by Genia Avers
“But, Dar. Why would they want to listen to me and not all those women?” She gestured wildly toward the mob on the left.
“They’re probably auditioning experienced singers first.”
“I don’t have any experience.”
“Sure you do. When I made the appointment, I had to submit a bio along with a listing of any musical training.” The smugness on his face frightened her.
“Dar.” She shook her head, hoping she was wrong. “You didn’t? Tell me you didn’t fake my experience.”
He shrugged. “Just a smidge.”
She would have smacked him if she’d possessed the strength. Heaven help her. Darson had falsified her musical background.
“I didn’t fake your training, sweetie. And you have the pipes. I’ll bet those women can’t even sing.” He pointed to the other line that kept growing longer.
“But you lied about my experience, Dar. That isn’t fair.”
“Get over yourself. You can sing. Those women are just groupies.”
If his plan included getting her mind off her audition and onto his fraud, he succeeded—she felt completely distracted. “What are you talking about? Why would groupies come to an audition?”
“Honey, if I were female, I’d be in that line too. Did you see the man who just stuck his head out of that door? He plays keyboard, and like the lead guitarist, he’s beyond gorgeous. These guys may not be big time yet, but they have groupies everywhere they play.”
Darson maintained his continuous chatter, but Tanith couldn’t follow—mainly because she couldn’t breathe. What happened to the air?
The scenery began to spin. She leaned against Darson to stop the swaying. She focused on a light pole in the distance, trying to keep the bitter coffee from rising past her throat.
“Tanith Cox.”
Her name penetrated her consciousness. The three syllables sounded as if they’d been spoken from inside an aquarium.
“That’s you, sweetie. Break a leg.” Darson gave her a gentle shove. Her unwilling body moved forward on unsteady legs.
The man who’d checked her name off the list held the door open for her. “You okay?”
“Bathroom?” Tanith croaked.
She followed the shadow of his arm as it pointed. The swirly tattoos seemed to spin in cadence with her head. Bile erupted from her stomach. She ran.
No time to shut the door. The coffee she’d guzzled earlier made an encore appearance, splattering everywhere. She breathed deeply, trying to prevent another gag. True to her own prediction, she’d made a fool of herself.
She stood over the toilet, huffing until the worst passed. When she felt a little better, Tanith leaned over the unexpectedly clean sink and splashed water on her face. There’d be no audition now that she’d shown her lack of professionalism. Bringing her shoulders back, she held her head high and prepared to make a grand exit.
The man leaning against the wall stood straight when she emerged. He was handsome in a wooly sort of way. His big brown eyes raked over her, seeming both concerned and amused. “I’m Marcus. Feeling better?”
She nodded.
“‘Atta girl. You ready now?”
What the devil is he talking about? He must have heard her vomit. Heck, the people outside, even those at the end of the line, had probably heard her barf.
“Happens all the time, luv. I puke before every gig.” Marcus flashed a friendly smile and slipped his arm through the crook of her elbow. “Allow me.”
He led her onto a small stage before she could protest. She turned to ask him what was going on, but a spotlight landed on her face, concealing his whereabouts. Having grown accustomed to the dimness, the sudden brightness blinded her. She blinked, trying to comprehend the sequence of events.
“Marcus?” she whispered.
A voice echoed from the back of the room, smooth and sexy. “What are you going to sing?”
Definitely not Marcus. Tanith wondered why the man with that voice didn’t do the singing.
Oh, crap! They still wanted her to sing?
She hadn’t believed she’d actually audition, so she hadn’t even thought about a song. The lyrics of a Pussycat Dolls song popped into her head—she pushed them back out. The song was too sexy for her. She needed something else.
A song. She needed a song. Something simple to keep her from making a total ass of herself.
Her mind didn’t cooperate. Her eyes darted around, looking for the door. Maybe she could run for it.
A tower of CDs was stacked on a shelf by the door. Who kept CDs anymore?
“Miss?”
She couldn’t see the man who’d asked the question, but she could see the labels on the cases. The CD on the top of the stack was by the Pretenders.
