"Steven Shiancoe," the rocker announced with a welcoming grin, reaching forward to shake the proffered hand without any hesitation, regardless of how sweaty it was or was not. He gave a glance around, as if surprised to find himself on the beach, and then he grinned.
"I like being outside when I'm working on lyrics. Old habits."
He, too, caught something in the corner of his eye. It was dark, definitely angular, which assured him that it wasn't a body. He eyeballed it, wondering if it was driftwood. What else could it be?
"And I like the waves. They're steady, almost echoing down the beach. It's a sort of rhythm."