Fire on the Island by J. K. Hogan

Author:J. K. Hogan [Hogan, J. K.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: The Vigilati
Amazon: B00ERCGWVI
Published: 2013-12-29T06:00:00+00:00

Chapter Sixteen

After three days, he still hadn't heard from her. Jeremiah had kept himself mindlessly busy during that time to keep himself from calling her or going to see her. He had managed to repair all of the loose boards on the deck and refinish it to remove all of the splinters that kept stabbing him.

After that, he moved on to painting it a nice, crisp white to match the trim and shutters of the little cottage. Having just finished the job, he stomped into the house barefoot and shirtless—covered in paint—wearing nothing but ragged, paint-splattered jeans.

Padding into the kitchen, he snagged a half empty bottle of single malt off the counter. He had polished off the first half somewhere between refinishing and painting.

Exhausted and more than a little buzzed, he flopped down on the couch, only pausing for a second to hope that all of the paint on him was dry. He took a swill of the cheap scotch and looked around the room. Realizing that he had just run out of projects to keep his mind off of Isla, he searched desperately for something—anything—to do. He spotted his guitar in its scratched black case across the room.

Old friend, he thought. Heaving his big body up, he walked over to it and flicked open the case. He stroked a loving finger down the neck of his worn, shabby Fender, and lifted the instrument gently out of the case. She may not be pretty, he thought, but she still sings like an angel.

Returning to the couch, he propped his feet up on the coffee table and closed his eyes and began plucking a tune. Without opening his eyes, he reached out to snag the cord connected to his portable amp and plugged it in to the bottom of the guitar.

Squeezing his eyes shut even tighter, his fingers began to fly on the strings and the guitar began to wail. He often lost himself in the music when he had a lot on his mind. He would put himself into a kind of trance, where nothing existed but the music.

As he played a riff from one of his favorite country blues songs, Jeremiah realized that for the first time in his life, he wasn't transported by the music. Try as he might, he couldn't keep his thoughts from drifting back to Isla. Where was she now? Why hadn't she contacted him?

He tried to tell himself it didn't matter, he would be going back to the states in a month anyway, so he had no use for personal attachments. He almost believed it. Shifting on the couch, he picked up the bottle and took another drink, played another riff.

Losing track of time, he continued on that way for what could have been hours—or only minutes—until he began to drift off, fingers still poised on the guitar.

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