2019-08-06 - No Guitar

The front door to 7 Oak Avenue hangs open, music streaming out from somewhere inside. Sparrow sits on the patio, denim-clad ass set right down on concrete, in cut-off jean shorts and a white and black ringer tee with the words 'heart breaker' on two lines over her left tit. Her only pops of color at the moment are on her nails, half-chipped magenta on her fingers and a darker violet on her toes. Has she been waiting out here since Jaime said he'd come on over? Wouldn't that be adorable? Hard to be sure, but she seems relaxed, legs stretched out before her and crossed at the ankles, one hand planted on the stoop, a beer in the other. Nothing too normal, either. The can is a bright lime green, black and white lettering declaring it a Wild Sour: Here Gose Nothing. She watches nothing in particular as she sits and listens, head bobbing happily to the music inside. Life, it would seem, is good.

Jaime had finished up his business at the gun shop and wandered home to lock things up before making his way over to 7 Oak. He pulls up outside in the familiar old beat up truck, stepping out of it. Plain jeans, white t-shirt, and work boots on his feet make up his outfit. He strolls on over to where she sits and plops down on the ground, sprawling comfortably and resting his hands behind him, propping himself up. "How long you been out here?"

That truck seems out of place here among the nice, big houses, most of the cars along this street purchased within the last few years and recipients of regular car washes. The red sedan in the drive outside 7 Oak is only five years old at most, but it's dustier, dingier. Lived in. Tattooed with bumper stickers across its rear, most of which reference places in the middle of nowhere far away from here, pitstops on a cross-country tour. Sparrow doesn't move much when she sees Jaime pull up, but she does smile that big old smile of hers, ear-to-ear wide, and lifts her beer. "Rather I've been waiting since you last texted me or just sat down a couple minutes ago?" she wonders with a sly skew to her smile and a sidelong look at the man now seated beside her. Though one brow crooks upward with curiosity, she doesn't really give him time to answer before coming clean. "Only a couple of songs. Got my kit set up and needed a breather."

Sparrow adds, "How'd the getting yelled at work out for ya?"

That truck gets washed by the rain when it comes down. It's the PNW. Washing the car seems awful redundant, and so he doesn't. Ever. And it's pretty obvious. Still, it runs anad gets him from where to there. "Hope it wasn't that long," Jaime says. Not that his last text was that long ago, but long enough that sitting on the concrete probably wouldn't have been super comfortable. He smirks, "Was fine. She told me I could have spent the money on something else. I told her sure, I could have bought another guitar. She told me just because something was old, that I shouldn't necessarily trade it in for a younger model. I told her I planned to keep both, like the slut I am." He flashes her a grin.

Sidelong look turns into direct attention as Sparrow tips her cheek to her shoulder, turning that wide smile Jaime's way again, complete with low-lidded look this time. "Both's good." Does she care about guns or guitars? "Though. Ya know. Personally? I think you should give the younger model a go. Bet she's gotta nice kick." She lets that hang for just a second before tipping her head toward the door. "Getcha a beer? Show ya what I got? Get right to the screaming?" Doesn't sound like she's got any preference.

"Oh, I did. I picked'er up and took her home. She and the old lady are gettin' acquainted. I think they'll get on just fine," Jaime says with a broad grin. "I'll take a beer," he sayas, and moves to pull himself to his feet. "Show me your kit." He nods in that direction, and offers her a hand up if she decides to take it.

Sparrow snorts a short, genuine laugh for his answer. She dusts her hand off on her hip before accepting his offer, then uses that same hand to dust off her bottom as she heads in. Less skin on display today despite the expected company, that tee shirt baggy, hitting mid-hip, unlike yesterday's crop top. Phone fished from her pocket kills the music, connected to some blue tooth speakers in the minimally furnished room off to the right of the entrance. This place is huge, the size magnified by its current emptiness, filled with more boxes and bags than anything functional, though there's a futon around here somewhere. "Prefer something bright or hoppy? Or both?" As they head to the back of the house, she points to the door they'll be going through but continues on to the kitchen to make good on the beer offer.

Jaime follows her into the house, taking a look around as they make their way through the entryway and toward the kitchen. The hugeness is not lost on him, though he grins a bit at the emptiness as well. "Looks like you got the opposite problem we do. Too much stuff and not enough space versus too much space and not enough stuff." He then adds, "Surprise me," in answer to her question about the beer, making his way into the kitchen and leaning up against an open spot of counter.

