You wouldn't guess it by looking at him, but Jake has quite an encyclopedic knowledge of soul classics, dozens of songs by Etta James and Sam Cooke rattling around in his head, sharing space with more obvious choices like Journey and Bon Jovi and Black Sabbath. One of the group homes he lived in growing up was run by a failed musician, and he liked to play Motown and Soul records day in and day out, and sometimes Clay liked to indulge his more maudlin side by listening to bluesy music when he got dumped again. Sometimes he's iffy on the lyrics, or the melody takes a meandering turn, but he's doing pretty well so far.
So well, in fact, that when he wrap up crooning about weekend lovers, he hears applause. Jake, used to being caught out doing ridiculous things, doesn't blush or jump or look guilty for being observed acting like an idiot, just turns and grins over his shoulder.
"Nope," he agrees cheerfully, then returns to the task at hand, wrestling the last sodden mess of sheets over the line and pinning it in place. "She wandered off before I got started." Whether that was because she knows him well enough to know what happens when he starts doing laundry — namely, singing — or because she was bored and wanted to find something to do is up for debate.
He drops the last of the clothespins in his pocket when he finishes, and bends to pick up the washbasin he'd used to carry the sheets out to the yard in. "I can tell her you dropped by, if you want?" he offers, lifting his eyebrows in a way that should hopefully prompt an introduction with names. He's fairly certain he knows basically everyone's names around here, but better safe than sorry, right?
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So well, in fact, that when he wrap up crooning about weekend lovers, he hears applause. Jake, used to being caught out doing ridiculous things, doesn't blush or jump or look guilty for being observed acting like an idiot, just turns and grins over his shoulder.
"Nope," he agrees cheerfully, then returns to the task at hand, wrestling the last sodden mess of sheets over the line and pinning it in place. "She wandered off before I got started." Whether that was because she knows him well enough to know what happens when he starts doing laundry — namely, singing — or because she was bored and wanted to find something to do is up for debate.
He drops the last of the clothespins in his pocket when he finishes, and bends to pick up the washbasin he'd used to carry the sheets out to the yard in. "I can tell her you dropped by, if you want?" he offers, lifting his eyebrows in a way that should hopefully prompt an introduction with names. He's fairly certain he knows basically everyone's names around here, but better safe than sorry, right?