. “I’m afraid I’m a challenge you will never conquer.”

  “Is that right?” Damien eyes me menacingly, as though I’ve awoken a dangerous competitive side.

  “Trust me, you’d be wasting your time.”

  “I doubt spending time with a fellow musician would be a waste,” he says. I walked right into that one too.

  “Anyway,” I say awkwardly, steering the conversation back where it belongs. “You decided on which guitar you prefer?”

  Damien plays a few more notes. “I can’t decide which one I like the feel of.”

  “Personally, I think the Fender suits you better,” I offer. “And it comes in black, aubergine, three-colour burst, or if you’re feeling funky, satin surf green.”

  Damien smirks. “Not sure satin surf green is my style.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” I jest. “I totally see you rocking a green guitar, maybe add in some neon blue skinny jeans.” I start to sing “Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go”, and Damien laughs.

  “You really do have a beautiful voice,” he compliments. “It’s a shame such a talent is wasted.”

  All right, yes, I can sing. I am a musician in every sense of the word, but that will not get me on a stage any time soon, wasted talent or not.

  “You sound like a bloody talent rep,” I joke.

  “Sorry,” he says, sounding sincere. I’m not sure he heard the humour in my tone.

  I take the opportunity to steer the bizarrely effortless conversation back to the guitars once again, amazed at how quickly Damien and I keep veering off course.

  “Personally, I think the Gibson is too slim,” I say. “Both have a great sound, but I think the quality of the Fender for the cheaper price is a good deal. What kind of amp do you use?”

  “Marshall DSL20CR.”

  “Do you like it?” I ask. “I’m thinking of the gigging. I have the VOX AC15C1 at home. It’s smaller but it doesn’t compromise on sound quality.”

  Damien flashes me that beautiful smile again, reawakening the butterflies and my frustration simultaneously. A simple smile should not have such an effect on me, yet it does.

  “You know your stuff,” he praises.

  “I do work in a music shop,” I say, the obvious unavoidable.

  “Fair point,” he agrees. “Do you stock the VOX?”

  “We do.”

  “Can I try it out?”

  “Sure.”

  I move towards the back of the shop, opposite the guitar section, and retrieve the requested amp. I carefully place it between the two stools and allow Damien to plug in the guitar.

  “Do me a favour,” he starts, just as I’m about to leave him to it. “It’d be good to hear the two guitars together. Would you mind?”

  He gestures to the guitar not currently in his hand, asking me to play without uttering the words, and it’s the first time a customer has asked me to play with them. I’m wondering if I have the right to refuse, but in the spirit of good customer service, I reluctantly take a seat on the empty stool and pick up the guitar.

  “You want to do the tune you were just playing?” I ask, slowly making my way through the notes I think I heard him play.

  “How did you do that?” he asks, baffled.

  “Do what?”

  “You just played my original melody almost note for note.”

  “Almost being the key word there,” I say. “What came after B?”

  “G,” he answers.

  I replay the notes in order until I’m happy I’ve just about got it. “Okay,” I say. “Ready?”

  Damien is staring at me, and I shuffle uncomfortably in my seat. Although Damien is just one person, I suddenly feel like I’m standing on a stage in front of a thousand people, all eyes on me. My anxiety is screaming at me to get our little playing session over and done with as quickly as humanly possible.

  “Earth to Damien,” I say, a slight irritation in my tone. I also get cranky when I’m uncomfortable.

  “Sorry,” he says, snapping out of his solo staring contest. “I just, I mean, I’m a quick learner, but you…”

  I shrug. “I have a way with music.”

  Damien wisely decides to leave it at that, and we play the melody simultaneously. I can feel Damien’s eyes on me, and even though the butterflies are dancing in delight, I avoid eye contact completely. I feel self-conscious enough as it is. As far as the guitars are concerned, for me there’s no contest; the guitar being happily plucked by Damien wins hands down. Our session is gratefully cut short by the sound of Damien’s phone ringing.

  “What’s up?” Damien’s mobile hits his ear, although his tone is less how-you-doing and more leave-me-alone, and I can’t help but smirk. “Okay… What’s with the worry? She’s a teenager… Yeah, all right… Chill… Although if she isn’t answering to you, I don’t see why she’d pick up to me, mate… All right, I’ll try her.”

  Oh, dear. I can’t exactly help overhearing, and it sounds as though this “she” either hasn’t come home and isn’t answering her phone or is purposefully ignoring – I’m going to guess a parent. Damien ends the call and proceeds to dial another number, mouthing a sorry in my direction, a sorry that is not needed. I’m grateful for the distraction. I lean the guitar against the stool I’m now vacating and head to sit behind the counter, putting a little space between Damien and me. His never-waning eye contact has left me a little flustered.