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Waving me away, he shook his head. “Don’t worry about that either. I’ll take care of everything. Just get this lovely lady home safely, and we’ll be square.”
Jodi tittered and rested her head on my shoulder. “Did you hear that? He called me lovely.”
“He also called you a lady, so he’s also obviously had too much to drink as well.”
“Hey,” Jodi muttered in outrage and pinched the inside of my arm at the most tender spot ever, making me yelp and squirm away.
Next to us, Asher’s phone rang, keeping him from having to respond.
As he answered, my roommate leaned up into my ear and loudly whispered, “Have you told him you’re a girl yet? You said you were going to tell him right after the gig tonight. I bet he’ll want to jump your bones when he finds out.”
“Shh...” I hissed, scowling her quiet as I waved a hand to hush her. “Not yet.”
After this evening, my goals had changed. I was still riding some of the giddy rush I’d gotten from playing for people, people who cheered us on and loved what we did for them. And then Asher...sitting here, just talking to him...I realized I didn’t want to leave the band.
So I needed a new plan. I needed to approach this delicately, in a way where I could convince the guys to keep me on after I revealed my true identity to them. If I played my cards right, maybe I could coax them into letting me stay on as a girl.
Before I could explain all that to Jodi, though, Asher grabbed my arm. “Holy shit, Sticks, you will not believe this.” Excitement radiated from his voice as he continued to shake my shoulder vigorously. “That was some casino owner from Chicago. He was here tonight and saw our show. And he wants us to play at one of his clubs. Next Saturday. He offered us two grand for one night. Can you fucking believe that?”
My mouth dropped open in shock as Asher threw back his head and let out a relieved, happy, excited laugh. “I’ve been working for over a year to get us an opportunity like this. Then you’re with us one night—one fucking night—and boom, we’ve got an offer from fucking Chicago. You’re some kind of good luck piece, you know that?”
“I...” No words came. I shook my head, feeling some of the same awe as him, but also gaining a load of nerves.
For real, though... Fuck! I couldn’t tell him what I was now. What if it pissed the guys off enough that they kicked me out of the band? Then, where would they be? They needed a drummer for next weekend. I couldn’t let them down. I couldn’t let Asher down. He looked so freaking adorable when he was excited like this.
And yes, damn it, I really wanted to play at that bar in Chicago, too.
So, yeah, I guess this meant Sticks, the dude drummer, was going to have to hang around just a little bit longer.
That call. That wonderful, amazing, life-changing phone call.
Ever since I’d gotten it, I’d been a bundle of anticipation and nerves. The whole thing reeked of Pick, however. I mean, seriously. Why would some big-time casino owner from Chicago be down here in Ellamore and inside the Forbidden Nightclub, of all places, to even hear us play? I had a feeling my new brother had pulled a few strings to get the guy into the building. And yep, when I’d straight up asked Pick about it, he’d suddenly turned too vague and busy to talk.
I wasn’t sure what to do about that. Just appreciate it and move on? Somehow try to repay him? Tell him to stop because I knew someday he’d regret helping me? I wasn’t sure, so I decided to not even think about it for now.
I concentrated on the positives...like the fact Non-Castrato had just been given the opportunity of a lifetime. Good things were about to happen, I could feel it, like some kind of adrenaline rush surging through my veins. It had my muse running wild with ideas for songs, and my chronic insomnia hitting a new high.
The afternoon after the call, I sat on the seat of an old exercise bike, scribbling lyrics in my notebook, and jiggling my knee to expend some of the extra energy still tweaking though me. I paused every few seconds to sing the words in my head, then I marked out a phrase here, or sometimes a whole line there that didn’t work, and I wrote in something new above or below it.
I’d just come up with a stanza that made my blood pump eagerly when someone called, “Knock, knock.”
Glancing up, I grinned at the new drummer. “Hey, man. You’re early again. That’s going to be a thing with you, isn?
??t it?”
Sticks shrugged as he strolled into the garage, carrying a restaurant’s takeout bag, which shit...smelled really good. “And here, I’ve yet to be earlier than you,” he noted.
“Touché,” I murmured, watching him plant himself on his drum set stool and open the bag, only to pull out a fried burrito-looking thing that made my mouth water, and reminded me it’d been too long since I’d last eaten.
I never remembered to eat or sleep when I was binge writing.
But when Sticks sank his teeth into the fried breading, I couldn’t handle it. “What the hell is that?” I demanded. “It smells amazing.”
Pausing mid-bite, Sticks lifted his eyebrows and glanced my way. Then he bit down, chewed a second and finally covered his hand over his mouth before saying, “Sorry. I had to come straight from work and was starving.”
“No.” I waved my hand. “I don’t care if you have to eat. Whatever. That’s totally fine. I meant, specifically what is that you’re eating?”
“Oh. It’s a chimichanga.” When I licked my lips, he arched an eyebrow and held it higher in my direction. “You want one? I have more in the bag.”
