The Song in My Heart by Tracey Richardson

been on the cusp of offering. Erika had made enough flirty jokes, had many times looked at her with obvious desire. Had Dess crossed up the signals? Or maybe Erika wasn’t single. Or she’d changed her mind about Dess. Or maybe she was one of those people who was all bark and no bite when it came to seducing. A tease.
    Jesus , Dess thought. I’m spending way too much emotional energy on this . It was going to be a long summer if she didn’t immediately drop this entire subject. It was time—way past time—to move on.
    “How about this spot?” Erika called out from a few yards ahead. She’d stopped her bike at a rock formation beside a bend in the road, pointing toward a narrow trail that dropped down below the road and wound through some bushes for a few steps before, as near as Dess could tell, it opened up to a private spot on the beach.
    “Perfect,” Dess replied. “Let’s bring our bikes with us so they’re out of sight.” So we won’t be bugged , she almost added.
    On the sand Dess spread out a large blanket she’d stowed in her bicycle’s basket and pulled her windbreaker tighter around herself. She’d packed a couple of sandwiches and a couple of Cokes in a cooler bag for later, remembering how immensely guilty she’d felt this morning at Maggie’s big brown, pleading eyes. “I’ll take you for a long walk later,” Dess had promised her.
    They sat down and pulled their guitars onto their laps. Erika had said she wanted them to perform an acoustic version of the Guns N’ Roses song, “Sweet Child O’ Mine.” Dess would play the lead, Erika would play the rhythm chords and sing. Dess set the sheet music on the blanket between them, pinning it in place with a few well-placed stones. After a couple of stumbling starts, they transitioned smoothly enough into the song, Dess surprised that they were so handily able to turn a hard rock song into a folksy ballad.
    “I like it,” Erika announced. “It’s different from any version I’ve ever heard. And it should satisfy any rock fans in the crowd.”
    Dess fetched the cola and sandwiches from the cooler bag and spread them out between them. “We haven’t really touched anything jazzy yet. Or bluesy, other than the song we wrote. Got any ideas?”
    “Yes, since you asked.” Erika grinned, her dimples locking Dess’s gaze onto them, her eyes like missiles on their target. “I want us to do ‘Don’t Cry Baby,’ although most of it will be piano accompaniment. And I want us to do ‘How Sweet It Is (To Be Loved by You).’”
    Dess whistled. “The old Marvin Gaye song? What do you want to do to that?”
    Erika waggled her eyebrows. “Make it so sexy and soulful that all the women in the audience will be creaming themselves.”
    Dess nearly choked on the mouthful of Coke she was about to swallow. “Um, okay. Though that part is entirely your bailiwick, not mine.”
    “Oh no. Even in your wig or hat or big sunglasses or whatever disguise you’re going to use, you’ll be a lady charmer, trust me.”
    “Not with anything near the voltage you’ve got, young lady. You could sing nursery rhymes and still have women creaming their pants, as you so artfully describe it.” Me included.
    Erika somehow managed to look embarrassed, though it couldn’t possibly be genuine, Dess figured. Erika had to damn well know how her voice affected people. She was a smart girl and had been doing this too long to play dumb. Dess decided to challenge her on it. Mostly because it might clear the air about what had happened—or almost happened—last night.
    “So. Tell me. How many women typically throw themselves at you after an evening on stage?”
    Erika’s eyes widened reflexively. “W–what?”
    “C’mon, you know what I’m talking about.” The way I did last night , she was too cowardly to say. “You must get phone numbers, out-and-out propositions. And if you claim you’re not, then you’re blind and deaf.”
    After a moment, Erika shrugged.