Mark would never forgive her if he found out about Dylan. But she didn’t ask for her cash back and return to her motel room, steeped with remorse that she’d even consider entering the bar, knowing full well her desire to be there wasn’t just about the music. She wanted to see Dylan. She’d find a seat toward the rear and out of view, kick back, drink a beer, and enjoy his performance the same way she’d enjoy that of any other musician. Dylan would never know she was there. And when Mark called tomorrow morning and asked about her evening, she wouldn’t have to lie, a welcome relief for a change. She’d spent the evening alone at a bar listening to good music.

The bouncer grunted and gave Joy her change. She pocketed the bills and muttered a “thanks.”

The Wagon Wheel was a biker bar, as if the line of Harleys parked outside and heavily muscled, leather-clad men inside hadn’t tipped her off. Thank goodness she wore black jeans and a black T-shirt. She fit right in. Almost. The black Mollusk logo cap from the Venice Beach surf shop barely covered the blonde hair that would have been a beacon in the dim bar. Oh, right, and her shoes. There had never been a time when she wished she had her black Dr. Martens combat boots rather than her white Keds. She shouldn’t have shipped those to New York with her other stuff.

Either way, Joy had intentionally dressed to look as inconspicuous as possible. Dylan didn’t want her there, and she was determined that he wouldn’t see her. She wanted to hear him play. She loved the buttery rasp of his voice, and after today’s long drive she wanted to hunker down in a corner with a beer and listen to good music.

Joy ordered a beer and found an empty chair toward the back behind a wall of bikers. Leaning left then right, she confirmed that from onstage, Dylan wouldn’t be able to see her.

The tables were nothing more than barrels topped with round-cut wood. Red-checked curtains fringed the three windows. Smoke clung to the air like June gloom fog. People drew on lit cigarettes and sucked on saliva-soaked cigar tips. Joy bounced her knee and the blanket of peanut shells on the floor cracked under her sneakers. Nervous energy rocketed through her. The bar’s atmosphere made her uneasy. The people more so. Judy would never have found herself in a place like this. Which had Joy wondering . . .

What sort of obligation had Dylan performing in dive bars and on street corners?