Finally, he opened his mouth. Closed it. Then opened it again. “The guys aren’t on the same page. Sometimes I think I’m the only one really in this. They show up long enough for a paycheck and everything falls apart. Then they go pout while I sit on my thumbs like a good little bass player until they come back around, ready for another payday.”
When she’d talked to Bax years ago, he’d alluded to being jaded with the industry. They never talked about the money. He talked a lot about how he only made music because it was expected. The industry expected it. The fans expected it. He didn’t do it because he loved the process.
“You’re not in it for the cash?” she asked. “Or the fame?”
He shook his head, the bun at the base of his neck jostled with the movement. “I’m in it for the craft. The art. The music. The rest is extraneous.” He raised an eyebrow. “It’s nice, mind. But it’s not why I play.”
She shifted in her seat. He was the real deal. Not that she’d doubted that, but she hadn’t really known. “Can’t you go solo?”
“I could. I can. Brek thinks that’s the way I should take things. Play with Dimefront when it’s on, do my thing when it’s not.”
Brek was very logical in this situation. That would’ve been her suggestion, too. “You disagree?”
“I don’t know.” He seemed torn. By what, she couldn’t say. To find out, she would have to ask questions. Those questions would add more investment into this conversation. To ask or not to ask. Fudge. She was going to ask.
“Which part don’t you know?”
“No one takes me seriously. How am I gonna make it on my own in the industry? I do better when I play team sports.” Many people were like that. Being part of a team wasn’t exactly a bad thing.
“Why do you figure that is?” she asked because, apparently, the rules she set for herself were now moot. Therapist Becca seeped into her words.
“Because the other guys take my slack when I drop it.”
She had a hunch here that he didn’t drop a lot of slack.
“They seem to be the ones dropping the slack, not you. From what you said, you’re the one holding their slack until they come back around.”
He seemed less than convinced. “Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
“Maybe.” He stood, bounced on his toes, and tossed his bottle into the trash like he played for the NBA. Apparently, they were done.
“We should head on back in before they start their last set.” He did another toe bounce.
She finished her water before tossing the bottle in the recycle bin with substantially less style than he had.
“You’re easy to talk to, you know that, Becca?” he asked, slinging his arm over her shoulder again.
This caused contact between them. Contact meant heat. Heat turned to intense craving. She wanted to lick him all over like he was covered in lemon pudding.
Mmm. Her favorite. Becca loved lemon pudding.
“Thanks,” she said, instead of doing the licking thing.
“You’ve got some stupid ideas about why people do what they do, and what they want in return.” He held up his hands in mock surrender. “But you’re still easy to talk to.”
She elbowed him gently in the ribs.
He didn’t seem to mind. Instead, he skimmed the knuckle of her hand with the tip of his finger. Nothing serious. Nothing that screamed “Hey, take off my pants!” Yet, something about that one brief touch was more intimate than all the others. Her nerves fired and goosebumps erupted all over. The air practically crackled, and he was right there. Touchably there.
“Have you considered teaching?” She heard herself ask, her mind clearly unwilling to acknowledge what was going on with the rest of her body. She cleared her throat. “Music. Teaching music. Since it’s your thing.”
“Teach who?” He moved his hand away from hers like he worried he’d reach out and trace her knuckles again.
Funny, she was having the same problem. She crossed her arms. “Anyone.”
“I’m a performer. Not a teacher.” He shook his head.
