The Cain File by Max Tomlinson Page A

couple of empty Corona bottles, one with a wet cigarette butt in the bottom. The room reeked of smoke, not just tobacco. Seb knew how she felt about smoking and the impact drugs might have on her career, but she wasn’t going to make an issue out of it at the moment. Another time. She clicked off the television, tossed the remote onto the black-leather sofa next to Sebastian’s Gold Top Les Paul guitar. The guitar case was open on the floor and a couple of pieces of sheet music were laid out, propped up here and there. Seb’s socks and black boots with the big buckles were scattered by the window, along with a black T-shirt and a leather jacket that could have been classified as falling apart twenty years ago. She walked to the bay window, wrenched it open, and let cool fresh air billow into the room. The sheer white curtain fluttered.
    “I thought you had rehearsal,” she said, turning back around to face him.
    “Gave it a pass.” Sebastian slammed the fridge door, the way he always did, opened a long neck Corona, tossed the cap into the kitchen sink with a tinkle that told her it contained dirty dishes. Taking a long swig, he finally acknowledged her with a wink of lashes that any woman would have killed for, ran his fingers through his jet-black undercut. Then he strode into the living room in that manner that first caught her eye two years ago when he came out on stage at El Rio with his band Los Perros de Caza and tore the place up.
    “Don’t you have an important gig coming up?”
    “Hey, I’m cool,” Sebastian said, scratching his six-pack stomach, eying her in that way when he hadn’t seen her for a few days. She flushed inside, despite the exhaustion. Seb was a good-looking guy to be sure, trim and sexy, with his stubble shadowing his lean cheekbones, accentuating his dark eyes.
    Now if you could just do something about that personality , she thought, and said: “Aren’t you the one who told me even Black Sabbath rehearsed every day, ten hours minimum, back when they were getting started? No matter what they got up to the night before?”
    He knocked back a mouthful of beer. “What’s the matter with you? That Ed still trying to get into your pants?”
    “Ai!” she gasped, walking back to the hall closet, slipping out of her Burberry Brit double-breasted trench coat. She brushed off the collar and straightened the coat on a hanger before she found a spot for it in the cramped hall closet, full of her many other coats and jackets—not to mention one or two of Sebastian’s. She kicked off her blue scrunch loafers and wiggled her toes.
    “What does that mean?” Seb said.
    “It means a man and a woman can have a relationship that doesn’t involve sex.”
    Seb gave a sly grin. “Not the way you look. No man alive could be within six feet of you without wanting you. Unless he was a castrato . Or gay. And maybe even then. You should be pleased with that fine body God gave you. Now come over here and let me tell you all about it.”
    She ran her fingers through her hair, actually considering it. She was one big knot of tension and frustration. And Seb was no slouch when it came to relieving that kind of stress.
    “When you get back from rehearsal,” she said, checking her little gold wristwatch. “You still got time. You can get that solo the way you want it. The Eric Clapton rip you’re working on?”
    “It’s not a rip . I’m paying homage.” Seb thumped down on her black-leather recliner, slugged beer. “Clapton copied it from Albert King. Note for note . Because it’s a kickass solo.”
    “But I can hear you – when you do practice – trying to get that little vibrato thing right. Isn’t that what it’s called? Where you wiggle your little finger?”
    “Come here and I’ll wiggle something. It won’t be so little, though.”
    “Hey. You really know how to sweet-talk a girl.”
    “Come on, baby. ¡Ven aquí! ”
    “After rehearsal. Go wiggle your little finger.”
    “Why’re