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Darren accepted the offerings as they made their way back to the first room they’d looked in. Isaiah shut the door.
Darren slung himself on a stool, slid the strap over his shoulder, and used the pick to test the strings. One seemed out of tune; he adjusted it.
Isaiah jumped at a series of buzzes.
He whipped out his and Darren’s phones from his pockets. Unabashedly, he looked at Darren’s screen, and then over it at him.
Darren stopped testing the banjo. “Who is it?”
“Jack, among others. Something about the frat party?”
“Oh.” Darren shifted the solid weight of the banjo.
Isaiah’s gaze burned on him as Darren focused on the strings. “You really don’t want to be at that party, do you?”
Isaiah had misunderstood his sullenness, but Darren also didn’t want to be at the party, so . . . “It’s a drink fest by now, and I avoid that during soccer season. I end up lethargic for days if I drink too much.”
“You have a game?”
“Sunday.”
“Where do you usually go to avoid your frat’s weekly bacchanal?”
Darren glanced over at Isaiah, who set Darren’s phone on a music stand. “Library. Well, usually I’ll hit the gym first. Then library.”
“Stay as long as you like, then.”
“Not going to chuck me out once you’ve heard me play?”
“Good point. Depends how bad you are.”
Darren laughed.
Isaiah tightened his ponytail. “I’d just be hanging out here anyway. I don’t mind company.”
“The party will be on the downswing soon.” By the time he got back everyone would be too drunk to pressure him into doing shots. “I’ll be out of your way in an hour, max. With my phone, yeah?”
Isaiah jerked his head up, mouth parting to say something, and then changed his mind. His phone bleeped, and he hurriedly typed out a reply as Darren finished tuning the banjo.
“Roommate. Wants to know where I am.” Isaiah stuffed the phone away. “Ready?”
“As I’ll ever be.” Darren strummed once for emphasis. The one-man audience made him nervous, but he pushed it down. Hell, he’d played in front of professional musicians before; this should be easy.
But what to play? No one ever asked him to perform on the spot. He ran his fingers lightly over the strings.
It took a couple of tries to get a feel for the instrument. By the third try, he found his rhythm and his anxiety melted.
Isaiah’s expectant expression flickered to surprise and delight.
“Fly Eagles, fly,” Isaiah sang. “On the road to victory.”
Darren returned the grin. He wasn’t sure Isaiah would have recognized the Philadelphia Eagles fight song. “Very good.”
He changed songs to the Mummers’ song in trade.
“Golden Slippers,” Isaiah said and began to dance.
Darren almost lost his rhythm. The guy was all swag and precision. “You . . . you can strut?”
“Hey, I might be from Erie, but I’ve seen enough Mummers’ parades to know how to strut.”
Darren played faster, and Isaiah found his groove, his passion. He got lost in the zone—his body was all feeling and emotion. Until he tripped over his left foot and smacked against the edge of the piano.
Darren leaped up, gripping the neck of his banjo. “Are you okay?”
Flushed, Isaiah held up a hand. “Fine.” He laughed and sat on the piano bench. “Just not as good at strutting as I like to think I am. But you? You surprise me. I didn’t think you were serious.”
“If I wasn’t, I’d be a fool slotting myself to play at the fundraiser.”
“True. Do any of those finger picks fit?”
Darren snorted. “You just want to see if I can do the hard stuff.”
“I gotta know what I’m working with if I’m going to be musical director for our fundraiser.”
Darren caught himself staring at Isaiah’s teasing smile, and hurriedly focused on testing the fit on his fingers. They weren’t perfect, but he thought he could work with them. What to play this time?
Picking was harder, and he usually needed sheet music to play something.
He briefly closed his eyes and his fingers found a rhythm. When he looked over, Isaiah wore a giant grin. “Smokey and the Bandit?”
“East Bound and Down.” He messed up a few notes. “It’s one of the few songs I can play without music.”
He cycled back to the opening, and Isaiah surprised him by playing along on the piano. Not the music from the song, but it worked. They shared a smile, and Darren began to sing along.
His voice sucked, but habit took over. He’d always sung along when he practiced. A few more choruses and he faded off.
“Okay, I’m totally impressed.” Isaiah nodded. “And I apologize for doubting you.”
“It’s cool. Everyone thinks I’m joking when I say I can pick.”
An evil smirk twisted Isaiah’s lips. “Up for more of a challenge?”
Without giving Darren a chance to answer, Isaiah began playing something that sounded a lot like “Foggy Mountain Breakdown.” As if his fingers had a life of their own, he started picking. This was another of the few things he could play without the score. Hopefully.
