He missed Colt deeply, in ways only his heart understood. But he had to get back to work.
* * *
Ryder pickedColt’s happy ass up at the airport, eyes going wide as saucers at the sight of him. His friend didn’t say a word about it, though. Just unlocked the truck and headed straight for the east side of Austin and one of the dive bars.
They went in and lined up three tequila shots, the lime, the salt.
The first one burned, the second one tasted fine, and the third one was like water.
“Better?” Ryder asked.
He shook his head. “Ask me again after a couple more, oui?”
“You’re on.” Ryder flagged down the bartender, ordered three more shots and a Coke. “I can’t stand flying. I’m all white-knuckled the whole time. Good thing Norv is steady. But… this seems like more than travel anxiety, huh?”
“I—I ain’t got words. I let him break me, I think. I ain’t made to understand all this mess, and I didn’t do it right, trying to fix it. I be tired and raw, like I’m rotted inside.”
“Shit.” Ryder pulled out his phone. “I better let Norv know where we’re at.”
“I want to go home so bad.” But he didn’t know where that was, didn’t know that he ever would.
“The dancer? That who you mean? He was pretty, but I don’t know, Colt. Who makes a man take his boots off? I don’t know if he got it.”
“That’s a fancy-folk thing maybe? Shit if I know. Thing is, boo, I fucking love him, but he don’t want my music and that’s like….”
“Not wanting you. I get that.” Ryder slid another shot under his nose. “Are you sure, though? He seemed into it when we met him.”
“I ain’t sure of dick.” He took the shot. Enough of this and he wouldn’t care no more. He got it, why a man would let drink take him over forever. Sometimes the hurting was awful bad to bear.
“If the dancer can’t be clear with you, then he don’t deserve you anyhow. Or your music. You save that for folks like us that know how to hear it.”
Colt reached out blindly, needing a friend so bad. Ryder grabbed his hand, held on.
“Fuck this asshole. Fuck all the goddamn Yankees, man. Come home. Me and Norv would take you in a split second.”
“I know, boo.” And he did. He knew. So why didn’t he just say yes?
“You hang with us for a few days. We’ll make some music, grill some steaks, catch a few fish. Right? It’ll be good. You’ll see.” Ryder looked at his phone. “Norv says don’t let you puke.”
“Tell Norv to suck it. I be a Cajun. I was born to drink.”
“Far be it from me, man.” Ryder held the phone where he could see it and shut it off with a grin.
He grinned back, letting the company and the booze ease him. “You got money for the jukebox?”
“Yessir. Money and time. Come on.”
* * *
Colt satin Norv’s studio, guitar in his hand. “What if I can’t?”
“Don’t be stupid, boy. You are music. What? You can’t you?” Sometimes Norv said the things a man needed to hear. Sometimes Norv was just a fucker.
“Maybe. Probably not. Who knows? Let’s just play.” He started with the classics, because that was their thing. Christmas carols and blues, Fats Domino and Willie.
Ryder sat on the floor, leaning against Norv’s hip, eyes closed as he sang for them. There was the way Norv stared down, eyes warm, heated. They didn’t have to be careful here, they didn’t have to pretend, and Colt was honored that they trusted him, but damn, it hurt. Bad.
After a bit, Ryder made his way over and sat cross-legged at Colt’s feet, grinning. “Give me something, man. Something I can play with.”