“All right,” Trent lied.
“Doesn’t sound all right.”
Trent rested his forehead in his palm. “I’m scared, Summer. I’m so damn scared.”
“Trent.” She gasped. “I’m coming over.”
“No.” Trent startled. “No, no, no. Don’t. I can’t let anyone… I don’t want him to have to explain anything to anyone later if he doesn’t want to.”
“Okay, that was cryptic as hell.”
“I know.”
Summer was quiet for a while as if she was waiting for Trent to cave and confess like he always did, but not this time. It wasn’t his secret to disclose. As if she’d accepted he wasn’t going to elaborate, she asked, “Do you need anything? Are you hungry, did you guys eat dinner?”
“Yes. We’re good.” Trent nodded, then remembered, “Oh, yeah, there is something I need. Can you bring me some cans of Campbell soup on your way to work tomorrow morning? I used my last one.”
“Is Wood sick?”
“Summer,” Trent warned.
“All right, all right. Gosh, men. So weird.”
Trent smiled. Why did she say that all the time, like men were such peculiar creatures?
“I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Okay.” Trent was about to press End when he heard Summer shout.
“Trent!”
“What?” He frowned.
“Try playing your music tonight to settle your nerves. I haven’t heard you sound this stressed and worked up in a long time, and those damn records are the only thing I know that helps besides me or Bishop.”
Summer hung up, and Trent got his ass moving and went into his bedroom. Why the hell hadn’t he tried his records earlier? Music had a way of touching the heart. Trent dug through Miles’s crate and removed an old-school R&B ballad titled, “Try Again.” He grabbed his secondhand acoustic guitar from out of the closet and walked back across the hall.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Wood
Music. It was relentless and so close to him. It was reaching him, and Wood couldn’t get away. When it’d first began, he’d tried to ignore the gentle melody and the deep baritone voice of whatever song was playing, telling him that “maybe he should try again.” Now, after it’d stopped, he found himself searching for it.
“I’m not near as good as Miles was. He tried to teach me since my mom would never get me the lessons I begged for, but he was self-taught himself. Man, I wanted to be just like him.”
The music began to play again, like a soundtrack to the stories his angel told him.
“Miles never raised his voice or cursed. And he didn’t push my mom around either. When she stayed out late, he’d take me to one of his gigs and hide me backstage. Damn. Those were the best days of my life with him. Miles bragged all the time about being a fifth-generation musician, but none of his family had ever made it big time. Though his great-grandfather did play for James Brown for about five minutes.”
His angel laughed. “Even when I was in a bad mood he’d be nice to me… and he’d use music to cheer me up. I pushed him away at first, thinking it was stupid. Thinking how was I, a barely educated white boy from the streets, gonna feel the power of rhythm and blues?”
Wood heard a slow strum, and the vibrations seemed to coast through the air and directly into his chest. His dark light was brightening around the edges, and Wood tried to grasp on to it.
“But he told me to just listen. To close my eyes and let my mind go wherever the lyrics took me. He used to tell me that rhythm saw no color and the blues didn’t discriminate. When I’d get lost in my anger, I’d close my eyes and let the lyrics talk to me. Calm me.”
The music continued, the sound growing with clarity, and Wood could hear it was a guitar being played over a man singing in a somber, bluesy tone. He could hear it all too well, when he knew he shouldn’t. No matter how much he tried to cling to his dark place, a voice, a smell, kept tugging on him, refusing to let go. And no matter the fight he put up, his mind and body drifted with every note played. Then Wood heard him, heard Trent’s sweet voice telling him stories as he played those soothing notes on his guitar.
God, it’s been him all the time.
Trent
Trent got up and turned off another record. It was after three in the morning, and his eyes felt as if they’d been doused with sand and his fingertips stung like hell from plucking the stiff guitar strings. He went into the kitchen and made another pot of disgusting coffee and drank half the pot in an effort to stay awake. He wanted to be the one Wood looked at when his eyes refocused, but he knew he didn’t have much steam left. And he also knew his clock had wound down. Maybe it was time to get Wood some professional help. He’d hate himself if it got him into trouble, but he’d hate himself even more if he was causing Wood long-term damage. Obviously, it was something terrible that sent a man like him into such a state of depression. The name Brody kept popping into his mind, and he knew Wood had been expecting to see him that night.
Trent leaned heavily against the counter while he waited for the bowl of soup to reheat. If Wood still refused to eat or even drink water, he was going to call 911. They’ll probably just take him to a treatment center for a twenty-hour eval—they won’t even know he’s on parole. They’ll let him leave when they see he’s just down on himself. Trent dug his palms into his eye sockets knowing it would most likely go a different way. He hadn’t felt this kind of bone-deep exhaustion in a long time. But thankfully the sharp pain in his lower back was also helping to keep him pretty alert.
Trent carried the warm broth and a glass of water down the hall and into Wood’s bedroom for the fifth time. He checked every inch of him, disappointed to find him in the exact same position but his eyes no longer closed. He was awake, but Trent knew Wood wasn’t looking at him.
“I got you some soup. Summer’s gonna bring some more in the morning.” Trent yawned and glanced at his watch. “Well, in a few hours.”
Trent propped another pillow under Wood’s head and gently placed the cup to his lips. “Here you go.”
Wood didn’t even try.
Trent’s breathing began to escalate, and he couldn’t hold the panic at bay any longer. “This is it. Do you hear me? If you won’t let me help, then I’ll have to find someone you will. I’m not gonna let you just fuckin’ fade away.”
Trent pressed his thumb against Wood’s chin to part his mouth wider and poured… nothing. He scrambled off the floor, grimacing, with his hands balled into fists. “Why are you doing this! Can’t you see I’m trying? I’m fuckin’ doing the work and you’re not, Wood!” Trent picked up a cup holder full of Wood’s colored pencils and hurled them across the room. The sound wasn’t loud enough, so he grabbed the desk lamp and flung it as hard as he could into the hallway, satisfied when it shattered into pieces. “Wake up!”
Trent dropped to his knees, feeling as defeated as ever. “Please, wake up. Please, Hersh. I’m fuckin alone here too, man.” Trent used the back of his sleeve to wipe at the sweat running down his temple. His voice was hoarse and dry, and he could feel his body wanting to shut down and sleep. “I’m so sorry, but I’m scared. I’m gonna have to call some help. I’ve tried every damn thing I can think of, and I got nothing left, Wood. I don’t know anything else to do.”