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.”