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It was impossible to miss the bitter way Dez spat the name of the band. It twisted his features up a little, made him look mean when the Dez he knew was kindhearted, often to his detriment.
Either Tripp didn’t notice, or he was hell bent on digging for some bit of information, because he pressed on with his questions. “How’d you wind up with them, anyway?”
Dez didn’t answer right away. His fingers skimmed over the strings of the guitar he held, eyes drifting to half-mast, like he was using the music to help him think back to a time almost a decade before. “Instruments interested me, sound, the way notes formed chords, the feel of one in my hands, the shape of them, learning in music theory that it mattered to the way sound was produced. Learning that an A sharp and a B flat were the same sound no matter what instrument you played. It all made me want to learn more.”
“So, did you learn to play by ear, or take formal lessons?”
“Nothing formal,” Dez explained. “My uncle is a musician, the place was always filled with music and the guys he played with were willing to take time to teach me whatever instrument I took an interest in, and I took an interest in a lot of them. Sax, bass, piano, trumpet, cello, some lasted longer than others. It actually took me a little while to get used to the guitar, since an acoustic was a bit big for me. Once they realized that I could learn to play by ear, that’s how they taught, but Bruce, who’d pretty much been in some band or another with my uncle since they were young, he taught me to read and write music in notes and tab so I’d know them in case I ever needed them.”
The whole time he talked, Dez was playing a simple series of repeating chords, sometimes changing the order or adding in a new one.
“It wasn’t like I was looking to form a band, it just happened. My cousin played drums, there were some guys we went to school with that we liked getting together to jam with and that’s all it was. I didn’t have dreams of playing on some big stage, being famous and traveling the world. I didn’t exactly have plans or goals or anything, I was just winging it.”
“Got to be more to it than that for a band like Carrion to take notice,” Tripp commented.
“No, just a fuckin’ dare and me being too stupid and arrogant not to accept it.”
“Arrogant? It takes an act of Congress to get you to take a compliment,” Zakk interrupted. “Excuse me if I have a hard time seeing you as being arrogant about anything.”
“That’s because you didn’t know me at eighteen or even twenty,” Dez remarked. “You met me after I’d already been broken out of that particular brand of stupid.”
“I’m going to need you to elaborate on exactly what you coming to play with Carrion had to do with a dare,” Tripp said.
Chuckling, Dez changed the order of the chords again, long hair hanging over the side of his face as he curled his body around the guitar.
“They were holding auditions in Chicago,” Dez murmured, making Zakk strain to hear him. “Not that long of a ride. Frankie, this buddy of mine I was playing in a sorta band with, got it in his head that he wanted to audition. He was hella good, so I encouraged him to go for it.”
When Dez’s voice trailed off and he changed up the rhythm one more time, Zakk waited patiently, but not Tripp, not when the story just kind of stalled out there while Dez played on. He fidgeted, leaning in eagerly, before finally speaking up.
“Okay, so if you were encouraging him, how the hell did you wind up with the spot?”
“Like I said. Stupidity and arrogance.”
“…and let’s elaborate on that,” Tripp encouraged.
“Why? So you can look for new reasons to hate me?”
He said it so softly and matter-of-factly that Zakk almost missed it. In fact, he had to roll it over in his head just to make certain he’d heard correctly.
“No,” Tripp replied, reaching through the space between them and touching Dez on the arm. It must have startled him, because he stopped playing and looked up, squirmed, and finally met Tripp’s gaze. “Looking for a reason not to.”
Zakk watched Dez struggle to process that. It was written all over his face. His cheek twitched, eyebrows knitting together for a moment before he shrugged and let out a low grumble that was more sound than words.
“What?” Tripp asked, cocking his head. He was studying Dez the way Dez was studying him, and all Zakk felt was hope that they’d bury the hatchet here and now and get it over with.
“Don’t see how that story is going to accomplish anything but the opposite of what you’re hoping for,” Dez muttered.
“Let me be the judge of that.”
Sighing heavily, Dez dropped his gaze and started plucking randomly at the strings until Tripp closed his fingers over the top of the fret board, bringing the music to a halt. From where Zakk was sitting, it didn’t look like Dez offered any resistance at all to Tripp taking it away and laying it across his own lap.
Dez scrubbed his hands over his face and rubbed at his temples a little. “He didn’t want to make the ride alone. We hadn’t had our bikes for very long. We were still in that mindset where you didn’t ride alone. I know most people say you shouldn’t even when you’re an experienced rider, but shit happens, and I discovered years ago that I almost preferred being alone. Meant I could be impulsive. Anyway, he was just gonna strap his guitar to the sissy bar and go, so, I strapped our backpacks to mine and off we went.”
Tripp let out a low whistle. “Dude, I’ve driven in Chicago. Fuck that traffic. It was enough of a mindfuck in a vehicle. Who the hell just up and does that shit on a bike?”
Snorting, Dez looked up, a hint of a smile on his face. “Idiots.”
“No shit,” Tripp replied. “Okay, continue, ‘cause damn.”
