Page 3 of Code Word (The Atrous #3)

THREE

The next morning, I was up early with fried egg and bacon sandwiches and coffee ready to go. I carried it over to Luke’s cabin on a tray, only spilling a bit when I almost tripped up the last step. “Motherfucker,” I grumbled.

“Morning to you too,” Luke said, pushing the door open. He was almost smiling, looked like he’d slept some, and had a change of hoodie at least.

I held the tray out. “Breakfast,” I declared. “Because all the food’s in my cabin. I didn’t even ask if you had coffee in here.”

He took the tray, and I followed him back in. His cabin was much the same as mine, though his fire was almost out, so I threw a few small logs on it for him.

“Thanks,” he said before sipping his brew. He closed his eyes and sighed at the first taste.

“Sleep okay?”

He shrugged. “Hm.”

He lifted the top piece of bread from one of the sandwiches, finding the one with ketchup, and he grinned at the food, then at me. “Dude. You remembered.”

The first real smile I’d seen in far too long, and it made me happier than I’d realized. I also realized just how long it had been since I’d seen it. “Yeah, course I fucking did. Ain’t no one know you like I do.”

His eyes met mine.

I shrugged and nodded to his egg and ketchup sandwich. “Ain’t no one do something as disgusting as that for anyone but you either.”

He kind of smiled as he chewed. “Is good too,” he said with a mouth full of food.

So gross.

I shoveled in a huge bite to match his grossness, and he chuckled.

We ate in companionable silence, like most things we did when it was just us, and when he was done, he collected the plates and mugs and put them in the sink. “I’ll wash these. Least I can do.”

I pointed my thumb toward my cabin. “The real mess is in there. You can wash those too.”

He blinked. “Oh, sure.”

“Dude, I was joking. It’s just a frying pan. I’ll do it later.”

He made a face I couldn’t quite read. Like he should have known I was joking but missed it. Like he was trying too hard. I wasn’t sure, but it didn’t sit well with me.

This uneasiness . . .

He could be going through something, sure. But to be awkward with me?

That wasn’t right.

“Hey,” I murmured.

His eyes met mine, and I could see that maybe he hadn’t slept as much as I’d first thought.

“You know, it’s kinda stupid that we’re making a mess in both cabins. You should come camp in mine. Then we only have to clean up once.”

I didn’t give a fuck about the cleaning. I wanted him to get some freaking sleep. And I could guess the only time he’d had any solid sleep was on the couch with me the other day.

His eyes flinched, like he was torn about something, but then he looked to his feet and gave a shrug. “Yeah, okay,” he mumbled.

I went to him, put my hand on the back of his head, raking my fingers through his hair, and pulled him in for a bit of a hug. His forehead went to my collarbone, his hands by his side, and he sighed.

“You’ll be okay,” I whispered.

His breath caught and he was quick to turn to the sink. He filled it with water, squirted in some dish soap, and made himself busy. “I’ll just wash these and I’ll bring ’em over.”

So, guessing I’d just been dismissed, I nodded slowly. Okay, then.

“Guess I better go make myself purdy. Bring your shit over when you’re done.”

He nodded, still not looking at me. “’Kay.”

I left him to it, walking back across the cold ground, wondering what the hell had just happened.

Luke dumped his duffle bag on the couch and slid the tray of clean mugs on the small kitchen counter just as the coffee machine beeped.

“Perfect timing,” I said. “Want another brew?”

“Ah, sure,” he said, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

He was nervous or uncertain; neither was good. Not at any time, but especially around me. I kinda thought he was about to say something, tell me what was on his mind, but nope.

He just took his coffee, and I waited... and waited. But still not looking at me, he sipped his coffee, and the silence stretched out. He put his half-full mug in the sink and sighed, then nodded to the door. “Should we go set up the barn?”

I looked at my mostly full mug, and now feeling as uneasy as him, I set it down. “Sure.”

Actually, a day in the barn, jamming out, maybe recording something was what he needed.

Maybe it was what I needed too.

The barn , as we called it, was a studio.

Strictly speaking, it was still a freaking barn, but there was a sound booth and a production room, though it was mostly left open, very much still a barn.

There were couches and rugs, mostly to help with acoustics, but the rustic wood and age of the place added to the feel of it.

It didn’t feel like work. It felt like fun.

What music used to feel like for us, when we’d hang out and jam and joke around, dreaming of hitting the big time.

“Do you miss it?” I asked as I pulled a plastic cover off the old couch.

Luke was bringing the keyboard out from the production room. It was where we kept most of the instruments that stayed here. The room was lockable and not susceptible to weather. “Miss what?”

Atrous.

When relationships were easier.

“Music,” I replied. “When it used to be fun. When it was all we ever wanted to do.”

He put the keyboard on the coffee table, which was two upended wooden crates, and frowned as he unraveled the power cord. “Sometimes.”

“I saw you had your guitar and keyboard out in your room again,” I mentioned. I didn’t mean that to sound accusatory or as if he was hiding anything from me, so I aimed for upbeat. “Come up with anything good? Another double-platinum song?”

