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“Yeah, you need to let that shit go. You’re both your own people. I know you didn’t ask my opinion, but I think it’s what made you both unique. Maybe with some time and distance you’ll be able to tap into that again.”
Now that was something Tripp dearly hoped for.
“So, why are you out here cursing out the topiary?” Dez asked, restlessly tracing his fingers through the dirt. “Pretty sure you offended that little armadillo over there.”
Despite himself, Tripp found a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “I think it’s an anteater, and I was not cursing it out.”
“If you say so.”
“I do.” Tripp replied. “For your information, I was cussing out this song I’ve been working on.”
Tripp watched as Dez tossed a rock back and forth between his hands. “What’s wrong with it.”
“I don’t know, the flow is off, for one. I wasn’t smart enough to bring a guitar like my brother did.”
More tossing. Dez missed and lost the rock, ran his hands along the ground, found another and started again.
“I’ve got a guitar,” Dez said after several passes. “Want me to grab it?”
“You offering to help me work out a song?”
Dez squirmed, gave a little half-shrug, and caught his eye over the flames. “You willing to let me?”
There was a moment of silent standoff, Dez’s hand in constant motion. It dawned on Tripp then that he’d never seen Dez still. Even when the man had been sleeping on the inflatable raft with Riley, he’d been twitchy, fingers grasping and touching reflexively. Tripp couldn’t imagine what it would be like to never be still or fully settle down.
Instead of answering, Tripp posed a question to him. “Do you ever sleep?”
“From time to time.”
“You’re as bad as Zakk.”
“Now you’re starting to understand.”
And holy shit. As Tripp sat there blinking into the flames, he did understand. Music, an affinity for the night, an inability to shut down unless completely exhausted. It had to be lonely, sitting in a silent house, bored and fidgety. There was only so many movies and so much television a person could watch, especially someone with a creative soul used to doing things to fill their time. Dez going to Zakk’s was probably how he avoided waking Riley and insuring that the man got the full eight he deemed necessary to his very existence.
“Damn.”
“So…?”
“Yeah, grab it, please.”
Dez got up and dusted himself off, whistling as he headed down the trail. It was in the silence that Tripp pondered what the hell had just taken place, wondering how he’d gone from territorial and broody, to inviting the guy he felt was at the root of those troubles to some weird impromptu jam session.
The absurdity of it all, really.
What the hell did he hope to accomplish with this?
He was still working that part out when Dez returned, guitar case slung over his shoulder. He’d pulled on a flannel too, and tied his hair back, probably so the wind wouldn’t whip it into his eyes. Something else had changed about him too, like the way he carried himself.
He’d come slouching into the light with his rock, unfocused and lost in thought. Now, he looked clear eyed, hyper-focused, and…damn, he stalked out of the shadows with the hint of a swagger, like he was heading up on stage or something.
Okay, so, Tripp could see why Dez and Winter clicked so well. Put an instrument in their hands and it didn’t matter that there was no one around to hear them, it was like the wood and strings filled the holes in their souls.
Dez barely fiddled with the acoustic he cradled, checking that it was in tune, which it clearly was, then he rested his hand on the curve and starred at Tripp. “Okay, let’s hear it.”
Tripp sang the lines he had [insert lines here] in the melody he’d been playing around in, and about halfway through, Dez started adding in some loosely worked out chords. It let Tripp get a sense of where the song could go. The way it shifted from plaintive beginning to a more focused and anger driven middle before the angst reigned supreme at the end.
Dez didn’t have to tell him to sing it again. Tripp knew how the process worked. He sang, Dez played, occasionally, Tripp paused and wrote something down. Sometimes Dez reached for the paper and pen, scribbling down notes that were half drawing and half words.
