Picturing the ass-chewing the dude inside the auditioning room must be getting, I began a countdown, wondering how long it would take for the band to kick him out of there.
“Ten, nine, eight—” I murmured under my breath, never reaching seven because the double doors burst open, and a pissed-off guy in dreadlocks stormed into the hall.
“Fuckers,” he growled before sending a piercing scowl to the row of waiting applicants sitting on the bench against the opposite wall, all of us hoping to succeed where he had obviously failed. He gave us a derisive snort and spun away. His rampage down the hall accompanied him kicking one door and throwing his drumsticks as hard as he could toward a trash can.
“Kind of a sore loser, don’t you think?” my bench companion mused mildly as he watched the temper tantrum.
“Meh.” I shrugged. “I’ve seen my six-year-old cousin throw down more drama than that over a broken doll.”
With a smirk, he gave me an approving nod. “You’re all right, rocker chick.”
I was better than all right. But I didn’t want to scare him. I could tell by the cocky gleam in his eyes, he was certain he’d do better than I would today.
Didn’t want to crush his fragile ego, so I merely sent him a cool smile. Yeah, I was all right.
“Next,” an irritated voice called from within the auditioning room, making my heart leap into my throat.
Dios, was it my turn already?
Self-confidence plummeting, I stood on trembling legs and smoothed down the front of my skirt. Since the guy next to me had been so kind, the inner submissive in me itched to glance at him with worried eyes, seeking some kind of reassurance. But he was the competition; he didn’t want me to succeed any more than I wanted him to.
Except I just couldn’t help it. I glanced his way, biting the inside of my lip, and totally obliterated the awesome girl-power image I wanted to project. When he grinned and flashed me a thumbs-up with both hands, the boost I needed kicked me back to life.
I gave him a saucy wink and whirled away to sashay through the door, tugging my hot pink drumsticks from my back pocket as I went.
Low ceiling, dim lights, and a large open space surrounding the band in the middle of the room had me slowing to an intimidated stop as soon as the door clicked shut behind me. Only three people occupied the chamber, and none of them knew me, but I knew who each member was without even glancing at which instrument they held. Because I’d gone online to their website and done my homework.
I had only actually seen them play live once, at some Day in the Park event where all the local bands had come together to show off their talent at the Memorial Park’s pavilion. And they’d been good. But the best part: Fisher, my ex-fiancé—though not ex at the time—had hated them. Absolutely despised them. Probably because he’d been pea green with jealousy. Non-Castrato had better sound, more talented musicians, and a way hotter lead singer than his band. More fans too.
Back then, I’d loyally supported Fisher, telling him his band Fish ’N’ Dicks was so much better than Non-Castrato...even though they totally weren’t. In reality, I’d been mesmerized, unable to look away the entire time Non-Castrato had played.
The beat, the words, the awesome guitar riffs had moved through me with an almost unnatural fascination. I’d been waiting with Fisher and his boys behind stage because they were set to go on next, so I’d had a lousy side and kind of behind view of Non-Castrato’s performance. But still...it had kicked ass.
After Fisher betrayed me months later and broke my heart, my trust, as well as my freaking iPod—the ass—I’d made sure to buy every song Non-Castrato had recorded, mostly as a kind of fuck-you to the man I now despised.
But the strangest thing happened after I listened to about their fourth song. I actually fell in love with their music. All of their music. Every single piece.
When I’d heard they were looking for a new drummer, it had felt like providence. I loved their songs, I loved their style, I loved how so many of their lyrics resonated with me, deep in my soul. I’d always wanted to be the drummer in a band. But most of all, I needed something to shove in my ex-fiancé’s face with a big fat, “Ha! I’m in a better, more popular, way more talented band than you are! Suck on that, asshole.”
And this was my golden chance to accomplish everything I wanted.
“Uh...can we help you?” The guy with a six-inch Mohawk in his orange hair asked. He was the bassist, Billy Galloway. The crazy bastard went balls to the wall every time he was on stage. He was the one who gave Non-Castrato their wild reputation because he liked to flash his junk at screaming lady fans...or so I’d read online.
I cleared my throat and nodded. “Yeah. I’m here to audition.” When all three of them just blinked, I shuffled my feet and cleared my throat again. “Umm...for the drummer’s position.”
Hello? Why else did they think I was here? I even waved my drumsticks to really drive the point home, since they didn’t seem to get it yet.