by Andy Gallo
“You play banjo?”
“Yes. It’s my favorite of the three.” Darren leaned forward. “And I happen to love the Mummers’ parade in Philadelphia. Watching them strut down Broad Street in costumes was what first got me into playing banjo.” He pulled back his list and wrote in large enough letters for Isaiah to see: Wear bright costumes.
“You’re shitting me.”
“When I was eight, I went with my father. We bought hot chocolate and pretzels from a street vendor and those foot and hand warmers from some guy walking through the crowd. I was so sure I’d become a Mummer one day.”
It was still something on his bucket list to play with them one time, but he wasn’t going to tell Isaiah that.
Isaiah leaned back in his chair and eyed him. His annoyance melted. Something . . . appreciative shone in his gaze, and Darren was back to thinking of Isaiah arching in his chair. Of his phone warming in Isaiah’s pocket . . .
“I’m sorry I laughed.”
“I’m sorry I almost called you an asshole.”
Isaiah rocked a grin. “At least you didn’t almost call me ghetto trash.”
Darren’s smile faded. “What? I’ve never called anyone that. Did someone tell you I said that?”
“Not you. Just this guy called me that when he got mad.”
“Then he’s an asshole.”
Isaiah chortled.
Who would call Isaiah . . . how dare they?
Darren exhaled his anger. They weren’t meant to get to ask personal questions, and Darren swallowed his. “Can we start this meeting over?”
Isaiah stole back Darren’s notes with a cheeky wink. “How small is this room, huh? We’re practically sitting on each other.”
Darren busted out a laugh. Not what he meant by starting over. But God, the guy was as quick-witted as he was quick-tempered.
He picked up his pen, darting his gaze to Isaiah. “The room is small. But maybe I don’t mind.”
Isaiah
Was Darren flirting?
The blush sure indicated so.
Though, it was possible he simply meant to be nice. A gesture of reconciliation, perhaps.
Probably that.
Best if it was.
Isaiah buried his head and tried to distract himself with work. But the weight of Darren’s phone in his pocket had a dozen questions spinning in his mind.
Whose call was he so anxious about?
“Isaiah?”
Isaiah snapped out of his thoughts and sank into questions he could answer.
For over an hour, they hashed out details for a holiday jazz event. Isaiah’s music school connections allowed him to take Darren’s idea and fine-tune it. The idea appealed to him. He definitely knew enough musicians to fill out the roster.
He had to admit, Darren had done a great job working out the little bits that would make the event run smoothly. Sure, he didn’t have the same feel for the performance side, but the planning, marketing, and financial stuff he’d really nailed.
“Banjo?” Isaiah said, sneaking another look at him.
He was met with a playful scowl. “I’m not bad. Maybe not in your league, but I can hold my own.”
“Can I hear you play?” They both paused. “I mean, so I can get a feel for what to expect.” Only that. Nothing else.
“You want to hear me play banjo?”
“I mean sometime, not now. Or now if you want?”
“I didn’t bring my banjo to school.” Darren ran his hand through his light brown hair and the hem of his shirt rode up just enough that Isaiah glimpsed his fuzzy stomach. “Figured my fraternity brothers would laugh.”
Isaiah shouldn’t have laughed earlier. That was more than dickish. He’d just been surprised. Frustrated that Darren had a great idea for the fundraiser—better than what he had in mind.
“They have a few banjos in the music room.” Isaiah saw the deer in the headlights expression and backed off. “No pressure, just saying if you wanted to—”
“You can get us in?”
“Music majors need to practice a lot, so they allow us access to the soundproof rooms.” He shrugged. “We can do it another time if you’re busy.”
“I can’t do any bluegrass without my finger picks. They’re not one size fits all—well, the thumb pick is pretty universal, but the finger ones need adjusting.”
“You can pick?”
Darren grinned, and yeah, Nico was so right. Cute. “I started with strumming, but then I had my instructor teach me to pick.”
Yeah, Isaiah needed to see this guy handle music. He could tell a lot about a person by the way they played, and Isaiah wanted to see more of the Darren picture.