He snorted. “It was triple platinum, so fuck you. ”

That made me laugh, but then he was quiet again for a while, and I waited to see if he’d offer me anything freely or if I was going to have to pry this out of him.

It took a few long minutes.

“I’ve just been putting a few things together,” he said when he brought out the guitar.

It was a cheap old acoustic... No, wait, it was his old acoustic. I took it off him, looking it over. “God, this thing’s seen some years. Where were you hiding it?”

He half smiled, half shrugged. “Had it at home. It’s been here for over a year. I brought it up when Maddox and Roscoe got married.”

I couldn’t believe it. I put my foot on the coffee table, held the guitar, and strummed the strings. It sounded just the same, like our childhood. “God, remember when you got this?” I asked. “Your fifteenth birthday, remember? It was the bee’s fucking knees.”

His eyes met mine, soft and happy. “Yeah. I remember.” Then he shook his head and cleared his throat. “Surprised you remember it though.”

“What?” I asked, strumming out a few chords. “Of course I do. I was gonna say you must have four other acoustics worth ten times this, but this?” I strummed again. “This is perfect. I can’t believe you still have it.”

He shrugged one shoulder. “It was my first real guitar. Not the el cheapo I’d had since I was eight.”

I played a few chords. “Sounds like weekends spent in your parents’ rumpus room. Like simpler days, when all we had were dreams of making it big and terrible hair.”

He half smiled. “Your hair was terrible. Mine was awesome.”

I sighed and grinned as I handed it back to him. “So, what’ve you been working on?” I said, parking my ass in front of the keyboard and testing a few keys. “What few things have you been putting together? ”

He made a face, sat on the sofa, and began fine-tuning the guitar. “Just some... a few songs.” His brows drew down and he frowned. “Kinda been all up in my head a bit. Overthinking shit. You know how that is. Good for music. Not so good for everything else.”

I wasn’t sure if he was talking about sleep, about Vana, or what. But he was talking. This was something, at least. “Maddox used to say writing songs was like therapy.”

Luke’s eyes cut to mine and he snorted. “And how well did that work out for him? Before Roscoe, I mean.”

Hmm. Ouch.

“Yeah. Not so great,” I admitted. “But the ballads and melodies were on point.”

He seemed annoyed by that. “Yep. Suffering sells.”

Wow.

He really was not in a good place.

I chose my next words carefully. “Writing songs that people can relate to, see themselves in, sells. Being able to reach the audience like that sells, Luke.”

He seemed annoyed by that too. “Giving people an outlet for their misery, for their own heartbreak,” he said. “Well, fuck. My songs are gonna beat triple platinum.”

I wanted to sigh. I wanted to hug him and hold him, even just touch him. But he had himself wrapped up in barbs right now, and I didn’t want to get cut.

“If you’re talking about Vana,” I offered gently, “you can talk to me.”

He stopped tuning the guitar and stared at me, his gaze cold and angry.

Or maybe not.

I shrugged and played it off. “Or you can write a triple-platinum album about heartbreak and misery.”

His face did that tormented thing again, and he went back to tuning the guitar. “It’s not about Vana,” he mumbled after a moment. “Well, it kinda is. I feel bad for how it ended. She deserved better than that.”

“You could call her,” I suggested. “Just to tell her you hope she’s okay. And that you’re sorry.”

“Hm.” He sighed. “Maybe. I don’t want her to think I’m calling to get back together though.” He let his head fall back. “I dunno.”

“You don’t know if you want to get back together with her?” It was good that he was talking, but I needed to make sure we were on the same page.

“Hell no,” he said. He scrubbed his hands over his face and sat forward again. “Sorry. No, I don’t want to get back with her. I’m... relieved it’s over, to be honest. Maybe I should just cut all contact.”

I nodded slowly. “Or text her?”

He made a face. “Would that make me the asshole? Doesn’t she deserve better than that?”

“You can only give her the emotional currency you can afford to give, Luke,” I said softly. “If you’re not up to it, then don’t.”

He studied me for a long moment before looking away. “Don’t think I can afford much right now.” He tuned the guitar some more, then looked at me as if he were mad or something. “Emotional currency? Who the fuck says that?”

I chuckled. “Fuck off. I thought it was a good line.”

He rolled his eyes, and for a moment, it was just like old times. He clearly still had a lot on his mind, but the silence between us now was easier as we played a few riffs, a few lines, taking cues from each other like we used to do.

He’d stop every so often to write it down in his notebook, and he’d record a few times. But after a while, his music stopped and the line was back on his forehead, and the heavy set of his stare was back.

“Fucking hell,” he grumbled.

“Wassup? ”

“I’m gonna have to call her,” he whispered. “I don’t really want to, but I think I need to. To end it properly.”

“Closure,” I offered.

“Christ, I thought you were gonna say emotional currency again.”

“I’m going to write a song called emotional currency.”

“If you do, I will shave your eyebrows while you sleep.”

I laughed as I stood up. I clapped him on the chest as I walked past, giving his pec a squeeze for the hell of it. “I’ll go make us some lunch, give you some privacy.”