Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 107960 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 540(@200wpm)___ 432(@250wpm)___ 360(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107960 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 540(@200wpm)___ 432(@250wpm)___ 360(@300wpm)
“Can I come in?” Bishop huffed.
“Yeah,” Trent finally answered after pasting on a phony smile.
The door clicked and his best friend strode inside his room. Bishop opened his mouth to continue his fussing when his gaze traveled around what used to be his dad’s bedroom. “Holy shit. What have you done in here? Has Mike seen this?”
Trent smirked. “Nope.” He didn’t really want anyone in his personal space. Bishop would be the only exception every now and then.
“He’s gonna wanna move back in when he does, especially since he and his girl have been struggling. This looks nothing like the boring room he had.”
“I basically had a blank slate to work with.” Trent stared at the various album covers and posters of famous musicians now covering almost every open space on the walls.
“Mike only came in here to sleep, dress, or have sex,” Bishop said nonchalantly. He and his dad had a unique relationship, more like best friends instead of father and son. The minimal age gap between them had a lot to do with it.
“I see you’re still into all this bluesy stuff.” Bishop walked over to Trent’s prized possession, his sound system.
“It’s not just blues, Bishop. I don’t sit around listening to Muddy Waters all night. It’s rhythm and blues, man. Miles Davis. Clapton. James Brown.”
“I like some of the newer R&B stuff I guess. But I think I’ll stick with my rock—it’s more upbeat, uplifting. Although Edison has me listening to a lot of Dave Matthews Band lately.” Bishop bent forward to get a better look at Trent’s setup. “I didn’t know you still had this.”
Trent squeezed the dust cloth in his hand as Bishop reached out to touch one of the levels on the equalizer. “Don’t mess with that,” he ordered.
Bishop yanked his large hand away as if it’d been smacked with a ruler. His friend stood to his full six-foot-two inches and scowled down at him.
Trent laughed. “I have them set just right.”
Bishop stared at him for a moment, and Trent struggled not to squirm under the intense scrutiny. He knew what Bishop was doing, but he wasn’t in the mood to be read or freaking analyzed. “I didn’t even know you still had his stuff.”
“Sil kept it in her attic for me while I was locked up. And when I got out, I never bothered to set it up again at her place.” Trent stepped away and returned the vinyl album he’d been dusting to its sleeve. “I knew me and her weren’t going to work out my first month home. So, I moved it all to storage.”
Bishop continued to study the changes Trent had made to the room over the past few weeks. New lamps sat on the end tables; pictures and photos that represented him were now on the walls. He had clothes hung in a closet for once and not crammed into a suitcase or footlocker. He’d even splurged and gotten a new queen mattress and flannel sheets for the bed. Trent always liked the way they felt in the winter, and he’d never had his own bed to put them on. Mike was nice enough to leave the flat-screen sitting on top of a black chest of drawers, but he wasn’t much into the crazy shit on television these days. Trent loved music. He wasn’t a musician by far, and he couldn’t sing a decent note if his life depended on it. But there’d been a man—a man who’d introduced a bit of serenity into his chaotic mind by way of rhythm and blues. Someone very special to him a long time ago.
“I can’t believe he let you keep all of this,” Bishop whispered. “This is like… vintage. That’s the right word, right?”
Trent smiled at his friend. “Yeah, man.”
“All of this equipment is in pristine condition too. It’s gotta be worth a lot of money.”
Trent frowned. “It can be worth a million dollars. I don’t give a fuck. It’s mine—he wanted me to have it.”
Bishop put his hands up as if he wasn’t looking for trouble. “He might did. Besides I’m sure he would’ve come back and—”
“Didn’t you want to ask me a question… or something?” Trent uttered.
Bishop snapped his mouth closed as Trent tried to avoid the awkwardness that’d seeped into his small sanctuary. He hadn’t wanted his best friend to finish that sentence because he knew it was true. It’d been thirteen years. If Miles had wanted his equipment back… or if he was interested in seeing Trent, he would’ve done so by now. Instead of letting the knot form in his chest anytime he thought of Miles, Trent exhaled the ache.
Bishop cleared his throat and muttered, “Nice comforter. Is that um, down or something? Edison has one.”
Trent dropped onto the plush, gray blanket on his bed and stared at Bishop, waiting for him to get to the point. He’d come to terms with the fact he’d lost his favorite hang-out partner to love months ago. He wasn’t delusional to think he was still important or a priority in Bishop’s life. They’d both been released from prison around the same time, a little over a year ago, and everything had shifted. They’d had to grow the fuck up. Bishop was the first to accept they weren’t the same knuckleheads that used to rip and run the streets with little to no parental supervision. It was time to be real men. And the realization that his friend had moved on without him had aggressively seeped into Trent’s mind, leaving him feeling deserted on a one-man island.