Her Hi-Fi Hunk: A Beach Avenue Babes Romance

by Knox, Abby

  “Out of prison soon, huh? You know, I have some background in security. Just saying, if you want protection, I got you.”

  “You’re a cop?”

  He hesitates. “Former cop. For a private firm. It’s complicated.”

  I reply, “Suppose you tell me all about that long story over coffee?”

  And he does. At Zara’s and my favorite coffee place, Voltaire’s, Kai and I get to know each other a bit.

  He’s good looking, smart, has a kind but slightly troubled aura about him. He sparks a maternal feeling in me, maybe because I never had a son. It makes no sense; I’ve never been anything other than completely fulfilled as a mother while raising Zara.

  “Something about you makes me want you to meet my daughter. Is that weird?”

  Kai laughs, a little bit self-deprecatingly. At this moment, I find myself teetering close to the edge of arranging his marriage to my daughter. She needs a little bit of Kai in her impeccably ordered life.

  “You would love her. She is organized on a whole other level—a dutiful little box-checker. Overachiever. Never did drugs, never fooled around. Rarely drinks. Finished school early. Never had a serious boyfriend or even a fling, that I’m aware of. I’m sure that has everything to do with not wanting to make the same mistakes I did.”

  Kai cocks his head thoughtfully and tells me, “I believe there are no mistakes; we all end up where we’re supposed to end up. Sometimes we just…take the scenic route.”

  Oh, he’s good. I like him. My future son-in-law.

  Geez, I’d better cool it. But I have zero chill. I want this guy and Zara to meet, fall in love, get married, and give me a million grand babies tomorrow.

  Looking over his thin frame, I know I’ll have to fatten him up a bit first. I’m not much of a cook, but I just have this crazy urge to feed Kai a giant plate of fried chicken and mashed potatoes. Maternal instinct on overload now.

  “I’m going to order a slice of Black Forest cake, and you’re having one too,” I say.

  When I come back to the table with the cake, he gobbles it up and tells me everything. “You might not want me around your daughter at all, and I wouldn’t blame you. I left Oregon because I shot a guy. My uncle. I was defending my Aunt Jo. He’d come home drunk, again. It was the last time he ever put a hand on her. Or anybody else. There was an investigation. I shot him in the back. And there was an insurance policy that my aunt benefitted from, so the cops were really suspicious of me.

  The security company put me on mental health leave. Because my uncle was a retired cop, there were a few guys on the force who had it in for me. I was being followed, harassed. Eventually the security company let me go, and then it was impossible to find work anywhere. Everywhere I looked, my name was already mud. Jo encouraged me to leave and go find myself, practice my music. So that’s where I’m at.”

  I’m stunned and I have to process all of this as I finish my cake. I also make a mental note to background-check the shit out of this guy before Zara comes home. Finally, I say, “I’m so sorry that all happened to you. But you know what? You did what you had to do. He might have killed her.”

  “I honestly believe he would have.”

  “Kai, if you want a permanent spot to play your music in front of my store, you can stay here as long as you want. Just don’t tell my daughter you’re an ex-cop. Because of the way we left her dad, she gets anxious around police.”

  Kai smiles. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

  We clink coffee cups, and then I have an idea. “Zara likes her coffee with milk, no sugar.”

  Chapter 4

  Dusty

  My only daughter is turning 21 years old today, and I can hardly believe it.

  Maybe it’s because I’ve missed her so badly while she’s been away at college, but I watch Zara apply her makeup and I’m overwhelmed by this stunning young lady that I somehow made with my own body. It’s true, what they say about children. They are your heart walking around outside of your body.

  For the last 21 years, there has been no other love that felt as real and as strong and scary as the love I have for my kid.

  I reach over and pet Zara’s gorgeous dark locks.

  “Want me to put some Dutch milkmaid braids in it?”

  Zara, with her usual sideways smirk, declines. “Hard pass,” she says. No surprise. Zara was never one for cutesy things like braids and polka dots. Zara is more of a Doc Martens and facial piercing and heavy black eyeliner kind of girl.

