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He chuckled. “We’re almost done. Then you can go mope into your beer.”
I flipped him the bird. “Whatever.”
We sat through two more bass players that were notably better, especially number eight. I’d seen him around. He’d played in a band that had one album about five years ago. Rumor had it they all hated each other, but it wasn’t like I could ask him, so I exchanged a look with Z. Depending on what happened with the next last two guys, we might invite this guy to jam with us.
Maybe.
Number nine was good too, but he would need a complete makeover because he looked like he belonged in a country-western band instead of a hard rock group like us. Right down to the damn cowboy hat. What the hell had he been thinking?
“This is the guy Carter recommended, right?” Tommy whispered to me when the studio runner said Devyn Cates had arrived.
“Yup.” I nodded.
In the letter he’d left for the band after his death, Carter had said this was who we needed to audition when the time came.
I’d done my best to find him, but he’d been something of a ghost, so I wasn’t sure how Carter even knew about him.
“Where is he?” I asked impatiently. It had been a long day and I wanted to go home.
“Stopped in the bathroom,” the runner said apologetically.
“This has been a fucking shit show,” I grumbled.
I got up and went to the door, looking down the hall toward the bathroom.
The door opened and the guy who came out was nothing like what I’d been expecting.
He was tall but slender, almost effeminate in his mannerisms. He had long dark hair that was shaved a couple of inches above the ear on one side, with a streak of blue on the other. He wore black jeans, black combat boots, and an oversized black Henley. From here, it looked like he had eyeliner on, but everything else about him was androgynous.
And for some reason I couldn’t stop staring.
He nodded as he brushed past me to walk into the room and I was shocked to see him pull a gorgeous red vintage eight-string out of the case.
Well, this was already more interesting.
“That’s kinda cool,” Z said out of the side of his mouth when I sat down.
“Right?” I watched in fascination as Devyn threw the strap around his neck and plucked a few chords to warm up.
Then he put his head down and started to play.
And I was fucking mesmerized.
2
Devyn
When the call had come to audition for Onyx Knight, I’d hung up the first time. It had taken two calls and a text before I’d taken it seriously because I wasn’t sure how they’d found my phone number. I truly hadn’t known what to make of it, because I was a session player who worked at a recording studio. I’d left playing live behind a few years ago, and back then I’d used a different name, so this seemed to come out of left field.
I’d been playing music—piano, flute, harmonica, guitar, and bass—all my life, and I’d been performing for most of it, so this shouldn’t have been a big deal, but it felt like it was. My day job as a studio musician put me around famous musicians every day and I’d long since stopped getting starstruck. I didn’t get stage fright or pre-performance nerves anymore either, so I didn’t know what the hell had been wrong with me when I’d seen Kingston Knight standing in the hallway.
His presence was so damn commanding I’d immediately dropped my head and brushed past him like I was doing something wrong. Then my stomach had almost turned, my hands got clammy, and my heart started a painful staccato hammering against my ribs.
What the fuck?
This never happened to me.
I pulled out my double bass and slung the strap around my neck, trying to get my bearings as I thumped out a few notes.
