Finally, Galloway snorted. “Yeah...I don’t think so, sweetheart.”
Say what?
Though the bottom of my stomach dropped out, I frowned at him in confusion. Rejection was my biggest fear, and hearing it right off the bat was worse than all those hours of dreading it out in the hall put together.
When no one cracked a smile and told me they were just joking, I shook my head, puzzled. “Excuse me?”
Galloway leaned forward slightly as he pointed toward the door. “We don’t want you. So, git.”
Git?
I glanced toward the other two members of the band.
The rhythm guitarist, Heath Holden, was the most nondescript. He didn’t dress harsh, act rough, or pretty much talk...at all. The only extreme things about him were the tattoos he had racing up each massive bare arm along with the badass biker beard he was growing. He didn’t seem like he had much of a personality, if you wanted my opinion. But, man, he could play a wicked lick whenever the occasion called for it.
As my gaze skimmed over him, the tops of his cheeks brightened and he suddenly turned busy, refusing to make eye contact as he concentrated on digging dirt out from underneath his fingernails.
So I moved my attention to the lead singer. Asher Hart. Aside from singing all their songs, he played the guitar, piano, and he was by far the designated hottie all the girls dropped their panties for and screamed over whenever Non-Castrato stepped onstage. His brilliant voice was the reason they had any talent at all.
And, wow, had I mentioned he was unbelievably hot?
A crazy-attracted sizzle rose from my belly as I took him in. But damn, he was too gorgeous to be real. Not that I was into lead singers. I was so totally over that phase, thanks to my lousy asshole ex.
You suck, Fisher!
Still, Asher Hart was a looker. And obviously too bored to care about me in the least. Paying no attention to my penetrating stare, he unscrewed the cap off a bottle of water and took a long drink as if I was taking up too much of his precious time.
Since the douchebag bassist was the only one bothering to talk to me, I focused my attention back on Galloway. “Is this some kind of joke?” Though I wasn’t amused, I let out a harsh laugh. “You haven’t even heard me play yet.”
“Don’t have to. You’re a chick.”
I lifted my hands in a what-the-hell manner. “Wow. Congratulations. Not many people get that right on the first guess. But, yes, I am female. So what?”
“So, we don’t want a girl in our band. We’re called Non-Castrato for a reason, honey. Because we all have dicks.”
Like I cared about any of their icky dicks! These days, all dicks sucked. To me, they could go choke on...well, themselves.
Besides, castrato would’ve meant they didn’t have balls, not dicks. Idiota. Except I didn’t tell Galloway that because I was too confused.
“But I’m great,” I argued. “I’m freaking amazing.”
Hart cocked a glance my way, lifting an eyebrow as if surprised to hear such glorious self-praise.
But Galloway only shrugged, totally not giving a shit. “Then go join an all-girl band.”
My mouth fell open. This wasn’t happening. It just...it couldn’t be happening. Here was a real, reachable chance to grasp my life’s dream, and some scrawny jerk-off bassist was telling me no because of my ovaries?
No fucking way.
“I don’t want to join an all-girl band,” I argued, clenching my teeth as I glowered.
Actually, if there were any kick-ass all-girl bands within a two-hundred-mile radius, looking for a drummer, I might’ve been knocking down their doors for a position. But there weren’t. Besides, I wanted to be in Non-Castrato. Their music was my kind of music. Plus they needed a drummer, and I happened to be the best damn drummer I knew. And I wanted to show Fisher my band could out-rock his sucky, limp-dick excuse of a band any day of the week.
Joining Non-Castrato was the perfect solution for everyone.
The only solution.
If only these fools would open their stupid, sexist, pig headed minds to see that.
“Okay, fine,” Galloway said with a self-righteous, holier-than-thou grin. “Name me one mixed-gender band that hit it big, and maybe we’ll give you a shot.”
I smirked. Game on.
“Black Eyed Peas.”
“Fuck,” he muttered, not impressed as he sniffed derisively. “Those are all singers. They don’t play instruments, princess. They’re not a band.”
“All right then.” I blew out a breath to flutter the spiky white-blonde wig bangs out of my eyes and began to rattle off a new list. “Fleetwood Mac, Blondie, Jefferson Airplane, The—”
Galloway gave another snort, cutting me off. “Yeah, and the only things the chicks in those bands did was sing. We got Hart; we don’t need another fucking singer.”