  I study my daughter’s outfit and decide she carries off the look even better than I did back in the day. Plaid mini-skirt, boots, mesh top. Zara may be a musical trivia phenomenon across all generations, but she found her niche in early 1980s punk and never left.

  And that is fine with me. She has good taste, and also the look and attitude probably kept her safe and free of bad boys throughout her teenage years.

  But now that she’s 21, I’m concerned that Zara has been a little too careful. A little too standoffish. A little too…unfun. Is that a word?

  I’m certain she has never experienced sowing her wild oats.

  Little does Zara know, my plan to change that is already in the works.

  Kai is a combo meal: the perfect suitor for Zara and a protective man to have around now that Walter is getting out of prison.

  And on that note, I have a phone call to make after Zara leaves for work.

  “Marti! It’s me. Is it OK if I come up to see you tomorrow? Walter’s getting out soon and I’d like to make arrangements for something of his that I have…something he’s going to come looking for.”

  After this conversation, I’m feeling optimistic as I go to work this morning.

  First order of business is to check my email. Sure enough, there’s an email with the results of a full background check on Kai. Everything he says checks out. No state or federal criminal records, here or in Oregon. Good school transcripts. Clean credit. He was a damn Eagle Scout. Literally.

  I’m relieved but not surprised. After my experience with Walter, I’m pretty good at figuring out when I’m being bullshitted.

  Zara is pretty intuitive, too, and she will no doubt pick up on my manipulations. She will not appreciate me interfering in her love life. Nor will she be thrilled with me taking an impromptu road trip tomorrow.

  But she’ll get over it.

  Besides, I have a good feeling about this particular caper. There’s no way they’re not the perfect match. And there’s no way Walter, who is probably emaciated after years in prison for weapons, drugs, and tax evasion, will get past Kai.

  I glance through my other emails.

  Like every Friday morning, there’s an order from that guy named Jed with the P.O. Box in Santa Barbara.

  He’d first emailed me through my record store’s website years ago, and since then he has ordered something from me at least once a week.

  Sometimes it’s a rare bootleg. Other times, it’s an entire discography of a certain band. Another time, he was looking for a 45 of an INXS song he lost in the ’90s. Anytime there was news of a death of a famous musician, I would, within minutes, hear a bloop notifying me of a new email.

  When David Bowie died, Jed and I had emailed back and forth a few times, consoling each other. Same with Leonard Cohen. Same with Prince.

  Oh god. Prince! My heart still hurts.

  Jed never told me much about himself, just kept the conversation focused on the music.

  I always wondered why he never made a trip to the shop personally, but he said he traveled a lot for work.

  This morning, there’s a new email from Jed. And maybe I’m just feeling in love with the idea of the possibility of love, but the sight of this message from him gives me a little thrill.

  I should be careful: for all I know he could be trolling me. He could be a serial killer. But I doubt it. That bullshit detector never seems to ping with this guy.

  “Hey, Dusty. Looking for this early hip-hop song…” he writes this morni
ng.

  I smirk. “Hey, Jed from Santa Barbara. At the risk of hurting my bottom line, but for the sake of my own curiosity, why have you never used Amazon or eBay?”

  He replies: “I like the personal touch. I like you. And I have a special request. Can you bring the record to Galen and Marti’s tomorrow?”

  My fingers flinch away from the keyboard like I’ve been bitten by a snake. How does he know my friends?

  And then I have to sit and think for a minute. They do live in Santa Barbara… They have mentioned they have a super-rich and reclusive neighbor who asks them to be discreet about his comings and goings… These email orders started coming in shortly after that time they put Zara on the phone with their friend, though at the time they never said he was the neighbor… And every time I’ve visited them, they mentioned that their neighbor is away for work.

  Is it possible this is that guy from the phone call years ago? That’s crazy.

