The Girl's Got Secrets (Forbidden Men #7)

“Talking Heads,” I lifted my voice to speak over him. “Of which the chick was the bass guitarist, I believe.” I spiked a derogatory glance to the bass guitar strapped over his shoulder. “And so was the bassist in The Smashing Pumpkins and—”

“None of which were drummers.” Galloway held up a hand when I opened my mouth to argue. “The fact of the matter is, we don’t want a female. And it’s our band. Our decision. So bye-bye now, sweetie. When I need a groupie to go down on me in the bathroom after a gig, I’ll give you a call.”

I narrowed my eyes at him only to turn toward the other silent members. “Are you two lemmings just going to stand there and let this douche make all your decisions for you? Is he, like, your dictator or something?” Heavy on the dick.

“Look, I’d listen to you,” Asher Hart finally spoke up. Dark green, penetrating eyes lifted to coast over my outfit before settling back on my face. When I only narrowed my eyes, he lifted his hands self-defensively. “Honest. But we’re picking our drummer by a unanimous vote, and you already don’t have that.” He glanced at Galloway with an irritated scowl. “Doesn’t look like you’re going to get it, either, whether he hears you play or not.”

“Nope,” Galloway said, popping the p-sound as he sent me a smug wink.

Tears threatened, but I swallowed them down as I licked my lips. With Galloway, I’d only been pissed by his foul-mouthed rejection. But for some reason, Hart’s sympathetic explanation split me in half and left me bleeding.

After a deep breath, I tried one last time. “Fine, then, Billy.” I focused all my attention on him since apparently he was the only guy I had to sway. “All I’m asking for is one shot. If you don’t like my work after that, you can tell me to kiss your ass.”

Galloway snickered. “I’d rather you kiss my dick. And maybe deep throat it a little. Hell, honey, I’m willing to give you a taste now, if you’re thirsty.” He reached for his fly but Hart sharply told him to cut it out.

Clenching my teeth to hold back my retort, I glared at Galloway, envisioning all the ways I could murder him. None of them were pretty. Or fast.

“Which brings up another reason we shouldn’t have a girl in the group,” Holden finally put in his two cents worth, his voice soft as he winced. “With Gally around, you’d be suing us within five minutes for sexual harassment.”

I rolled my eyes. “Trust me, I can handle the little goat fucker talking smack.” I glanced at Galloway with disinterest. “As long as he keeps his hands to himself, I don’t give a shit what he says.”

Wiggling his fingers, Galloway grinned. “Oh, but these hands like to roam, baby. Especially over a landscape like yours.”

Oh, brother.

“Galloway,” Asher bit out, his voice a warning. Then he turned to me and shook his head. “I’m sorry; this just isn’t the right place for you. I’m sure you have an amazing talent, but we need to get back to our auditions now. We kind of have a time crunch.”

My throat went dry and I once again experienced the overwhelming need to sob. But I held it in. Gritting my teeth, I glanced at all three members, who gazed back with three different expressions on each of their faces, waiting for my response.

“So you all would rather be just another rock band cliché?” I asked. “With your leather pants—” I pointed toward Galloway with a disgusted wrinkle of my nose before targeting Holden. “—tattoos and piercings, and hot lead singer man-whore.” With a scathing glance at Hart, I set my hands on my hips. “Good luck getting anywhere with that.”

Sniffing my derision, I spun around and marched toward the exit, only to pause at the door and glance back. “Oh, and maybe you should Google Karen Carpenter, Moe Tucker and Honey Lantree. All were female drummers for big time mixed-gender bands. Certainly bigger than you losers will ever be. Chinguen a su madre.”

I didn’t slam the door as the drummer who’d tried out before me had. But it obviously only took one look at my face for all the others waiting in the hall to know just how badly I had failed.

Tucking my pink drumsticks back into my hip pocket with all the dignity I could muster, I lifted my head proudly and swallowed down the pain.

My so-called pal next in line smirked. “Didn’t want a chick, did they?” The gleam in his eyes told me he’d known I wouldn’t make it all along.

I didn’t honor him with a response. Notching my chin higher, I strolled regally down the hall, out of the studio and into the dismal, cloudy day. I didn’t burst into tears until I’d gotten into my car and was pulling out of the studio’s parking lot, the defeat making me drippier and even more pissed that I had to own ovaries and so many freaking emotions.





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