Bent’s brows rose on his forehead. “You know them all?”
He tapped his temple. “It’s all up here.”
“Memorized?”
“Not exactly memorized, but you know how it is. The music just kind of flows. I play what comes next and let my fingers figure it out.”
Bash, who sat in the seat in front of them, turned around. “You play by ear?”
“I guess you could say that. I’ve always had a knack for it. Play me a song once or twice, and I can play it back to you.”
Noodles had the seat kitty-corner to him. He turned, placing his long legs in the aisle. “That’s really cool.”
“I dunno. I don’t think it’s that unusual,” he said, feeling self-conscious under the scrutiny of the band.
Spike sat in front of Noodles and twisted around. “Let’s test it out,” he said, pointing to Ash’s guitar case. “Hand me Baby,” he said.
“Baby?” Ryker asked.
“Ash’s acoustic,” Spike said. “Do you only play bass, or can you handle a six-string?”
He shrugged. “It’s been a few years, but everyone learns there first.”
He loved acoustic guitars and wondered if Ash’s Baby was a steel-string or classical. He expected a steel-string because it produced a distinct metallic sound. That quality made steel-strings versatile components of many genres. Surprise filled his face when Spike removed a classical guitar with its nylon strings.
“It’s classical,” he said.
“What were you expecting?” Spike asked.
“Steel-string,” he said, explaining his thoughts.
Spike curled his lip, fiddling at the rings of his upper lip with his lower teeth. “Well, Bent wanted to find out how familiar you were with our music. Don’t want to ask too much or assume too little, but since you’ve issued a challenge…”
Ryker didn’t remember issuing a challenge but wasn’t willing to mince words. He was smack dab in the middle of the most epic fan experience ever. His first guitar had been an acoustic, like Ash’s Baby. Its portability made it easy to use, and it was the ideal songwriter’s tool. His guitar had traveled in the back of the car more often than not and had been brought out for spontaneous jam sessions at the beach, lake, or even the mountains, depending on what he and his friends had going on.
Spike strummed the strings, and the rhythmic sound filled the stuffy bus. After making a few quick adjustments, tuning the instrument, Spike ran through gentle harp-like arpeggios. This wasn’t an instrument for concert venues, and Ryker understood why Ash had brought it with them. The acoustic was suited to small halls, churches, and private spaces, exactly the type of venue Ash had expressed interest in with the troops.
Ryker would’ve kept with a six-string, except the deep reverberation of the bass line called too strongly. With only four strings, bass guitar might seem simpler to play, but it presented challenges to the determined player. Pitched an octave lower than the lead guitar, the four strings of a bass guitar growled out sound with a throaty rumble. The power was indescribable and could only truly be felt.
With Ash’s guitar in tune, Spike fingered the strings.
“Ten bucks,” Noodles suddenly said, piping up from the e-reader he’d had his nose stuck inside.
“For what?” Bent asked.
Noodles grinned. “That Ash sleeps through this whole thing.”
Bash grunted, woofing out a low laugh. “He could sleep through a descent to hell. I’m in.”
Skye turned an eye on them but then dismissed them with a shake of her head.
“She knows I’m right,” Noodles said. “Don’t ya, honey?”
“Noodles”—Skye’s tone turned ominous—“don’thoneyme.”
“Oh,” he said, “wouldn’t think of it, doll.”
“Put me in for twenty,” she said after poking Ash in the chest.
