Luke glances over his shoulder, a grin on his face. “Seth, get your fiddle.”
Luke’s fingers fly across the guitar, so fast they could be on fire. He lets loose a rebel yell and checks his boys.
Seth saws his fiddle. Wild and frantic. Damn near perfect. Jace’s bass thumps from the opposite side of the porch, sending out reverberations over the quiet countryside.
In a clear, steady drawl, his heart pumping double-time, Luke sings out the final lyrics of “Bad Livin’.”
You want me to read your mind
But you can’t be bothered to give me a second of your time
You say stay when you mean go
So come on, mama, let me down easy and slow
Because it’s damn near bad livin’
To be your good lovin’ man.
When they finish the song, Luke lets out a hoot of happiness. “Nice work, boys.”
Seth slaps him on the back. “Damn good idea, Luke.” His brother’s eyes radiate pride and relief. “Goin’ back to the porch.”
The porch started it all for the Brothers Kincaid. It’s where, when they were kids, Luke and Seth first played their songs. Where, after meeting Jace, they became the Brothers Kincaid. Over the years, they got bigger, better, but they always came back to the porch to write their songs. And it always worked. Luke knows there’s something to be said for going home, for going back to the place that made you.
Broad grins have overtaken both Jace and Seth’s faces. Getting out of the cooped studio had done wonders.
Seth saws a frisky jig on his fiddle. “I think Luke’s got it down now, don’t you?”
Jace chuckles. “I think Luke’s had it down since seventh grade.”
Luke laughs out loud.
God, he feels fucking great.
He damn near didn’t think he had it in him anymore. But this—being here—playing with his band—is right. It’s what he needed. The soul of the music, the connection with his boys, the feel of his guitar in his hands.
He hasn’t felt this good in a long time. He was worried he might never get it back.
So were they.
Earlier in the studio—he saw it clear as day. Worry on Jace and Seth’s faces. Waiting on him, thinking he was going off the deep end, when all he needed to do was pick himself up and play.
Luke stoops to dig a beer from the cooler, to rest his guitar against the side of the house. Across the field, the sun sinks into a lavender glow. On the other side of the screen door, a rustle of movement.
Jace’s rust-colored brows raise. “Hey, honey. We wake you up?”
Luke’s heart tumbles when he sees Sal stepping out onto the porch. She’s barefoot, her hair mussed from sleep, pillow lines crisscrossing her cheek. She looks refreshed and happy. Goddamn beautiful.
“No, I’ve been up.” Her eyes brush to Luke. “Decided to come see what all the ruckus was about.”
He arches a brow. “Well, what’s the verdict?”
Bare feet padding soft, Sal sidles across the porch. “You sound pretty good.” She shrugs. Her mouth kicks up in a teasing smile. “I’d toss you a dime.”
Luke laughs. Busting balls as only Sal can do.
“Damn,” Seth says, poking her in the side with the tip of his bow. “You cut deep, Sal.”