“Miss? What are you going to sing?” the voice repeated, the tone surprisingly patient.
“I’d like to… I’ll do something by Chrissie Hynde.” Where had that come from? Her voice hadn’t even trembled.
Unexpected calmness engulfed her. After being the idiot who puked, she reasoned, she had nowhere to go but up. What difference did it make if she croaked the lyrics like a bullfrog?
“Jesus, we wait ten minutes for another broad doing oldies?” The female voice reeked with sarcasm. “Come on, Brent, the guys only let her in here because of that bit of fabric masquerading as a dress. How many more of these are we gonna listen to?”
“Don’t pay any attention to the voice behind the curtain,” the sexy voice cajoled from the darkness. “We’re going old school, guys. I think Marcus can play Middle of the Road. Can you do that one?”
She knew she shouldn’t have worn the blasted dress. It was too short.
Wait. Another broad doing oldies?
Something inside Tanith rebelled. Nerves morphed into calmness and calmness jelled into determination. She nodded in the direction of the voice.
And the witch who’d made the oldies comment.
The man she couldn’t see quipped, “Don’t be nervous, Marcus won’t bite.”
The skinny man with the tattoos and kohl-lined eyes re-materialized. Her eyes had adjusted enough to see the same grin he’d flashed at the bathroom door.
He took his position behind the keyboard and whispered, “I do too bite.” He made a snapping motion with his teeth and winked at her. “Take the microphone, sweetie. I’m really hoping you’re good. I have different reasons, mind you, but like Broom Hilda, I’m sick of these auditions.”
“Marcus, I heard that.” The witch had a good, if somewhat bitchy, voice. Why didn’t she sing?
Marcus started playing, drowning out anything else the woman might have said.
Tanith closed her eyes, praying she remembered the words. Another broad doing oldies? Frig that.
Blotting out the room, she began to sing. Her voice, hesitant at first, followed the keyboarder’s lead when he increased the volume. By the time she’d reached the chorus, she belted the tune confidently, oblivious to the people in the dark, oblivious to the world.
After the last lyric, no one said a word. Every insecurity she’d pushed aside reassembled and jumped down on her head. They’d obviously heard enough. Or too much.
She put the microphone on its stand and walked toward the door. Why wait for her dismissal. She just hoped she didn’t have to see any of their faces.
The sexy male voice halted her. “Hold on. Any chance you could sing Me and Bobby McGee?”
Stunned, all she could do was twirl and nod.
“And can you let your hair down? That I’m-doing-my-laundry style isn’t working for me.”
“Excuse me?”
“Your hair. Get rid of the ponytail.”
The request threw her off kilter. Actually, it wasn’t just the hair thing, Tanith felt confused about everything. Had the voice issued an order or a request?
After the nasty woman said the Pretenders were oldies, Sexy Voice wanted her to let her hair down and do Janis? These people are nuts.
She opened h
er mouth to say no, but stopped. Why run? She loved Janis Joplin. After today, she’d never see these people again anyway. Why not play out the fantasy she’d had as a child?
Tanith jerked the clip from her head and her hair tumbled down past her shoulders. She ran her hand through it to get it away from her face before she glanced at Marcus. “I’m ready.”
“Wow.” Marcus gave her a thumbs-up and started to play.
She cleared her throat and let her vocal cords have fun. She withdrew into her mind—into a place where only a teenager, a hairbrush, and her bedroom mirror existed. She sang with confidence.
She barely noticed when Marcus stopped playing. She finished one more line and let her last note fall flat.
“Oops.” What had she done wrong? I did sound like a seagull. Every synapse urged her to run, but she forced her heels to stay planted on the stage.
“Emm.” The voice in the back interrupted the silence. “Julian, tell everyone else to go home. We’ve got our singer.”
Tanith waited. What did he mean?
The lights erupted, blinding her for a second time. “Sorry, love,” the sexy voice said. She could tell from his volume he’d moved closer. “Welcome to the group.”
