Does she do this often? How many times has she showered in my shower when I’ve been gone? Does she masturbate in my bed when I’m not here? My sweet little pervert.
“Good band,” I say, smiling at the band logo splayed over her small chest.
“One of my favorites.” Her smile is vast, and she doesn’t seem at all riled about what we just did. How I just fucked her mouth.
Right. I stretch over to the side of the couch to pick up the electric guitar. The blue dragon is the Gibson Les Paul I learned on, and now she gets to as well. Her eyes grow wide, and she clasps her hands over her chest in excitement.
“I get to learn on an electric guitar?”
I raise an eyebrow in question. “Why wouldn’t you?”
“I always thought you had to learn on acoustic first.”
“No. You should learn on the instrument that will inspire you enough to keep you practicing. It’s actually a little harder to learn on acoustic. The strings are thicker.”
“Oh.”
I toss her nail clippers, and her brows furrow together.
“What’s this?”
“What does it look like?”
“My nails are short,” she says.
I scoff. “Not enough. Trust me. Get that shit real short.”
After completing her task, and I approve of her work, Lola nods and tentatively brings her hand to the guitar on my lap. She searches my eyes for permission, and I tip my chin.
She’s allowed to touch now.
She runs her hand over the guitar, feeling the shape of it with her fingertips, a face-splitting grin on her face. She is so a guitarist.
I map out the guitar from top to bottom, going over each element with her. Headstock, tuners, neck, frets, pickups, tailpiece—everything. We go over and over every part until she has it memorized, and an hour later, her smile is long gone.
Frustrated now, she rolls her eyes. “Can we get started with the lesson?” she whines impatiently.
I try not to chuckle with my amusement. “No. You need to learn the strings, what your practice amp settings are, and then we can start playing.”
Another painstaking lesson on the amp and what it can do, and Lola is ready to strangle me. When we’ve gone through everything a few times, I finally concede. “Fine. If you can remember the string names, I’ll teach you your first riff.”
Lola beams at me.
“Easy,” she says, trying to remember the order. “Eddie Ate Dynamite. Good Bye Eddie. E.A.D.G.B.E!”
I laugh. “Yeah. You got it. All right. Grab the dragon, hook it up to the amp, and let’s go.”
She takes the ax with tentative hands. “Like this?” she asks.
“No.” I shake my head. “You want the smallest string near your thigh.”
Lola rolls her eyes. “Show me then.” She stands, guitar in hands, and sits in front of me, directly between my legs—her back pressed to my chest, legs sprawled in front of her, those cute toes in hot pink polish sparkling in my view.
The smell of my soap and shampoo coming off her body is thick in her hair, and I have to clench my jaw. “What are you doing, Lo?” I ask, annoyed.
“Show me the riff. Move my fingers for me.”
I grumble but try to help her. Wrapping my arms around her, I guide her movements and take over the pick, letting her watch.