As they finished, she glanced at Wyatt, Jared, Quinn and Ryder. They were all smiling, and with another band she’d take that as a sign they’d liked playing with Shane. But the four of them were usually so polite that it was hard to tell—it wasn’t like they were going to start listing his shortcomings right there in front of him. So instead of worrying needlessly, she decided to just sit back and see how things played out.
Sure enough, a bunch of silent and covert communication went on between the band members as Shane started packing up his bass, and after that, it didn’t take long for Ryder to start moving the bassist toward the door. He was super nice about it, even told the guy that they’d enjoyed jamming with him. But he definitely didn’t mention that they had another anonymous concert scheduled for Antone’s the next night—or invite Shane to play with them.
Which meant that they had to go back to the drawing board to find a bassist, and they had to do it quickly. With Austin City Limits—which was going to serve as the first date of their tour—only a few weeks away, they needed someone, like, yesterday.
She knew a few—actually, she knew dozens—but none that she thought would work who were also available to go on the road with Shaken Dirty. Still, she wracked her brain trying to come up with a solution as the guys’ conversation ebbed and flowed around her.
“What about Deacon Brown?” Quinn tossed out after Shane was gone and they were all settled back with bottles of soda and water.
“His sound isn’t right,” Ryder objected right away. “He’s too pop.”
“Yeah, but he’s a hell of a bass player,” Wyatt said.
“A pop bass player,” Jared told them. “Plus, I’m pretty sure he’s already with a tour right now.”
“How about Jackson Kery, then?” Ryder asked. “He’s good.”
“He’s also a bigger druggie than me,” Wyatt said with a rueful laugh, “so probably not a good idea.”
“No shit, that,” Jared agreed. “Mike James?”
“No!” Quinn barked. “No, no, fuck no!”
“Aww, come on, Quinn. Let bygones be bygones, isn’t that what you always say?”
“Fuck Mike James and his bygones. No fucking way is he joining this band—unless you want to find yourself a new keyboard player, too.”
The guys all laughed at his vehemence, but nobody brought up Mike James again. She made a mental note to ask Wyatt later what had happened between him and Quinn—something told her it was a hell of a story.
They continued to toss out names for the next ten minutes, all to no avail. Most of them were guys she’d thought of herself, then discarded for various reasons—it felt good that her judgment seemed to mirror theirs, made her feel like she really did have her finger on the pulse of what was going on in this industry. Considering how much time her father spent telling her she wouldn’t understand this decision or that one, it was a nice validation.
Eventually, though, they got tired of throwing around names and Jared picked up his guitar and played a few chords that sounded really familiar. She couldn’t place them, but watched as smiles crossed the face of every guy in the place. Seconds later, Quinn was behind his keyboard, and this time when Jared played the notes, he did too.
“Well, are you just going to sit there like a moron, or are you going to play this new song for us?” Ryder jerked his chin toward Wyatt. “I mean, if you’re staying, that is.”
Right. That’s where she’d heard that note arrangement—at the beginning of Wyatt’s drum fill. Shivers worked their way up and down her spine at the thought of actually hearing the song, and she waited, a little breathless, as he pushed himself off the couch and headed toward his drum kit.
“Oh, I’m staying, since it sounds like you’d all be lost without me,” Wyatt teased.
The others didn’t bother to give him shit back—they were all too busy grinning.
Wyatt settled himself on the throne. “I’ll run through it once on my own and then you can join in.” He grinned at Ryder. “And you can just sit there and try to look pretty this time around.”
“Fuck that.” Ryder flipped him off before reaching for one of the acoustic guitars lined up against the wall. “This is history in the making. I want in.”
Wyatt rolled his eyes. “The song could suck, you know.”
Quinn snorted. “When have you ever written something that sucked? Now stop being a * and let’s hear it.”
Wyatt didn’t say anything else, but she could see just how much Ryder’s and Quinn’s support meant to him. It was in the way his face relaxed, the way his shoulders straightened, the way he had to clear his throat before he started talking way too fast about keys and tempos and chords.