  I cannot decide how I feel about this right now. Have I been manipulated? Stalked? Does this reclusive, lonely rich dude have a crush on me? Why wouldn’t he out himself until now? What the fuck is up with my bullshit detector?

  Until my feelings are sorted out, I don’t want to let him know I’m a little rattled, so I send a simple reply:

  “Sure,” I type back. “I got you.”

  Finished with my correspondence, I absentmindedly answer Zara’s Spanish Inquisition about my bookkeeping. In between interrogations, we help a few regular customers, and I change up the music and open boxes of new vinyl from the Foo Fighters that have arrived.

  I notice Zara is drinking the coffee that Kai has bought for her from Voltaire’s and I smile.

  I smile a lot more throughout the day as I notice the two of them stealing glances at each other through the plate glass window; Kai outside playing his guitar and Zara inside keeping her fastidious life on track, as always.

  I need to execute the next phase of my plan. Sitting at the computer, I pull up a flier I’ve been working on for a Fourth of July block party fundraiser for the women’s shelter in nearby Sand Hill. That shelter took me and Zara in when we had been on the run, and gave us a place to stay while we got on our feet.

  This community has been so good to us over the years, it’s a way to give back.

  If I can get Zara and Kai to work on the block party together, then I can conveniently head out of town, leaving Zara alone with Kai and letting nature take its course.

  But first, it’s time to celebrate.

  * * *

  That night, Zara actually cracks a beer with me while watching Plan 9 from Outer Space (her choice) at the local Brew & View. After that, we roam the boardwalk for a while, talking about her goals, her dreams, her love life. I try to keep the hints about Kai subtle and to a minimum, and she isn’t militantly resistant to the mention of his name. With Zara, that’s saying a lot.

  My head is spinning with the vision of fat grandbabies toddling around the boardwalk, well before I turn 45. I keep that little dream to myself, though. Some people are appalled at the idea of becoming a grandparent, but there’s nothing that would make me happier. It is the perfect start to our Memorial Day weekend.

  The next day at work, I spring my plans on Zara, trying to be breezy.

  “Hey kiddo, I forgot to tell you, I’m headed up to Santa Barbara to see Marti for a couple of days. I need to recharge and relax on the beach,” I say as I move the Doobie Brothers out of “yacht rock” and back into “classic rock.” Seriously, this kid and her categories!

  Did I mention Zara is a tough nut? “Ma, look around you,” she says, gesturing out the window. “We have miles of public beachfront access in Sea Grove.”

  I turn up the volume on Fleetwood Mac. “Yes, but Marti has private beach access. Big difference.”

  She rolls her beautiful eyes and pushes back some more, giving plenty of valid arguments about why I should stay. But this little tough nut sprang forth from an even tougher nut.

  I crank up the volume to the live version of “The Chain,” and start to sway around the shop with my eyes closed, going to another place in my mind.

  Zara loves it when I do this.

  “Fine. Have fun,” she huffs.

  “You too,” I say, snapping out of my reverie to kiss her goodbye on the cheek before I head out to pack. “And could you at least try to lose your virginity while I’m gone?”

  “Gross, Ma.”

  Chapter 5

  Jed

  Ten years.

  Ten grueling years, six albums and six world tours, and I’m finally free. Free from my contract and free from my marriage.

  God knows why it took Darlene so long to finally agree to a divorce.

  Maybe she was hoping we would reconcile. We tried therapy a couple of times. But there was no use. It always came down to location and tour schedules.

  Maybe because she knows how old fashioned I am —I wasn’t going to be happy dating someone until the divorce was final. Maybe she was going back and forth in her mind because of her own old-fashioned notions about marriage and divorce.

  “It shouldn’t be that easy, Jed,” she always said whenever I called her to ask her, plead with her to just sign the damn papers.

  But we both knew it had been over for more than ten years.

  Well, now it was finally over for real, and it was time to relax. I wouldn’t necessary say “celebrate.” I’m a pretty serious guy, and I’m not one of those guys who gets a celebration cake and goes to a strip club on the night his divorce is final. That’s not for me.