To, uh, know what personality he was working against.
He hopped to his feet. “Let’s do it.”
They packed up their papers in silence. Isaiah shuffled his into a pile and stuffed it into his pack. He waited while Darren methodically put everything back where it had come from. His binder looked perfect, not a page out of place.
Attention to detail seemed to be something he excelled at. Unlike Isaiah, who shot from the hip way more often than not.
He motioned for them to go. He wanted to get Darren to the music room fast. Not give him too much time to change his mind.
Isaiah led them briskly across the campus courtyard toward the music department. The night was a rich purple overhead. The crescent moon shed soft light over the stone, illuminating the edges of Harrison’s buildings. A few drunken students hooted their way past them—a reminder it was Friday night.
Isaiah side-eyed Darren. Night softened his profile, made the small smile he wore look dreamy, almost. He had his hands loosely in his pockets, and closed the yard distance between them to veer around a lawn. Heat walloped over Isaiah, and he rubbed the goosebumps forming on his arm. “How’d your family like hearing you practice banjo? Did it annoy them? My brother used to hate four o’clock.”
“Was that your practice time?”
“Piano lessons every Tuesday and Thursday. Daily practice every other day at the same time. He’d find any excuse to be out of the house.”
Darren glanced over with a shrug. “My family almost never heard me play. Most of my lessons were at boarding school. When I got back at end of the year—the one where we went to the parade—my parents had built a soundproof practice room in the basement.”
“You had your own music room?”
“Yeah.”
“My brother and his friends would be so noisy outside. It was all I could do to keep my ass on the bench. Man, I wish could have had my own practice room.”
Darren shrugged. “Having one was fine, I suppose.”
“Just fine? See, it’s when you say things like this, I want to call you Golden Child.”
Darren’s jaw ticked. “I appreciated having the space.”
“But?”
Darren spared him a frown. “Would’ve been nice if someone wanted to hear me play, okay?”
Isaiah’s step stuttered. Oh.
The silence between them thickened.
Memories flicked through his head. All the times his mother beamed at him when he’d mastered something difficult or commented on the passion in his playing. Without that . . . without that encouragement, he’d never have stuck with it.
“Maybe this isn’t a great idea,” Darren said.
Isaiah grabbed Darren’s arm and dragged him to the department doors. Darren’s bicep was firm. He let go, fingers skating over Darren’s skin to his elbow. He fumbled with the key. “Come and play.”
Darren hesitated, and Isaiah cocked him a grin. “I’ll only give you your phone if you come inside.”
Darren lifted a brow. “Threats, Isaiah?”
Darren said his name, gruff and amused, and Isaiah’s chest clenched.
“Haven’t you figured it out already? You don’t want to go up against me.” Isaiah leaned in and spoke in his ear. “I might be a fox in a lion’s den, but I’m scrappy. And I sure as he
ll would bite you.”
Isaiah felt Darren’s shiver and smiled.
He pulled back and pushed the door open. “Gonna come or not?”
Darren stepped inside.
Chapter Six
Darren
Automated lights flicked on as Darren entered the cool corridor.
Damn, he was tingling with hyperawareness. It was like Isaiah’s warm lips were still hovering at his ear. It took all his self-control not to give in to the sudden rush of arousal.
This really was a bad idea.
Yet, he hadn’t hesitated to waltz inside—and it had nothing to do with getting his phone back.
Isaiah strolled past him; that rock-star confidence he had going on was slowly driving Darren insane. Christ, he was hot.
“Home sweet home away from my dorm room.” Isaiah gestured around them, sweeping an arm out.
Isaiah’s sleeve traveled up, and Darren got an eyeful of his tattoo. His hand shot out, catching the guy’s arm. “You’re kidding.”
Isaiah spun around with the cockiest eyebrow arch Darren had seen yet. Still, Darren didn’t let go. His thumb grazed over the ink as he studied it.
He looked up at Isaiah, slammed with an uncomfortable amount of attraction that went a little further than lust. It was like a soccer ball to the stomach, winding him. “Thelonious Monk?”
Isaiah’s gaze snapped to his, surprised. “You recognize him?”