Another laugh, just as brief and abrupt. "That's not gonna last." Sparrow snags a beer from the fridge, the can a darker green than her own. A dry-hopped sour IPA, the middle option. Crisp, bitter, tart, vaguely piney. "Corey's cookware is gonna spill out of the kitchen and take over the whole first floor soon enough. Alfie and I are gonna have to try to combat it with kitsch. Full on war is coming. I can feel it." Beer offered over, she heads downstairs, a lightswitch at the top flicked to illuminate the basement gloom. It doesn't smell nearly as musty as somewhere subterranean should, finished, probably used as a rec room by the previous tenants. Look, there's even a small bar with a couple of stools over against one wall. Someday, there will be parties down here. For now? There are a couple folding chairs, a folding tray... and a big old drum kit that's seen better days. It may well be the same one that she had in high school with a few odd replacements here and there. "You just gonna watch?"

Jaime reaches out and takes the beer when it's handed to him, popping the top off and taking a swig before following her down into the basement gloom. He strolls into the former rec room and finds a spot to lean against the little mini bar with his beer. He takes a look at the kit, grinning a bit when he recognizes that parts of it are likely original. "You got a guitar?" he asks, glancing around the room. Because he didn't bring one with him, it seems.

Sparrow turns to Jaime to give him a mostly gives-no-fucks helpless shrug, that off-center apologetic smile not the least little bit convincing when paired with high lofted eyebrows and followed by, "Guess you'll have to find something else to do with your hands." Her delivery's dry, lacking in overt lasciviousness, as effortless as all the other nonsense that spills past her lips. Drumsticks plucked up, she takes a seat, feels her pedals, adjusts. After a quick riff to get a feel for her positioning, she gives one drumstick an unnecessary twirl, just to show off before, well... really showing off. Sort of. She's alright. Good, even. Unpolished. Inexperienced. More enthusiasm than style, as might be fitting a young punk band, but one might worry about a backbone that's more bravado than polish when it comes to actual paying gigs. When she's done her three minutes of madness, she angles a playful brow waggle his way. "Nothing ever feels quite like that."

Jaime's lips tick upward at the edges and says, "Don't worry about my hands. I got no problem finding things to do with them." Though, for the moment, the only thing that he seems to be doing with them is drinking his beer. He grabs one of the stools and pulls it over closer to where she's set up, and sits on it, one foot on the floor and the other propped on the lower rung. He listens, watching her as she drums, gets into her rhythm as it were. There's a grin on his lips as he tips back the bottle. "You definitely got the energy," he says good-naturedly.

"In spades," Sparrow agrees, finding no fault with that assessment. Even now that she's stopped banging on things, that energy sticks with her, fidgety and frenetic, one foot bouncing while she absently fusses with her drumsticks, the occasional spin effortless, done without thinking. The one thing that keeps steady is her attention, set now entirely on Jaime, without distraction. "No bullshit, I'd love to play again. I don't have any big dreams, don't care where or what--" Her head tips, rethinking that. "Within reason. I just want to make noise." Shrugging, she admits, "I can't speak for Runa. I don't know where her head's at. But you're here." Her smile skews wider, edging left. "And cute. So."

"Next time," Jaime says, "I'll bring my guitar, and we'll see what we can do. We could use a bass player. Runa sings, right?" He leans back a bit on the stool -- not enough to lift the front legs off the ground, but close to. He studies Sparrow and then admits, "I don't mind playing on my own, but it's always more fun with a band." He says, "I've already got places lined up where I play from time to time. Just a matter of getting folks together and rehearsing a bit, and we can probably use some of those gigs."

Something clicks in Sparrow's brain when Jaime says he'll bring his guitar by next time, the whole cast of her expression changing to something far more impish. All that fidgeting stops as if that energy were suddenly funnelled elsewhere, drumsticks both caught in one hand as she turns slightly in her seat to face him more directly. Still, she stays on topic for the moment, confirming, "Yeah, and writes," of Runa. "Pretty genius, really." The mention of other gigs, of just needing to get together and polish up, earns a couple of nods. "I'll see what I can do. If you know any bass players..." Cuz her old one? At some out-of-state college, likely. Not here anymore. After a couple seconds she states, "You didn't bring your guitar," as if that detail might mean something.