Her eyes adjusted quicker in the light. The man in front of her must be the leader of the Tough Guys. His face slowly came into focus, like pixels on a graphical image.
No. Her fingers grasped for the microphone stand—she needed to hold on to keep from falling.
The man in front of her was the man from her dream.
Her dream lover held out his hand, “I’m Brent Holden.”
She staggered backward. A web of emotions encircled her—fear, amazement, more fear.
Brent blinked and pulled his hand away. Too late, Tanith realized she’d appeared rude. She tried to compensate with a big smile as she reached for his fingers, but her mouth wouldn’t cooperate. The grin that cracked from her jaw felt fake and insincere.
The man’s eyes narrowed into slits as he stared at her waiting hand. He looked at her face again and put both hands in his pockets.
“Marcus will introduce you to the rest of the gang.” His voice was harsh. “He’ll give you the song list, the music, and the practice times. Learn every lyric. And don’t be late.” He left before she could respond.
Darson came running onto the stage. His bone-crushing hug gave her a chance to compose herself.
“I knew you could do it!” Darson turned to Marcus. “Isn’t she fabulous?”
“She is definitely fabulous.” The keyboardist grinned. “This is Julian, the drummer. Amanda, the bass guitar player.”
The introductions happened with a flurry of activity. Unable to focus, Tanith barely caught the names. Julian gave her a friendly, “Hello,” but Amanda sniffed and walked away.
“What crawled up her butt?” Darson asked. He turned back to Tanith with a cheery, “I’ll wait outside.”
“Huh?”
“Marcus said you should follow him. Go on. I’ll wait outside.”
Tanith watch Darson swagger offstage and then she wandered in the direction Marcus had gone. She found him inside a makeshift office, pulling papers from an old filing cabinet. He handed the stack he’d accumulated to her.
“You sure he wants me in the group?” she asked, still afraid she might be in the midst of another dream.
“What do you mean?”
“He seemed a bit…brusque.”
“Oh, you mean Brent?” Marcus laughed. “You’ve nailed him. He is Brusque Brett, my little thesaurus woman—now there’s a title for a song.” He crooned, “My little thesaurus woman.”
After he disembarked from his self-amusement park ride, he patted her on the arm. “Of course he wants you. We all want you. You’re the answer to our prayers, luv.”
“I don’t think Amanda wants me.”
“Amanda doesn’t want anyone around but Brent. Don’t mind her—or Brent either. Amanda’s always a bitch, but Brent’s usually a friendly chap. You see, there was a recent episode with a stalker and, before that, there was a worse episode with Amanda. So lately, me boy’s been a bit of a dick. Don’t take it personally. Trust me, he’s a dick to everyone, but deep inside, he’s a good chap.”
Tanith tried to smile, her mind twirling from Marcus’s compliments. She wondered if she should confess that Brent’s rudeness could have been her fault. He’d been pretty nice until she backed away like he had the plague. “I’m…”
“Whatever you do, don’t let him scare you away. We need you.”
Marcus didn’t give her time to reply. He bombarded her with music and schedules. Before she could comprehend everything, he looked at his watch. “Oh, shit. Gotta bounce.”
He left her standing in the office, holding a stack of paper. Shaking her head, she placed her pile on the desk and went in search of Darson. She found him, chatting with Julian. She sat down to wait. Knowing Darson, he would pepper the band member with questions until the drummer refused to answer. Her friend loved music almost as much as he loved gay men.
She didn’t know how long she’d waited, her mind too bewildered by the day’s events to complain, but a woman called from the door. “I’m not waitin’ another minute for you, Julian D’Abreo.”
“Sorry to have kept you.” Darson actually sounded like he meant it. Her friend spun to face her, a big grin on his face. “You ready, Tan?”
She nodded. “Let me get my stuff.”
Before she could reach her stack of lyrics and schedules, Amanda stepped in front of the door, blocking her path. Tanith saw only red-brown hair with spiked bangs and red-brown lips curled into a sneer. The two nose studs made Tanith feel like Mary Poppins. The guitarist popped an elbow, exposing a cat suit underneath her black leather jacket. The clingy fabric hid little and emphasized every perfect curve. The woman looked even more stunning than the woman with the green-and-purple hair.
