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Dios, was it my turn already?
Self-confidence plummeting, I stood on trembling legs and smoothed down the front of my skirt. Since the guy next to me had been so kind, the inner submissive in me itched to glance at him with worried eyes, seeking some kind of reassurance. But he was the competition; he didn’t want me to succeed any more than I wanted him to.
Except I just couldn’t help it. I glanced his way, biting the inside of my lip, and totally obliterated the awesome girl-power image I wanted to project. When he grinned and flashed me a thumbs-up with both hands, the boost I needed kicked me back to life.
I gave him a saucy wink and whirled away to sashay through the door, tugging my hot pink drumsticks from my back pocket as I went.
Low ceiling, dim lights, and a large open space surrounding the band in the middle of the room had me slowing to an intimidated stop as soon as the door clicked shut behind me. Only three people occupied the chamber, and none of them knew me, but I knew who each member was without even glancing at which instrument they held. Because I’d gone online to their website and done my homework.
I had only actually seen them play live once, at some Day in the Park event where all the local bands had come together to show off their talent at the Memorial Park’s pavilion. And they’d been good. But the best part: Fisher, my ex-fiancé—though not ex at the time—had hated them. Absolutely despised them. Probably because he’d been pea green with jealousy. Non-Castrato had better sound, more talented musicians, and a way hotter lead singer than his band. More fans too.
Back then, I’d loyally supported Fisher, telling him his band Fish ’N’ Dicks was so much better than Non-Castrato...even though they totally weren’t. In reality, I’d been mesmerized, unable to look away the entire time Non-Castrato had played.
The beat, the words, the awesome guitar riffs had moved through me with an almost unnatural fascination. I’d been waiting with Fisher and his boys behind stage because they were set to go on next, so I’d had a lousy side and kind of behind view of Non-Castrato’s performance. But still...it had kicked ass.
After Fisher betrayed me months later and broke my heart, my trust, as well as my freaking iPod—the ass—I’d made sure to buy every song Non-Castrato had recorded, mostly as a kind of fuck-you to the man I now despised.
But the strangest thing happened after I listened to about their fourth song. I actually fell in love with their music. All of their music. Every single piece.
When I’d heard they were looking for a new drummer, it had felt like providence. I loved their songs, I loved their style, I loved how so many of their lyrics resonated with me, deep in my soul. I’d always wanted to be the drummer in a band. But most of all, I needed something to shove in my ex-fiancé’s face with a big fat, “Ha! I’m in a better, more popular, way more talented band than you are! Suck on that, asshole.”
And this was my golden chance to accomplish everything I wanted.
“Uh...can we help you?” The guy with a six-inch Mohawk in his orange hair asked. He was the bassist, Billy Galloway. The crazy bastard went balls to the wall every time he was on stage. He was the one who gave Non-Castrato their wild reputation because he liked to flash his junk at screaming lady fans...or so I’d read online.
I cleared my throat and nodded. “Yeah. I’m here to audition.” When all three of them just blinked, I shuffled my feet and cleared my throat again. “Umm...for the drummer’s position.”
Hello? Why else did they think I was here? I even waved my drumsticks to really drive the point home, since they didn’t seem to get it yet.
Finally, Galloway snorted. “Yeah...I don’t think so, sweetheart.”
Say what?
Though the bottom of my stomach dropped out, I frowned at him in confusion. Rejection was my bi
ggest fear, and hearing it right off the bat was worse than all those hours of dreading it out in the hall put together.
When no one cracked a smile and told me they were just joking, I shook my head, puzzled. “Excuse me?”
Galloway leaned forward slightly as he pointed toward the door. “We don’t want you. So, git.”
Git?
I glanced toward the other two members of the band.
The rhythm guitarist, Heath Holden, was the most nondescript. He didn’t dress harsh, act rough, or pretty much talk...at all. The only extreme things about him were the tattoos he had racing up each massive bare arm along with the badass biker beard he was growing. He didn’t seem like he had much of a personality, if you wanted my opinion. But, man, he could play a wicked lick whenever the occasion called for it.
As my gaze skimmed over him, the tops of his cheeks brightened and he suddenly turned busy, refusing to make eye contact as he concentrated on digging dirt out from underneath his fingernails.
So I moved my attention to the lead singer. Asher Hart. Aside from singing all their songs, he played the guitar, piano, and he was by far the designated hottie all the girls dropped their panties for and screamed over whenever Non-Castrato stepped onstage. His brilliant voice was the reason they had any talent at all.
And, wow, had I mentioned he was unbelievably hot?
A crazy-attracted sizzle rose from my belly as I took him in. But damn, he was too gorgeous to be real. Not that I was into lead singers. I was so totally over that phase, thanks to my lousy asshole ex.
You suck, Fisher!
Still, Asher Hart was a looker. And obviously too bored to care about me in the least. Paying no attention to my penetrating stare, he unscrewed the cap off a bottle of water and took a long drink as if I was taking up too much of his precious time.