Jaime watches that shift in her expression with an amused little smile, tipping back the bottle to finish off the beer before getting up and going over to the bar to set it there. "Nope, I usually just play by myself. Haven't actually played with a band, or anyone else, really, for a while." He turns back toward her then, leaning back against the bar, elbows resting on it. "Nope," he confirms. "Maybe I just wanted to hear you play, see if you were terrible before committing to anything." Though there's a flicker of amusement in his eyes, and he doesn't seem serious about that.

When Jaime turns away, Sparrow sets her drumsticks down, a quiet action notable mostly for how careful she is in it, how neatly aligned they are where they rest across the snare in perfect parallel. She's on her feet by the time he looks back at her, her own beer, however near-empty it must've been, abandoned on the tray next to her kit. "Bullshit." Effortless, no thought needed. She comes to a stop immediately in front of him, decidedly within the realm of personal space, but she keeps her hands to herself, hooked in her pockets for the moment. "You've heard me play. Gotta be some memory of basic competency somewhere in that pretty head of yours." Her head cants slightly to the right as she continues. "Nah. You wanna kiss me." So casually cocky. And direct, eye contact steady as she tells him, "You should kiss me."

Jaime laughs when she calls bullshit and then feigns innocence, which is really not in his wheelhouse. "I did say I'm pretty, not smart. Maybe I've got a bad memory, too." But he's lying. He remembers well enough what the band sounded like when they were together. He doesn't move when she comes up in his personal space. "Well, I definitely know that you want to kiss me," he says, one brow slightly cocked. But he does push away from the bar, straightening until he's even more in her personal space, not all that much taller than her, so that they're almost eye to eye.

"Yeah." Shameless, from the wide smile to the little 'ya got me' wobble of her head. Sparrow makes no apology for that desire, no excuse. Both dark brows arching high, she warns, "And I'm liable to act on it," just in case he might wanna get away while he still can. So very close, the tart, hoppy beer can be caught on her breath, bright and salty, like summer distilled. It's more pronounced than the other notes, the hints of plum and lilac, herbs and leather which counter the dust and sweat of someone who's spent time working in the heat today. One hand pulls from her pocket to alight on his hip, a second warning. The sideways shift of her grin is the third, caught as she closes the distance, pushing to her toes to cover the few inches of height difference. And, if allowed, her lips connect with his, not the least bit tentative in her approach, parting on contact in invitation, temptation, a bet that she was right the first time.

Jaime doesn't seem to shy from the warning, either the first, or the second, when her hand comes to rest on his hip. He leans in to close the distance when she does, and his mouth meets hers. Lips part along with hers, and his head tilts slightly to deepen that kiss. His fingers run up along the side of her neck and into the hair at the back of her head, winding there to hold her to him. He doesn't seem about to break it any time soon, as his tongue tastes her lips, and then slips between them. His other hand drifts to her waist to pull her in and up against him.

Sparrow's smile can be felt beneath his lips, so very pleased to have been right. What starts as a happy sound, nearly a giggle, when the kiss so quickly deepens is followed by something lower, pleased, hungry when fingers curl into dark hair and that wordless insistence is made plain. Her hips rock against his as she pushes up a tiny bit higher on her toes in answer, as the hand at his hip holds him close. Or her steady. Depending on your point of view. Her other hand is slower to follow, a lighter touch along his side as her tongue teases against his, the affection more receptive than aggressive in the end, now that he's taken the lead.

That kiss lingers, for some time, until finally he breaks it, drawing his head back just a little bit, a quirk of his lips and a glitter in his eyes before he takes a step back and releases her. "Unfortunately, I've gotta go pick up Joey, or I'd hang around a bit longer." He nods toward the drums though and says, "Next time.. I'll bring my guitar, and we'll see how well we actually play.. together."

"Definitely unfortunate," Sparrow agrees, but that promise of departure doesn't dim her satisfied smile the least little bit. The hand on his hip lingers as long as it can without requiring her to actually follow, then it tucks back into her pocket, mirroring the other which had already managed that feat. "Don't be surprised if it takes me a little time to manifest the other half of a band. Selfish like that. Wanting some more..." She leaves it vague, trailing off like she couldn't quite decide how to finish it, elbow swinging out a little as she shrugs. But, with that, she follows him up, sees him out, front door closed once he's gone.