Smoke hung heavy in the air. Will’s eyes stung. His throat.His nose. And the crackling. God, the crackling fire was like the devil laughing.Vera was in that house.Mikey gripped his arm. “Hold on, Will—”Will lunged forward. “Vera—”“Whoa, Will.” Mikey’s grip tightened. “Stop.”“The hell I will. Vera—”“Billy?” One of the cops approached him. Said a bunch ofwords. Helped Mikey hold Will back.Vera was in that house.Vera, her trusty wooden body, her frets, her new strings. Vera,who’d had his back everywhere from Pickleberry Springs toNashville to New York to LA, from seedy bars to stadiums.Vera, who’d helped him write his first song. His last song.Every song in between.

Like Momma says, only thing you get by digging dirt is dirty.

Did you call someone and tell them you’re safe?”“Called and told ’em I’m not dead. Not so sure about safeyet.

Lindsey had a nearly uncontrollable desire to run herfingers through his hair, to see if it was as soft today as it had been the last time she’d known him. And that thick stubble on his cheeks and chin was long enough to be soft too. The good soft.Especially against her softer parts.Intrigue and desire warmed the smileys on her panties.

Heard a rumor you can’t cook,” he said.She didn’t look away from her reading. “You know rumors.They’re always true.”She had him there. According to some of the tabloids, he had fourteen love children, two with aliens and one with the sister of Bigfoot.

If you kiss me and then leave again to go write anothertwangy song,” she said, eyes closed, lips barely moving, “I swear to God, I will snap that guitar in half and feed it to you for breakfast.”“You use the prettiest words.