She glared at Tanith, hatred sparkling in her sapphire eyes. “Stay away from Brent,” she hissed. “He’s mine.”
The beautiful woman tossed her silky mane. She spun on one foot, making a Hollywood exit.
Chapter Five
For the first time in his life, Brent Holden understood fear. Deep, gut-wrenching fear.
The band, his band, might actually make it. Despite the group’s massive talent, until now the Tough Guys had been indistinguishable from a thousand other local bands. The new singer’s voice could be their ticket to unique-ville. Tanith Cox’s sexy sound would take them away from gigs in local pubs and catapult them to…to better things. The idea loomed frightening, yet thrilling.
He could still hear that voice in his head, the voice of an angel in a body with the sex appeal of the devil. Red was definitely her color. The gods had decided to send him precisely what he’d wished for—a woman who had the pipes to sing his songs the way he wanted them sang.
And he’d almost scared her away. He couldn’t believe he’d been such an ass just because she didn’t grab his hand and yelp with joy. He thought she’d been snobbish, but in hindsight, she could have been scared. Or dazed. Nope, a million reasons for her to back away, but his ego didn’t let him think. Maybe being the leader of a band had gone to his head.
If he’d offended Tanith, and he felt certain he had, he’d beg her forgiveness. He’d grovel, do whatever it took to get her to join the group.
“Idiot,” he said aloud, chastising himself, finally able to acknowledge the real reason behind his general ass-edness. That little zing.
The zing shocked the zombie right out of him. He didn’t want to deal with zing. Wasn’t ready to deal with zing.
So genius that he was, he’d treated her like sour milk.
He didn’t want to examine his psyche too closely, but he knew he’d built a shell, thick enough to keep out the hurt. Even so, he didn’t want some chick penetrating his comfortable existence.
Best to keep his distance from one Tanith Cox. The damn woman scared him more than having his dreams
within reach. Her voice alone could seduce him. When an instrument like hers was combined with curves that would send a construction worker into cardiac arrest, she was pure temptation. Temptation was the last thing he needed.
He tried to clear his thoughts and focus on his latest song, but his mind kept drifting back to the audition. When she’d let her hair down, his breath had caught and he hadn’t been able to find it. Worse, Amanda heard him suck in too much air. That could be bad on so many levels.
“Concentrate,” he issued the command aloud. He had to keep the focus on the music.
Nothing else.
He’d learned that lesson from Amanda. Unless he wanted to write the heartache of country music, he’d need to behave like a monk. That meant Tanith Cox remained off-limits.
He forced his mind back to writing lyrics. His intensity kept other thoughts away. Until he read the words aloud, imagining Tanith singing each syllable.
“Shit.”
The memory of her sultry sound soothed his overworked, underpaid soul. The woman oozed with raw talent that had been trained. And controlled.
Too controlled. If he could get her to let go, she’d be dynamite. He pictured her, backlit on a stage singing his songs—wearing a dress that showed even more of her cleavage.
He felt the beginnings of an erection. “Damn, I’m doing it again.”
“Doing what?” The unexpected voice washed over his arousal like a cold shower.
Amanda had the nastiest habit of popping up when least expected—or wanted. If he had a choice, she’d never show up again but the band needed her as much as they needed Tanith. The woman’s fingers were magic on the bass. Once, those same fingers had been magic on his body, but that was months ago.
And he’d paid the price. Now Amanda was a necessary evil.
It hadn’t been hard for Amanda to lure him into her abyss. Her body was centerfold perfection and her bedroom skills could control men more worldly than him. Against his better judgment, Brent had allowed himself to be seduced. And used.
Amanda maneuvered and manipulated until she’d controlled almost every aspect of his life. Brent danced to her tune, not because of her sex appeal, but because it was easier than listening to her bitch if he didn’t do what she wanted.