“Oh, sorry,” I say with an apologetic laugh, realizing why the girls are acting like I’m some kind of groupie. Probably because I look like one, with my barely there top and my spider-leg mascara. “Yeah. I have four older brothers who thought Katrina was too girly of a name.”
The running joke is that I didn’t even know my name was Katrina until grade school—but it isn’t a joke, because I’m pretty sure I really didn’t. The boys boycotted the name my mom had insisted on, and eventually she gave up the good fight. It was Kit from the day I was born, and the only people who call me Katrina are people who don’t really know me.
“And you’re here to audition?” the blonde asks.
I pull my guitar case from where it’s propped against the wall and give them a big smile. “I hope so. It is okay that I’m a girl, right?”
“Yeah,” the blonde rushes to say, but Dee still has her eyes narrowed with skepticism.
Having been the only girl in an all-guy band in college, I’m used to it, so I’m not surprised when she says, “That depends . . . Are you a girl who can play the guitar?”
“I think so,” I deadpan. “I mean, it’s difficult since my vagina is constantly getting in the way, but I’ve learned to manage it just like any other handicap.” I pause for dramatic effect, my expression somber when I add, “Sadly, I don’t get special parking.”
A long moment of silence passes where I’m sure my brand of humor is lost on the two chicks in front of me, but then Dee bursts out laughing and they both lead me inside.
On our walk through a short hallway, the blonde apologizes for the rude welcome and tells me her name is Rowan, and then we turn into the cavernous space that is Mayhem. A massive bar lines one wall, a stage lines the other, and in the middle of the room sits a row of card tables and six foldout chairs—like some kind of makeshift setup for the judges of American Idol.
I cross the club to lean my guitar against the stage and, in an attempt to convince myself Shawn isn’t about to magically appear at any freaking moment, I say, “So it’s just going to be us?”
“No—” Dee starts, but she’s barely gotten the word out before a back door opens and bright afternoon sunlight spills onto the floor, paving the way for all four remaining members of The Last Ones to Know.
Joel Gibbon enters first, his blond hair giving him away. In high school, it was a gelled mess that stood up all over the place; now it’s a disciplined Mohawk that cuts a line down the center of his head. He’s followed by Mike Madden, who looks the same and yet somehow more manly, like he grew into himself. Adam Everest walks in next, looking even hotter than he did six years ago. His hair is still long and untamed, his jeans still look like they got into a fight with a paper shredder and lost, and his wrists are still adorned with stacks of mismatched bracelets. The blonde girl walks to meet him, and I feel sorry for the way she’s going to feel when Adam decides to stop calling.
And then, I get my first glimpse of Shawn Scarlett just before the door closes behind him. My eyes fight to adjust back to the dim lighting, and when it does, he’s all I can see. He has that same dark hair, that same scruffy jaw, that same look about him that makes it hard for me to breathe.
“Guys, this is Kit,” Dee says while Shawn continues stealing the breath from my lungs. “She’s up next.”
They all look me over as they gather close, with only Adam and Joel managing to contain their ogling. When I see the way Shawn is raking his eyes over me, a satisfied smile sneaks onto my face. After six years of not being able to forget him, this single moment is making it all worthwhile. Whether he remembers me or not, he’s staring at me like I’m the hottest chick he’s ever seen.
These pants were so worth it.
“We thought you were a dude,” Joel says, wrapping his arm around Dee’s shoulder and giving me an excuse to play it cool.
“Yeah,” I say, withdrawing my gaze from Shawn even though I can feel his green eyes still tracing over the curves of my exposed skin. “I gathered that when your girlfriend tried to close the door in my face.”
“Have we met before?” Shawn asks, and a laugh almost bubbles out of me. Have we met? Yeah, I guess you could call it that.
He’s staring at me with a slight squint to his enchanted forest eyes, but I refuse to let them charm me. Instead, I meet them with a smirk and say, “We went to the same school.”
“What year were you?”
“Three under you.”
“Didn’t you used to come to our shows?” Mike asks, but I stare at Shawn for a moment longer, waiting to see if my smile, my eyes, or my voice jog his memory. The rejected teenage girl in me wants to claw his face off for forgetting me, but rationally, I know he’s given me the upper hand in a game I wasn’t aware I’d be playing. One I’m making up the rules for as I go along.