“Ah, yeah. He’s only the eleventh-greatest jazz musician of all time.”
“Eleventh greatest? Are you kidding me? He’s hands down in the top ten.”
“Eleventh. After Bird.”
Isaiah’s eyes lit up, and Darren’s heart pumped double time. “Are you saying you’d rank Charlie ‘Bird’ Parker tenth? I’m done with you.”
Heat fizzed up Darren’s neck. “Were you ever . . . undone with me?”
Isaiah paused too, then cleared his throat. “Look, Monk definitely places in the top ten.”
Darren looked down at Isaiah’s arm. That he was still holding. He let go. “Okay, convince me.”
“Convince you?”
“Yeah. Why should Monk be in the top ten?”
Isaiah laughed and walked backward with a growing grin. “This conversation could go on all night.”
I kinda hope it does! Darren shoved the thought away. “Is that a copout?”
“Let’s get a room.”
Isaiah dug into convincing Darren, barely pausing between breaths. “. . . and not only does Monk’s unconventional harmonization and rhythm make him one of a kind, but his live recordings are out of this world.”
Darren hummed, forcing himself not to grin. “Okay, I guess that has some merit.”
“Some?” Isaiah scowled.
Darren’s lips quirked into a grin. “I need to listen to his work again.”
“Start with Alone in San Francisco.”
“Okay.” Darren grinned. “How big is this place? Wait. Haven’t we walked this corridor already?”
Isaiah halted in the hall and blinked in the details around him. “Um, yeah. Back this way.”
Isaiah steered him back in the other direction. Darren couldn’t hide a smirk.
“You know, Springsteen did an album with a major banjo element,” Isaiah said, glancing sideways at him.
“Oh yeah, I loved We Shall Overcome. I figured no one liked that album.”
Isaiah gave him an enthusiastic grin. “He’s not exactly our generation, but my dad was a big fan.”
“Was?” Isaiah paled, and Darren winced. “Sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”
“No worries.” Isaiah cleared his throat. “So, which do you prefer, picking or strumming?”
“Picking. It’s harder to learn.”
“Exactly. Who wants something handed to them?” The last word trailed off into a whisper. “Sorry.”
The insert-foot-into-mouth tally was running neck and neck. “It’s fine. But you’re right. No one cares if you can play ‘Mary Had a Little Lamb.’ Play Beethoven and they’re impressed.”
“I wouldn’t call strumming the banjo the equivalent of ‘Mary Had a Little Lamb,’ but I get your point. What is it you jocks love to say, ‘Get Hard and Get Head?’”
Darren stumbled, heart jackrabbiting. Was Isaiah trying to feel him out?
Competition aside, would Isaiah even consider dating someone like him? “Something like that.”
“Sorry, it’s something of a bad joke between my roommate and me. I know it’s, ‘Go Hard or Go Home.’”
Joke. Right. “Just don’t let Nike hear what you did to their catchphrase.”
So, Isaiah disliked rich people and jocks.
That should be relieving news. Developing any crushes in their situation didn’t make sense.
Darren shrugged off the disappointment sticking to him. “You weren’t kidding when you said people practiced at all hours here.”
“A lot of us are on scholarship; falling behind isn’t an option.” The words held no malice, but the implication still dripped. Only rich kids got to phone it in.
They passed two occupied rooms before Isaiah opened a door, flicked on the lights, and poked his head inside. Darren took a step forward, but Isaiah backed out. “No banjos. I think it’s the next one.”
The next room was occupied, but he tapped gently on the window. A female student with an oboe waved him in. He stepped in and turned to his left. “Do you mind if I borrow one of the banjos?”
“Like I’d ever play one.”
Darren had heard the disdain before. He hadn’t expected it from a musician, but it shouldn’t have surprised him. Every group had a pecking order.
Isaiah mumbled something that got drowned out when the woman resumed playing.
He came out with a five-string and something in his other hand. “I got you a pick, but they also had a few finger picks.” He opened his hand and shrugged. “Maybe we’ll get lucky and they’ll fit.”
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?”