  I could never erase what we had.

  Besides if we had never been married, we’d never have made two awesome kids together. No question about it, Nelson and Watts are the best things we ever did, and she’s the world’s best mom for them. I would never change that.

  So, not celebrating per se, just stretching out my wings, looking forward to meeting the mysterious Dusty over at Galen’s house.

  When they told me a few days ago that she was stopping by, I decided to gently let the cat out of the bag with her.

  It seemed like fate that we were finally going to meet in person. She would be staying a few days, and if we hit it off, all the better.

  I didn’t have to be back on the road for another three days—plenty of time to see if she found me datable.

  I still hadn’t told her exactly who I was—first and last name—there’s probably no way she would believe me anyway.

  I stroll up to the deck, my six-pack of Shiner under my arm. I know it’s Dusty’s silhouette from a distance against the setting sun. A female in her 40s, asymmetrical wavy hair, Great set of knockers and lots of bangles on her wrists.

  Galen introduces us. “Jed, this is our dear friend Dusty. Dusty, this is our neighbor Jed.”

  She turns to face me, and her golden brown eyes nearly knock me flat on my ass. I feel the need to catch my breath, which at my age could mean a cardiac episode. But it’s not that, thank fuck. Because…oh shit. Dusty is not just the lady from the record store. Or the lady with the sexy phone voice.

  Instantly, I know she’s something else entirely. She’s my Dusty. I want her. I have to have her. The heartbreak and angst that have given me a dozen charting blues/rock songs in the past 20 years of my career is all meaningless. It’s all a hazy memory in the presence of this…angel. That’s what she feels like. Looking into her eyes, everything from my past is healed. In fact, there is no past.

  She holds out her hand to shake mine, and her gold bangles clang against each other up and down her wrists, a burned out OzzFest tee-shirt hugging her breasts. Her haircut is the same as in her pictures from the website, but now instead of brown it’s dyed all the colors of the rainbow. A little blue over here, purple over there. She has a beautiful smile and still has the sexy, dusky voice I remember from our 10-second conversation ten years ago. The dirty dog in my brain cannot stop himself from admiring those tits, which are phenomenal up close. I can’t help but wonder what they
look like without those damn clothes on…even more importantly, what they feel like…taste like…smell like.

  I take her hand and it’s soft and warm inside both of my big, rough, clumsy mitts. I’m praying she doesn’t notice my stupid hands are sweating right now due to my wondering what color her areolas are.

  Down, boy. You’ll find out soon enough. This chick is a free spirit.

  She’s also tough little thing, despite her warm, easy smile and her sexy demeanor. Her handshake is firm. Her gaze is piercing and steady.

  She’s sizing me up. She might be a little annoyed that I never revealed who I was this entire time.

  She’ll get over it.

  She has to. Because I need her.

  I want her.

  And I’m going to have her.

  More than that…there’s something I have never felt before for anyone. Not in a marriage that spanned decades.

  The need to possess her. To claim her. To pick her up and carry her off and make her mine.

  Dusty doesn’t know it yet but she’s already mine.

  Now, how do I tell her all of this without scaring the shit out of her?

  Chapter 6

  Dusty

  “Jed from Santa Barbara is Big Daddy?”

  My mouth is hanging open. The reclusive neighbor is a fucking rock icon, and I came here to chew him out. My head is spinning.

  I want the earth to swallow me up.

  He winces at the term Big Daddy.

  “I’m sorry, should I not call you that?” I cringe.

  He grins. “You may call me whatever you like, pretty young lady,” he says.

  Well, now. Don’t swallow me up just yet, earth. Because I’m already dead from that grin.

  He holds my hand a little too long. Holds my gaze with those silvery blue eyes a little too deeply.

  I study the face I’ve stared at on record jackets for much of my adult life, marveling at how none of those images do justice to those kind eyes.