I had no idea what was causing it, everything just seemed...right this time around. Even more right than last time.
The room was exactly the same, and the guys were still loitering in their same basic places they’d been the day before. But today, Galloway ignored me and seemed to be sulking as he fiddled with the tuning pegs on his guitar.
Hart took charge and nodded a greeting. “Hey, man. What’s your name?”
Score!
I’d already gotten further on this audition than I had in the first one. And the man guise was obviously working; he’d called me man!
Jazzed, I cleared my throat and used the lowest voice I could muster, even though it was already low for a woman’s voice. “Call me Sticks.”
“Sticks?” Galloway snorted, finally glancing up. “Wow. That’s original.”
Still miffed over the way he’d treated me yesterday, I was tempted to shove my drumsticks up his ass. But I didn’t want to do such permanent, scarring damage to my babies—even though they were my non-pink backup pair—so I managed to contain myself enough to send him a bored glance. “About as original as a douchebag bassist.”
Holden let out a belly laugh. When Galloway glared his way, Holden only grinned. “Burn,” he informed his bandmate.
“Screw you,” Galloway mumbled to me...or maybe to Holden, I wasn’t sure which. Probably both of us.
Hart cracked a half smile. “Well, you can already take Gally’s shit and dish it right back. That’s a must. Let’s see what you can do with those sticks of yours.” He nodded toward the drum set. “You can handle a five-piece, I assume.”
What idiot couldn’t handle a five-piece? I arched one of my fake eyebrows, still amazed Jodi had been able to rig my mask so I could manage facial expressions too. “Only since I was six.”
With a horrified shudder, Hart shook his head. “You’d be amazed by the lack of talent we’ve seen come through here these past few days.”
I nodded, understanding. “Well, I can manage any drum set up you put before me.”
He smiled, and damn...that smile. I probably shouldn’t look at him when he smiled. Way too dangerous.
“Good,” he said, thrilling me with his approval. “I want to try a delayed backbeat with a quick blast during the chorus, then double time to finish it up.”
Pulling my drumsticks from my back pocket, I saluted him. “I’ll do whatever you tell me to, drill sergeant.”
With another half-smile, he shook his head. “Forrest Gump. Funny. In that case, we’re going to play ‘Run, Daddy, Run.’ You familiar with that one?”
Was I familiar?
“Pfft.” It took everything I had not to roll my eyes. “I’m familiar with every song you guys have ever produced.”
Hart smiled. “Well, all right then.” He motioned me toward the stool. “Count us off.”
After seating myself, I took a deep breath, lifted my hands into position, and began with the ride cymbal, setting the tempo.
When I added the snare and bass drums, the guitars joined me, completely in sync with the rhythm I set. A smile spread across my face, relief ballooning inside me until I was ingesting my excitement with each breath.
Even if I ended up totally bombing this audition, I was here, right now, living my dream. I was jamming with Non-Castrato. For a minute, I forgot what jerks they were and that I was supposed to hate them.
It was euphoria.
Forcing my lungs to function, I exhaled and sucked in more air. By the time Hart leaned in toward the microphone and began to sing, I already had an adrenaline buzz going, but the sound of his voice sent another spike through me. There was just something about the way he sang. Made me wet in the panties every time.
Yeah, it seemed all kinds of wrong to soak my man panties with girlish enthusiasm, but there you had it.
The music inspired me, flowing through my bloodstream. I was actually living it, morphing into it.
Becoming one with the drum kit, I switched from the ride cymbal to the hi-hat when Hart changed from one passage to the next, giving the song a little extra punch with the added lean sound. The drummer before had never done that, but I’d always thought it would sound better. So I gave it a try.
I mean, hell, what could they do? Tell me to git again? Been there, done that.
Except the overhead ring in the room was growing slightly obnoxious. To reduce it, I yanked a hanky from my pocket without missing a beat and draped it over my knee nearest the drumhead to muffle the snare’s reverberation. I smiled as that instantly helped. Bobbing my head, I switched into overtime as Hart had instructed. His voice rose, coming to a crescendo.
Though I’d never heard one in this song before, I hit the crash cymbal when he peaked and added a strong kick to the bass drum pedal.
The other members stopped playing, and it was over. An echo of guitars, drum, and Hart’s voice continued to resonate through the room, filling it with a heaviness that made me bite the inside of my lip and hold my breath.