“Lord, y’all!Welcome!” Colt bounced a little, tickled to death that Norv and Ryder had made it in. He’d told them to meet him over to the studio, because it was easy to find and they’d booked the same hotel he’d used, so it was a quick walk.
Between his studio work, his work with Kyle, and this, he was fixin’ to be as busy as a one-legged man in a butt-kicking competition.
Norv grabbed him up, spun him around. “Cajun! I heard you’d got lost up here in this scary place.”
“Ain’t all that scary, not really.”
Ryder shot him a look from under the brim of his cap. “It’s damn big.”
“Not really, dude. The whole island of Manhattan is only twenty-two square miles.” Timmy shook hands all around. “I’m Timmy. I’m your engineer. And these are your badges. They’ll get you into the instrument room, the studios, and also the break room. Welcome.” Timmy handed them each a little white card on a lanyard that matched the one Colt was already wearing.
Norv flipped the card over and back, frowning at it. “Damn, Cajun. Is this place for real?”
“Fancy-assed, eh? Timmy’s cool. One of us. All about the music.” And he wanted to get on it, wanted to find that thing that the three of them had together. There was a deep magic that lived where they sat in a triangle.
Timmy gave him a pat on the back and headed for the control room. “I’ll be where you need me when you need me.”
Ryder looked at the lanyard and shook his head, then put the card in his pocket and pulled out a little notebook. “Let’s do it. I started a thing on the plane, maybe got legs. Fingers itch.”
“I’ll grab my acoustic.” He damn near bounced on the way. These guys were a couple of the best, and they let him in like it was nothing, like he belonged.
Norv’s chuckle followed him. “Eager to write, huh?”
“You know it. I got a couple things to share.” Maybe more than a couple, but a few of them had a real shot to make them money.
Timmy’s voice came through the speaker into the studio. “You guys the take-a-break type or the bring-food-in type?”
“We’re the forgot-to-eat type.” Norv gave Timmy a toothy grin and pulled his guitar out of its case.
“Dude! My favorite. On it.”
Norv started tuning by ear, fingers moving over the strings playing scales and patterns. “Leave it raw right now, Tim. We’ll tell you if we want a mix. Just make sure you get everything.”
“Right on. You’re the boss.”
Yeah, that was true. Norv was his fucking hero. Ryder was more like him—just a guy who had a knack for this thing. Norv was a cowboy, pure Texas down to the bone, raw and beautiful and completely Ryder’s.
Ryder dragged a stool over, sat right next to his shoulder, and leaned in, showing him a couple of rough verses.
“Oh, I like that. I like that a lot.” He doodled over the notations, singing low as he worked to pick up the hook.
“Uh-huh.” Norv leaned back in his chair and started noodling, light notes here and there that filled out and started to take shape around the rhythm of the lyric. They found their sweet spot, the harmony building itself, the bridge like caramel in coffee.
Ryder’s pipes weren’t gonna sell a record, but his way with words, his instinct for rhythm and rhyme was magic, and he sang like he knew it. Eventually the words ran out, though, and Norv’s fingers went still and quiet too. Colt grinned, knowing they were listening, letting him bring it home.
So he did. He closed his eyes and let the good Lord speak through him, giving thanks as it worked like it had, every time. They all let the last notes of his guitar fade without a twitch, and then Ryder reached out and gave his knee a squeeze.
“Cut it there, Tim, and cue it up?”
Timmy nodded through the glass, and Ryder started scribbling notes.
“That was sweet, Colt. New York’s been good to you.” Norv stood up and stretched, setting the guitar down in a stand.
“I got me a honey. He does it for me, all the way down.”
“What? A Yankee?” Norv laughed, loud. “You’re joking.”
“Not even. He’s a dancer. He moves like… y’all. It’s like he’s made of music too.”